Content warning for discussion of death, animal death, and out-of-body experience.
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The ability to dream makes us all natural storytellers. In this post, I will share a short series of dreams with you, and a layer of the story that they have told me thus far.
The first dream occurred in my infancy, not in terms of age, but in terms of experience. This did not happen during a proper sleep session; I reclined for a break, then drifted off unexpectedly.
After an unknown period of time, my awareness suddenly found itself in total darkness. I only had a vague sense of falling forward towards a blue light that I couldn’t make out until I fell into it.
There was a split second before waking where my sense of falling forward turned into falling downward instead. I felt my awareness just above my head until I fell back “into” myself and woke up.
My eyes flew open and a rush of relief washed over me–the kind of relief you feel after retrieving an important item that you lost. This relief was so intense that my body shot upright, like a cliché movie scene where the main character startles out of sleep after a nightmare.
It all happened within seconds, and my conscious mind scrambled to the forefront to grasp what I just remembered that made me so relieved. As quick as it came, it was gone, and my mind filled with defeated cries: No! Nooooooo!!! It was right there, and it slipped through my fingers like water!
I’ve never wanted to write something down right after waking up as badly as I did then, but I can’t write that fast, and words failed me anyway.
I trust that whatever it was that I remembered from this experience has been filed away in my mind’s deeper recesses, to revisit perhaps in increments at the necessary times.
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The next dream we will discuss happened nearly four years after the first dream I described above.
I had been through a stretch of poor sleep, and desperately needed a nap. Still, I spent some twenty minutes or so tossing and turning. I reached a point where I must have fallen asleep, and I saw a brief image of myself walking down some concrete stairs before slipping and falling.
The motion jerked me awake, but here is where it gets strange: at first, my waking surroundings blended into the hazy remnants of my dream. Eventually, I saw things more clearly, but it was like my brain continued to shut down.
In every other way I felt awake, but I was not in control of my body. This resulted in a sensation I’ve never felt before. I compare it to when I watched a family pet pass away at home some years ago. He jerked once, twice, and a final time until his pupils dilated and his entire body relaxed in sync, almost robotically.
It wasn’t long until my vision evenly blurred away into darkness. My body relaxed with it in perfect sync, without my conscious effort. I couldn’t tell if my eyes had actually closed or not.
Once again I was in complete darkness like I had been in my previous dream experience. I didn’t feel anywhere, or “like” anything. I had no appearance, and there was nothing I could see around me, but I sensed that I was not alone.
The darkness felt vast, and I was accompanied only by the sound of my beating heart echoing steadily and strong. This time, however, I was not moving towards anything.
I realized that I could move freely as I pleased, but I did not know where to go. It occurred to me that I could either panic or relax into this place, so I chose the latter.
It felt peaceful and quiet, not anticipating any events or activity, despite the lingering feeling that I was not alone. It was like being held so lovingly, I almost didn’t want to leave. However, I also sensed that I should keep moving.
I asked for some guidance, not using my voice, but as a thought. Who or what I asked, I’m not sure–it happened instinctually. Another “thought” came back to me in return: If I turned to my left, there would be a yellow light there, and if I stepped through it, I would get where I needed to go.
As I began to turn, I saw just the edge of the light. I didn’t get to fully turn to face it before I woke up as usual, as if nothing happened!
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My final dream recollection will be brief, as it was most unpleasant. The whole experience was a series of vivid and distressing dreams lasting the course of about a week–it hardly felt like rest at all.
The first time I detailed the most intense of these dreams aloud, I had a bad feeling, but I continued anyway. Within seconds, I almost got in a car crash! Suffice it to say, it was frightening being unable to find solace even in sleep.
Every subsequent attempt to describe details has resulted in the same dread. What could be behind dream experiences such as this that hold such intensity over my perception of life, death, and my sense of safety?
The experiences I discussed here have made me keenly aware of the vulnerability that persists even in our safest places.
I used to approach death as something that would grow “near” or “far” depending on circumstances–chalk it up to youthful feelings of invincibility, I suppose–but now I see it as a constant that walks alongside us at all times.
I once saw sleep as a sure way to protect myself from all the risks of the outer world. Now, there is no option but to exercise an even relaxation into the delicate nature of it all; not fixating on pain or brutality, but recognizing the gentle strokes of relief and love that death has brushed against me with.
Perhaps the first two dreams could be taken as memories. Maybe they are glitches in the system, not to give grand revelations, but to be practically useful in helping to understand the “lay of the land” of the dead.
As for the third experience, well, I think some part of me died, and another part rose from the ashes. When the final nightmare concluded, I knew it was the end, and I felt a profound blend of pride and sorrow.
The power behind that experience serves like the aching foot only I can feel, as it teaches me how to reorient my walk.
Today, I savor walking–and sleeping–in life as I am in death.