As I sit in meditation, there is eagerness to interpret the dream, to make meaning of it.
SMD whispers, “Not yet my love. Stay close to yourself. Do you have your energy body? Emotional body?”
Trusting this voice, I become meek, cultivating patience and reverence for the process by systematically sensing earth, space, the flow of metta, fire for image.
The dream is strange. I see many fish enclosed in a large space by a fence or cage. At first they are all still, but then they are flapping around. One by one they pop out of the cage and become young children dancing a melancholy dance.
“May I be free,” one child sings.
I feel the child within inspired to voice her own desires.
“May I be seen and heard.”
“May I love and be loved.”
I think of all the undocumented immigrants, the students protesting in the US who are being deported.
The heart center becomes a gray, swirling storm, aching for the light of the Brahmaviharas to shine through.
*****
Hiking in the rain, I imagine the rain as Kwan Yin’s tears. The pitter-pattering sound against my raincoat becomes the sound of thousands of hearts beating fervently in prayer.
“May there be more sanctuaries of love than sanctuaries of hate.”
*****
“And what would that give you?” the voice asks. Is it the voice of SMD, Kwan Yin, Mother Earth? Does it matter?
Then I would trust in a universal benevolence, more powerful than greed, hatred, and delusion. I would trust citta as a meaningful extension of it.
*****
Down by the lake, its surface generously receives the raindrops, the tears, the prayers, swallows them whole into its murky beyonds.
The eye of a weak sun peaks through the gray above. Someone is watching, eternally watching.
And my bones know, there is more than this.
SMD whispers, “Not yet my love. Stay close to yourself. Do you have your energy body? Emotional body?”
Trusting this voice, I become meek, cultivating patience and reverence for the process by systematically sensing earth, space, the flow of metta, fire for image.
The dream is strange. I see many fish enclosed in a large space by a fence or cage. At first they are all still, but then they are flapping around. One by one they pop out of the cage and become young children dancing a melancholy dance.
“May I be free,” one child sings.
I feel the child within inspired to voice her own desires.
“May I be seen and heard.”
“May I love and be loved.”
I think of all the undocumented immigrants, the students protesting in the US who are being deported.
The heart center becomes a gray, swirling storm, aching for the light of the Brahmaviharas to shine through.
*****
Hiking in the rain, I imagine the rain as Kwan Yin’s tears. The pitter-pattering sound against my raincoat becomes the sound of thousands of hearts beating fervently in prayer.
“May there be more sanctuaries of love than sanctuaries of hate.”
*****
“And what would that give you?” the voice asks. Is it the voice of SMD, Kwan Yin, Mother Earth? Does it matter?
Then I would trust in a universal benevolence, more powerful than greed, hatred, and delusion. I would trust citta as a meaningful extension of it.
*****
Down by the lake, its surface generously receives the raindrops, the tears, the prayers, swallows them whole into its murky beyonds.
The eye of a weak sun peaks through the gray above. Someone is watching, eternally watching.
And my bones know, there is more than this.
RSS Feed