There once was a dream that tried to become awake. It had fallen asleep long ago, spent endless times tossing and turning, dreaming nightmarish things now and then. It dreamt of awakening – of becoming a full-fledged dream. As it slept it prowled through the worlds, always in search for one whom it could serve, as dreams wide awake do.
In its infancy, the dream had been small, just a little idea, an astonishment, a tiny awe about a small wonder the world keeps offering us day by day. At times, it nearly had become a question, even if not a verbal one, but, like a hint from the winds, or a sudden scent in the summer’s air, a foreboding of how things may fall into place, one day. It was like an understanding how the pieces can fit, some day in the future, while the pieces not even knew that they were pieces at all, belonging to each other.
Over the time the dream had grown, had been nourished and cherished. Not by direct attention or conscious graciousness, but by the turmoil the soul had endured since the beginnings. The dream knew it would be this soul’s dream, one day, but the soul, still somewhat supple and swaying, was unaware of it. It wasn’t this soul’s dream yet. It was, only from afar, a promise given and yet to be fulfilled.
When the soul grew older it came to touch its ages, and so it became wider and deeper – a landscape in the making while already there. The soul hadn’t heard from its depths as well as its dream, hadn’t seen them yet, hadn’t found the dream in order to come to connect its pieces into a task, an ideal, a destiny, a devotion, an awe. The soul still was befuddled, torn, shaken. It sensed something was missing, but it couldn’t figure out what it was. There seemed to be no way forward or backward.
While the soul was dithering, the dream remained in agony. It lived between all doors and all chairs. It had no task, as they say nowadays. The dream knew it had to find a way to become awake, to become this someone’s dream. Otherwise, it would wither and turn from being an inkling to a remembrance of things failing and fading. It would turn into one of those bitter, cold-clenched angry things dream can become when they have waited in vain. Dreams, like ideas or hopes, just have a stretch of time until they are gone. They live, like all life, only for a while.
At times the dream became impatient and rumbled though the worlds, touching countless souls, trying urgently to find someone it could touch, a being that could grasp it and bring it into life, into this world. Every time when understanding or an inkling strikes people, it is a dream trying to wake up. They don’t do that as we do it, by waking up here, at one place, mostly in our beds, opening our eyes. Dreams wake up and rise differently. They touch people and move them. If they do so, they then are awake. There are dreams for many people, and dreams only for a few or for just one. Dreams wander around, looking for a soul to touch. Touching it is their way of opening their own eyes. Their eyes are the eyes of the soul – two beings sharing the very same organ.
One day, as the dream was wandering around in its usual way, touching this, finding that, something happened. It had been agitated for a while now, impatient, intense, like a wondering eye that for the first time saw into a thing : How beautiful this thing was, so precious, so filigree and dainty. Never had it been seen in this way, so new, so …. Hadn’t ever thought about it that way. What, if it wasn’t as we’ve had thought it was, but rather, there, with the other things …. How could it ever have been not that way? The bewilderment, the gaze, the astonishment, the rejoice in finding that it was so simple, and simply that …. what, if it would fit that way? Could it be that …. yes! Yes, it could be thus. It had ever been that way! – just the eye had looked into another direction, had seen other things, different ways. Had placed the things in the wrong corridors, remote corners. That was never meant to be such, no, it was … it had been a mistake …. no, not a mistake, just …. a misapprehension. How could we have reduced it to such a small creature of thought? In its own form, it was so beautiful.
The dream stood aside, watching. The soul’s eyes had understood. It had found not only new paths and ways, not only a new map or territory. The soul had found a true way how the things belonged. The pieces came to their places. The dream smiled. Now it was awake, and entering the soul it looked through her eyes, in a new way, remaking a world and finding a place. The goal was set, the pieces aligned. Yes, this was how it was meant to be. The soul shimmered as understanding made her a home. The dream had come and an idea was given. Joy was gushing as the soul, the dream, the world came together, and a friendly smile poured onto all around it.
“Thank you,” the dream said, “I couldn’t have waited much longer.”
“I know,” the soul said, “but tell me, love, who are you?”
“I am what helps you find a way, from the inner to the outer, from your loneliness to the world. I am what makes a beloved, a child, a parent what they are …. I am a way home.”
Later, as the dream ceased to be an idea, or an understanding, a joy, a bewilderment, it became older and stiffer. The water changed to wood, and the dream, nearly dry now, sedimented to the ground. It not so much became an experience, it became a composure, a way the person grew old. The water inside the jar had become a jar for the water. It was remembered later by the children as this peculiar way how their grandfather could pause, listen, and would see them. It became his way to offer space, to let whirls and turmoil be around that simultaneously calmed the children. His way of being old.
What a precious life a dream is.
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