1988 January 13 A Dream

30 Sep

 He was dead a year. My mother was dead, six weeks. In a year someone else I loved would be dead too.

Sleep was hard during those years, because all the dreams were full of death and dying.

I found this note later:

A dream:

I went to some dormitory style living place filled with Celtic musicians. The piper’s death was still fresh on us; I was crushed, but I could not tell anyone how I felt. A friend glossed over it; strange young men ignored it.

His lover was coming to clear his room.

Ghosts were everywhere. Even the moon was a ghost. His lover was thin skinned, on the edge of hysteria. I asked her if I could help clean his room. She didn’t want to do it herself, but she screamed no.

I got down on my knees and begged, telling her that I loved him, that I knew and had nothing of him. She gave up and let me come in. His room was my mother’s old room. It was filled not just with his things, but his ghost was there, and so were the monsters of death. His lover froze in fear. I walked forward and beat at them and yelled ” Go away!” But I could only beat them back under the bed.

He walked forward then, half invisible in a Celtic cloak, then he put his hands on my shoulders and said, with the voice of Aisling (my spirit guide): “Remember what we were.”

I sat down, writing down the incident, and saw the lyrics of Richard Farina’s “Reflections” beside it.

I looked at the note. I can’t remember that dream now. It was written down just before he started coming to me regularly in dreams, becoming my spirit guide. In three months he would come and stand beside me as a presence in my waking life, putting his hands on my shoulders and pointing out a dark haired young man I had just met: Go with him. Learn with him. The young man became more than the young man wanted to be, and as much as I needed. But that is another story.

When I read the dream again, I didn’t know what it meant by Richard Farina’s “Reflections.” I didn’t know the song.

I just found the lyrics tonight. Now, the internet makes it easy.

Reflections in a Crystal Wind by Richard Farina.

“If there’s a way to say I’m sorry, perhaps I’ll stay another evening, beside your door, and watch the moon rise, inside your window, where jewels are falling, and flowers weeping, and strangers laughing, because you’re dreaming that I have gone.

And if I don’t know why I’m going, perhaps I’ll wait beside the pathway where no one’s coming, and count the questions I turned away from, or closed my eyes to, or had no time for, or passed right over because the answers would shame my pride.

I’ve hear them say the word “forever”, but I don’t know if words have meaning, when they are promised in fear of losing what can’t be borrowed, or lent in blindness, or blessed by pageantry, or sold by preachers, while you’re still walking your separate ways.

Sometime we bind ourselves together, and seldom know the harm in binding the only feeling that cries for freedom and needs unfolding, and understanding, and time for holding a simple mirror with one reflection to call your own.

If there’s an end to all our dreaming, perhaps I’ll go while you’re still standing beside your door, and I’ll remember your hands encircling a bowl of moonstones, a lamp of childhood, a robe of roses, because your sorrows were still unborn.”

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