Connecting with Dreams

We read about how our dreams can give us meaningful experiences, such as through a visit with a loved one who has passed. My father died in 2003, and I recall having a visit from him within a year of his death. He was dressed all in white, and the room was white and unadorned. He seemed happy, or maybe that's not the best word. He seemed settled. Content in a Buddhist monk kind of way.

He and I visited in that room as if we were driving in the family car; he at the wheel and me riding shotgun, as we had done many times. In life, we had special moments talking about the meaning of one's life, spirituality, and everyday challenges. These were precious moments that were forsaken when he remarried up until the final days of his life. His new wife changed things, and I felt the loss of these special times. But that story is for another day.

As I have stepped into hospice and Reiki work, my sense of connectiveness with those who pass on is deepening. My little dog Sophie (the Sailor Dog) and my cat Suny (Chocolate Point Siamese), both rescues, were my family members. We shared our home and adventures for over a decade together.

When Suny, then Sophie, died of incurable illnesses, my heart ached. I still miss them both quite a bit.

Through my work, studies, and experiences, I've learned about death. One big lesson is that the transformation of a loved one from this life to beyond is gut-wrenchingly sad for me, no matter if I can rationalize how it is the way of things.

Suny and Sophie have visited me in dreams a few times. It's always while we are involved in some wild adventure at home or around the house, and I am usually busy dealing with other people. As with my father, their presence is often joyfully acknowledged as I realize they are there, right with me. It is always a nice visit and warms my whole being to have them there. It feels so special.

Last night, I had a visit of another type. It wasn't an animal or person. It was a kind of nightmare.

It began innocuously enough. I was around various sailing friends, and it felt like we were at one of the sailing group events where we meet up for a few days, enjoy potlucks, and plan the best morning routes as we check the tides and winds. People were all around, running here and there, busy preparing and socializing.

Then I had a call from my doctor, telling me I had stomach cancer and, sorry to say, I would not live more than 5 more months.

My dream self was slow to react. First, I was processing the idea of having stomach cancer. Then, after a few minutes, it hit me. I only have 5 months at best to live.

With this thought, everything around me blurred as I shifted my perspective. With such a limited number of days, every moment became important. Every minute of every day, especially now, as I felt okay and wasn't ravaged by the illness yet, was to be lived to the fullest extent possible.

I tried to tell one of the others in the sailing group who happened to pop over. It felt like practice, for when I'd speak to my husband, who is also my best friend. As I predicted, the friend was troubled, but what could he do, except to say he was sorry for the news and then get back to the sailing event (after I assured him I was fine).

Before I woke up, I vowed to tell my husband and to make a plan with him. News like that changes everything. In the land of the living, in the waking world, it is a sobering reminder to pay attention. Or as many of us like to say, we have to practice mindfulness; to be in the moment is to respectfully treat ourselves and the gifts of our lives as the treasures they are.