A Dream Story

PhotoFunia-6958f85Many of my dreams, the ones I remember, are of me trying to get somewhere, usually on some odd form of transportation, not knowing how to get there, and often with people following me who think I actually know where I’m going. In one I’m riding a horse, leading the way; in another I’m in an  English taxi; one, rolling along in a wheelchair; one on a tricycle, another on a bicycle, and in one dream I’m pedaling away in a pedicab with a group tagging along behind me.

One night, just prior to falling asleep, I asked my mother, my father, and my teacher Michael Naumer (all deceased) to come to me in my dreams. I recorded the vivid succession of images in a journal as soon as I awoke (October 22, 2002). My dreaming started with Michael (who’d been gone five months). That part was short, and the only thing I remember was asking him if there was something he wanted to tell me, or if there was anything I needed to know. I tried to listen to what he had to say, but my attention kept wandering, so I don’t know if he answered, or, I didn’t hear him if he did. The images shifted to my mother (who’d taken her life some three decades before):

I’m at the San Francisco side of the Golden Gate Bridge just past the tollbooth in the slow lane, weaving in and out of traffic, lying face down on an old wooden go-cart that looks like a kid’s snow sled with wheels, moving along quickly, making it go faster with my hands and feet. A nicely dressed attractive woman with straight shoulder-length blonde hair is walking just behind me and calls to get my attention. “What does she want?” I think. I’ve traveled a good distance, and have no time to talk; I’m trying to get someplace. I ignore her and she calls out again. I race away, lying prone on my vehicle, my face just inches from the pavement rapidly passing beneath me, and weave my way from the slow lane onto the pedestrian lane. She’s still following me.

Moon Valley School reunion, mid 1980s: Audrey, Charlie, Moona, Catherine, Barbara, Matt

Moon Valley School reunion, mid 1980s: Audrey, Charlie, Moona, Catherine, Barbara, my son Matt

I lose her. In the next instant I’m in front of the house next to the Sebastiani Winery (which is three blocks from where I live), scooting along behind the bushes in case she’s still nearby. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I pick up my go-cart and step carefully down the moss-covered stone steps. The next instant I’m at the  market in the plaza, which is also three blocks away. As I wend my way through the bazaar, I notice the beautiful stalls look like many I’ve visited in the town plazas in Mexico, the papayas, oranges, and onions stacked in perfect pyramids surrounded by buckets of tied stock, irises, and sunflowers: colorful and fragrant. I find myself standing in front of a corner fruit and flower stand where three friends, Moona, Audrey, and Barbara, are showing and selling their artwork from their booth. (These three women are just a few years older, about the ages of my three sisters, and were a comfort and inspiration when I first moved to Sonoma. They were involved as parents or teachers in Moon Valley School, Moon Valley School sign cropa small alternative school run by Charlie Price where I sent my sons in the mid to late 1970s, where I became the bookkeeper, and then ran the school for a few years after they’d all moved on. Audrey, Moona, and Barbara were also single mothers who gave me courage around raising two young boys on my own.)

Audrey holds up a piece of her work. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t have time, I’m looking for this place.” She telepathically knows where I mean, and points. It’s just around the corner. Three bungalows, white, clean, and crisp—like little connected beach houses each with one small window and a screened front door—are to my left. I sense my mother is inside the first one on my right. I see the door is open through the screen. I lean my go-cart against the wall, peer in, and in the far corner I see my mother asleep. She looks to be in her mid-forties and I’m a young teenager, the ages we were the last time we saw one another.

It’s bright in there and I’m surprised she doesn’t have on her eye-mask. I’m nervous about coming in, as I’m sweaty and covered in dust from the road. The room is small and clean, crowded with a few pieces of furniture and barely any space to walk. A single white-sheeted twin bed is next to her, there is a round white table and a small white upholstered chair; everything is white, white, white. I’m quiet and tentative, not feeling very sure of myself, wanting to see and talk to hear, but waiting for her invitation. She waves me over to her bed. “Come sit next to me.” Taking off my jeans so as not to get her bed dirty, I sit with her. I notice she has tubes everywhere: an IV in her arm, a plastic one up her nose and down her throat, a catheter coming out of her. She’s ill and I realize she’s dying. While she shifts to make herself comfortable, I look around the room and see six or seven framed photos on a tall oak bookshelf near the door. I’m curious if any of them are of me. I discover they are family pictures and we look happy. We aren’t all together, but in photos by ourselves and a couple with two or three of us posing together. My mother is not in any; I’m in three. One close-up by myself—my first or second grade school picture—only I have a bonnet with a small brim. I think how sweet I was as a child, how fresh and pretty. A second picture is of Daddy and me. The third, I don’t recollect who all was in it, but there are several of us. I study them; relieved she has pictures of me. She did care about me. My attention turns to her, and I ask, “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, anything you’d like me to know?” At that instant, I wake up.

The next day (in my everyday waking life) I find in my mailbox a postcard from Barbara, announcing she is giving Tarot readings. Dialing her, I say, “I just got your card and this is so weird… last night I had the most vivid dream that you were in.”

“You always want to tell people when you dream of them,” she says, “as it’s significant when we dream about one another.”

“Want to hear it?” When I finish, she tells me, “I’m part of a dream circle that meets once a month, and Connie Kaplan, who facilitates dream circles and has published a book about them, is coming up from Los Angeles to be there. Would you like to come?”

I don’t know much about dreams, but believe they can have significance, and as this one was so detailed, I wanted help to decipher what it meant. “Absolutely,” I said, “When and where?”

A week later I join Barbra and a circle of women, some of whom I’ve met, others I’ve not. When Connie arrives, she sits next to me on the couch. She checks in with everyone, tells a story, and then relates a second one of her avoiding serious injury in a four-car collision on the freeway coming up from Southern California. I’m looking at her profile, and as she says “freeway” and turns her face toward me a little, all the hairs stand up on my arms and the back of my neck.

“You’re the blonde in my dream,” I interject.

Laughing, she says, “Well, you may have been dreaming me to protect me in the accident. Thank you.” Then she tells us a story about angels walking through walls, being given messages from the other side, about her experience with the angles at the time of her father’s death—all a little far-fetched for my money. The dream circle begins, along with the passing of the talking stick from woman to woman. I find the process interesting. I’m dying to ask Connie about mine, but I’d been told before the circle began that I may not share as I’m not a member of the group.

When the evening concludes, Connie and I talk outside where I relay my dream to her. At the end, she asks me a couple of questions, then says, “Many dreams have a pun, and the most interesting part of your dream, to me, is your pun: it is where you take off your jeans.” I don’t get her point. She goes on, “In that action, you are changing the genetic patterns in your family.” She looks at me quizzically, and then says, “You’re the only one doing work in your family, and you can do that you know.”

And in that moment, something inside told me that this woman, whom I’d met in a dream, was telling me the truth.

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  1. How great to be reminded of our sweet meeting, Catherine. I have a couple more things I’d like to say about this dream:

    About your teacher, Michael. . .I’ve been toying with the idea that when we die, our energies and consciousness and literal cells return to the great reservoir of collective human wisdom to be recycled/reused. And I’ve been toying with the idea that the more evolved or the more “completed” you are when you die, the faster your energies redistribute themselves because they are unfettered. So, I wonder if it was actually your consciousness wandering that kept you from hearing him, or if the actual MESSAGE FROM HIM was that his consciousness was already dispersed – that consciousness disperses after death. Does that make sense?

    And yet your mother’s consciousness was still plugged in – still trying to untangle itself from the wires and tubes and the messes she’d made in the gene pool.

    Also, later when we did my “invisible garment” work with you and looked up the principles in your garment pattern, we learned that you have quite a few principles that connected you to your mother – and eventually to The Great Mother. We all have to learn to release our biological moms in order to understand Mother-ness and connect with the Gaia Mother who births us all into higher states of consciousness. I wonder if that new birth is what caused you to write this story at the time!

    Love love love hearing from you through these dream messages.

    • Connie, it was no accident we met in my dream, and that night at the dream circle. You were the next teacher to cross my doorstep and your work was also a game changer for me. I thank you in the full version of my book (out this year I hope): “To Connie Kaplan, who said I incarnated in the field of resistance and I said like that is supposed to be news that isn’t obvious to the whole planet? She said, not that kind of resistance. That I am like a resistor in electricity: when people meet me, their lives take a different direction.” Thanks for seeing me bigger than I ever see myself. So nice to have our paths crossing again. There must be more work to do!

  2. Denise Sales says:

    Your dreams are amazingly detailed and really interesting. I can barely remember more than fleeting snapshots of bizarre disjointed events in mine but they generally have a common theme of something which has been bothering me that I need to resolve.

    The sentences that really stand out to me are: ‘if there was something he (your teacher Michael Naumer) wanted to tell me, or if there was anything I needed to know’ and almost the same to your mother – ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me, anything you’d like me to know?’

    From what you have already written about these two people, they have both had a tremendous impact on your life and are important to you for very different reasons.

    The sense of urgency, and maybe sometimes fear, throughout your dreams suggest you were on a very important mission. Your determination was such that you WOULD complete these complicated tasks somehow with whatever it took and yet, although you appear to want direction and assistance, paradoxically you seem to shun it. Hmmmm!

    In trying to make sense of something which has already happened, your mission has had a successful conclusion; you now hold the remote. Were you righting a wrong or changing the course of your life or that of others, or all of the above? I agree with Connie too. You have worked hard and the results have been worth it and I really enjoy reading your observations; they make me think. Thank you for that!

    • Hi Denise, Thank you for your observations. I worked a lot with this dream after my conversation with Connie. I believe this was a spiritual dream: the number of times that three of something appears, the white that reappears in my mother’s room. Also it is no accident that I’ve three sisters and there are always three close women friends in my life in different areas (dance, work, friendships, etc). My book was about finding my way back home, and how many times I’ve been lost on that journey (any journey actually, as I have zero sense of direction). Right before Michael died I asked him if there was anything I needed to know (there was a chance I might continue his work), and he said there were three things I needed to know, and he told me two: one that I needed to study, and two, that I would have to give up caring if others liked me. He died before he imparted the third. When I was writing the part in the book when I found out my mother had committed suicide, I realized that with her dead, she’d never have the chance to apologize for all the messes she made in the family. I think in the dream I was still hoping for an apology, or, to hear that she loved me. Like I said in the book: false hope is better than no hope at all! I don’t think it was about me righting a wrong on anyone’s part, but to shed light on the anger and resentment that keeps getting kicked down through our generations. I swear it’s part of our genetic coding, thus, the taking off of my jeans in the dream. I still have some work to do with my own resentments. Definition: bitter indignation at having been treated unfairly. Antonyms: contentment, happiness. Time, age, and shedding light on this this addiction has me in the antonym category far more often now. It’s a daily practice for me. And to the degree that I have been mad and resentful, to that same degree I find contentment and happiness. Like Michael said… I know there is balance in life, I see it every time I swing by.

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