I lost the earlier section of this dream. Couldn't recall it...
In the later part of my dream, I am remembering that I used to work for Donald Trump. He and I didn't like each other and we parted on less than pleasant terms.
But I have a new job now, which is working out perfectly well. I am explaining a game you might call "Alphabet Arithmetic" to a co-worker: numbers from one to twenty-six each represents a letter in the alphabet. So "B"+"H" = "J"
I think I'm trying to convince him that our company should develop and market this as a game for kids.
Donald Trump walks in through a doorway holding a cell phone. Older model. He holds this out to my co-worker, and I understand that DT thinks that this is my co-worker's lost cell phone. The co-worker shakes his head, as in "No, that's not the right one."
When DT sees me, he clearly recognizes me and he scowls.
DT withdraws the phone from between the two of them. It looks like he's starting to leave, but turns around and says to my co-worker: "Show me," as in "Show me what your phone looks like so I have a better idea of what to look for."
Thursday, January 31, 2019
Saturday, January 26, 2019
Bad Dream 29 -- Morning of 1/26/19
In my dream, I'm working in a smallish office. There are maybe 6 or 8 desks, each with a worker assigned to it. We all do essentially the same job -- which has to do with rental properties: finding new clients on both sides of a rental agreement.
I can see some of the other workers walking around or talking on the phone -- clearly getting business done. The volume of the speech is low.
I'm fairly new at this job.
The scene shifts to outside, where there's a very large truck with some kind of dump-truck equipment. I'm standing nearby watching the truck's loading or unloading itself -- it's not clear -- but the "bed" of the truck comes crashing down to its normal position. I'm startled by the sound.
I am now back in the office, standing close to my desk, and I see someone has left a pair of jeans and a denim jacket crumpled on the floor just in front of the large bottom drawer of my desk. I am really annoyed at this: Who did it? Why did they do this? Are the clothes clean? Should I even touch them?
Some of the guys around the office look over my way, disinterested maybe or just curious.
As I'm trying to figure out what to do with the clothes, I think about just getting back to work. And it occurs to me that I haven't the slightest idea how to do this job. I think I may have had some cursory training, but certainly not enough to perform the job I've been hired to do.
I can see some of the other workers walking around or talking on the phone -- clearly getting business done. The volume of the speech is low.
I'm fairly new at this job.
The scene shifts to outside, where there's a very large truck with some kind of dump-truck equipment. I'm standing nearby watching the truck's loading or unloading itself -- it's not clear -- but the "bed" of the truck comes crashing down to its normal position. I'm startled by the sound.
I am now back in the office, standing close to my desk, and I see someone has left a pair of jeans and a denim jacket crumpled on the floor just in front of the large bottom drawer of my desk. I am really annoyed at this: Who did it? Why did they do this? Are the clothes clean? Should I even touch them?
Some of the guys around the office look over my way, disinterested maybe or just curious.
As I'm trying to figure out what to do with the clothes, I think about just getting back to work. And it occurs to me that I haven't the slightest idea how to do this job. I think I may have had some cursory training, but certainly not enough to perform the job I've been hired to do.
Tuesday, January 22, 2019
The Tao Teh Ching and Me
First of all, an introduction: The Tao Teh Ching is a book of ancient Chinese wisdom written around 600 BCE. I've read that it is the second most-translated book into English. The book is attributed to a Lao Tzu, but scholars disagree as to whether he wrote the book initially or simply compiled aphorisms that were general knowledge at the time. In fact, scholars debate whether there was a single person called "Lao Tzu" at all.
The book is comprised of 81 "chapters" Most chapters take up less than a single page in a book and many of them take up less than a half page. So it's a very short book. Recurring topics in the book include personal integrity, respect for the natural world, escape from dualistic thinking, the futility and danger of owning earthly treasure, and advice for those who rule over others.
Here's a sample:
"Thirty spokes are gathered at each hub:
absence makes the cart work.
A storage jar fashioned out of clay:
absence makes the jar work.
Doors and windows cut in a house:
absence makes the house work.
Presence gives things their value,
but absence makes them work." (Translation by David Hinton)
I love the book. I own over a dozen different translations, each of which reveals a new facet of the author -- and (for better or worse) of the translator.
I came across the book in the mid 1970's and was immediately taken with its terse prose and deep wisdom. Back then, my wife and I were relatively new at Quakerism, and we were enchanted with the theological freedom we had found in our local Quaker Meeting. (My wife had been a lapsed Catholic for years by then, and I had been a lapsed Episcopal for even longer.)
When I started going to Renee Crauder's 8-day silent retreats (described elsewhere in this document), I developed a newfound respect for the Bible in general and Jesus in particular. And I didn't find any conflict between what I read in the Bible and what I read in the Tao Teh Ching and how I understood Quakerism. And at the same time, I found a closer relationship between the Tao Teh Ching. And this closeness was supported and validated by my understanding of Quakerism.
So for decades, I had these three "pillars" of my faith: Jesus, Quakerism, and the Tao Teh Ching. And I felt no conflict between any of these. But my connection to "formal" Christianity -- which I think was never that strong -- waned ever fainter. There were all the scandals of people calling themselves "Christians" -- TV evangelists, predatory Catholic priests, political conservatives who adjusted Scripture to meet their right-wing agendas. And then there was the outstanding issue of: "What about all those deeply devoted Muslims, Jews, Native Americans etc. Does Christianity deny them the path to salvation and holiness?"
So it seems to me that as my interest dwindled in being a "full-bore" Christian, my interest in Jesus went along with that. Just too much "baggage." And so that "pillar" of my faith fell away -- which felt was okay (when I thought about it at all), as I had two pillars left.
So for decades, I drew my spiritual nourishment from the Tao Teh Ching and participation in Quaker Meeting. But with time, my interest in the book became more and more of an intellectual pursuit rather than a source of wisdom and solace. And my involvement with Meeting became more and more a matter of social and organizational commitment rather than a spiritual home.
In the months of my involvement with The School of the Spirit, I have come to see that I've allowed myself to settle into a rather small Spiritual Home, as described elsewhere in this paper.
The book is comprised of 81 "chapters" Most chapters take up less than a single page in a book and many of them take up less than a half page. So it's a very short book. Recurring topics in the book include personal integrity, respect for the natural world, escape from dualistic thinking, the futility and danger of owning earthly treasure, and advice for those who rule over others.
Here's a sample:
"Thirty spokes are gathered at each hub:
absence makes the cart work.
A storage jar fashioned out of clay:
absence makes the jar work.
Doors and windows cut in a house:
absence makes the house work.
Presence gives things their value,
but absence makes them work." (Translation by David Hinton)
I love the book. I own over a dozen different translations, each of which reveals a new facet of the author -- and (for better or worse) of the translator.
I came across the book in the mid 1970's and was immediately taken with its terse prose and deep wisdom. Back then, my wife and I were relatively new at Quakerism, and we were enchanted with the theological freedom we had found in our local Quaker Meeting. (My wife had been a lapsed Catholic for years by then, and I had been a lapsed Episcopal for even longer.)
When I started going to Renee Crauder's 8-day silent retreats (described elsewhere in this document), I developed a newfound respect for the Bible in general and Jesus in particular. And I didn't find any conflict between what I read in the Bible and what I read in the Tao Teh Ching and how I understood Quakerism. And at the same time, I found a closer relationship between the Tao Teh Ching. And this closeness was supported and validated by my understanding of Quakerism.
So for decades, I had these three "pillars" of my faith: Jesus, Quakerism, and the Tao Teh Ching. And I felt no conflict between any of these. But my connection to "formal" Christianity -- which I think was never that strong -- waned ever fainter. There were all the scandals of people calling themselves "Christians" -- TV evangelists, predatory Catholic priests, political conservatives who adjusted Scripture to meet their right-wing agendas. And then there was the outstanding issue of: "What about all those deeply devoted Muslims, Jews, Native Americans etc. Does Christianity deny them the path to salvation and holiness?"
So it seems to me that as my interest dwindled in being a "full-bore" Christian, my interest in Jesus went along with that. Just too much "baggage." And so that "pillar" of my faith fell away -- which felt was okay (when I thought about it at all), as I had two pillars left.
So for decades, I drew my spiritual nourishment from the Tao Teh Ching and participation in Quaker Meeting. But with time, my interest in the book became more and more of an intellectual pursuit rather than a source of wisdom and solace. And my involvement with Meeting became more and more a matter of social and organizational commitment rather than a spiritual home.
In the months of my involvement with The School of the Spirit, I have come to see that I've allowed myself to settle into a rather small Spiritual Home, as described elsewhere in this paper.
Monday, January 21, 2019
Bad Dream 28 -- Morning of 1/21/19
In my dream, a friend and I are hiking and just come to a small town. We decide to stop and get some lunch and we spot a small restaurant ahead of us. It's a tidy looking building covered in yellow shingles.
We walk inside. The walls are also yellow, with brown wooden benches and tables. It's all quite neat and inviting. Signs of a well run establishment. There are no other customers -- either in line or sitting at a table.
Somehow or other, we know that the restaurant prides itself on its fried chicken.
We notice that there are no printed menus. And there is a sign over the counter that should have contained choices for a meal, but it doesn't really convey any information. We mention this to the lady behind the counter and she directs us to another wall that has a reasonably complete display of choices of food and beverage. But nowhere on the list does it list fried chicken.
We bring this to the lady's attention. There is also a man behind the counter, and it seems likely that they are husband and wife. The two of them start explaining why the menu situation is what it is, and we're ready to accept what they say even though I don't understand the situation.
As we consider what to order, the guy behind the counter asks us if we want to have the pressure in the tires on our car checked. We look at each other, puzzled and say "No thanks." The two of them start to lecture us about the importance of having the proper pressure in the tires -- in terms of tire wear and safety. They then ask about whether we'd like other services (which I simply don't remember) -- none of which has anything to do with food. We continue to say "Thanks but no thanks. We just want to get something to eat."
They assure us they know what we'd like to eat and would be happy to prepare that for us. So this may be fried chicken or not, but if it's what they want to prepare, that's fine by us. We find a table at which to sit and wait for a while for our food to show up.
Shortly after we sit, more people show up and pretty soon, the small restaurant is completely filled with people. Folks are standing and folks are sitting and many of the folks are eating food that obviously the restaurant has prepared for them. We still haven't got our food.
I look over at the couple and shrug as if to say: "When are we getting our meals?" They look at us and bob their heads as if to say: "Yes, we understand your concern and are working towards getting your meal ready." This happens several times.
I tell them "We'd like to get our food, please, and any more nonsense from you and we're simply walking out." They get the message and get back to work preparing these other meals for other people.
Finally the restaurant empties of all the other customers -- except us. We continue to sit at our table, but begin to understand that we're simply not going to be fed.
We walk inside. The walls are also yellow, with brown wooden benches and tables. It's all quite neat and inviting. Signs of a well run establishment. There are no other customers -- either in line or sitting at a table.
Somehow or other, we know that the restaurant prides itself on its fried chicken.
We notice that there are no printed menus. And there is a sign over the counter that should have contained choices for a meal, but it doesn't really convey any information. We mention this to the lady behind the counter and she directs us to another wall that has a reasonably complete display of choices of food and beverage. But nowhere on the list does it list fried chicken.
We bring this to the lady's attention. There is also a man behind the counter, and it seems likely that they are husband and wife. The two of them start explaining why the menu situation is what it is, and we're ready to accept what they say even though I don't understand the situation.
As we consider what to order, the guy behind the counter asks us if we want to have the pressure in the tires on our car checked. We look at each other, puzzled and say "No thanks." The two of them start to lecture us about the importance of having the proper pressure in the tires -- in terms of tire wear and safety. They then ask about whether we'd like other services (which I simply don't remember) -- none of which has anything to do with food. We continue to say "Thanks but no thanks. We just want to get something to eat."
They assure us they know what we'd like to eat and would be happy to prepare that for us. So this may be fried chicken or not, but if it's what they want to prepare, that's fine by us. We find a table at which to sit and wait for a while for our food to show up.
Shortly after we sit, more people show up and pretty soon, the small restaurant is completely filled with people. Folks are standing and folks are sitting and many of the folks are eating food that obviously the restaurant has prepared for them. We still haven't got our food.
I look over at the couple and shrug as if to say: "When are we getting our meals?" They look at us and bob their heads as if to say: "Yes, we understand your concern and are working towards getting your meal ready." This happens several times.
I tell them "We'd like to get our food, please, and any more nonsense from you and we're simply walking out." They get the message and get back to work preparing these other meals for other people.
Finally the restaurant empties of all the other customers -- except us. We continue to sit at our table, but begin to understand that we're simply not going to be fed.
The Perils of Dream Collecting
Just want this on the record:
Documenting your dreams -- especially 4 or 5 times a week -- can be a real chore.
The moment you wake up, you have to write down pretty much anything and everything you can remember about the dream. I can feel my memory of the contents of a dream gradually sifting out of my head from shortly after waking up. Certainly if you wait until morning to write down anything about the dream, you may find you don't remember anything about it.
So I wake up, let's say, at 2:30 in the morning. I've just had a dream that I feel could be important. I want to write down as much as I can recall. But I am not -- repeat NOT -- going to turn on the light and possibly wake up my wonderful wife, who works so hard and doesn't -- in my humble opinion -- get enough sleep normally.
So it means hauling my carcass out of bed, searching for pen and paper, and waltzing into the bathroom to write down everything I can. This may take 10 minutes or more. By the time I get back to bed, I am thoroughly awake and find it impossible to get back to sleep -- typically for a couple of hours.
Fortunately, it's been cold enough that staying tucked up in bed is a nice thing to do.
But when I finally get to sleep around 4:00 AM, I'm only able to get maybe two hours' sleep. I don't know how this affects my total sleep inventory, but I don't think it improves it.
Just sayin'
Documenting your dreams -- especially 4 or 5 times a week -- can be a real chore.
The moment you wake up, you have to write down pretty much anything and everything you can remember about the dream. I can feel my memory of the contents of a dream gradually sifting out of my head from shortly after waking up. Certainly if you wait until morning to write down anything about the dream, you may find you don't remember anything about it.
So I wake up, let's say, at 2:30 in the morning. I've just had a dream that I feel could be important. I want to write down as much as I can recall. But I am not -- repeat NOT -- going to turn on the light and possibly wake up my wonderful wife, who works so hard and doesn't -- in my humble opinion -- get enough sleep normally.
So it means hauling my carcass out of bed, searching for pen and paper, and waltzing into the bathroom to write down everything I can. This may take 10 minutes or more. By the time I get back to bed, I am thoroughly awake and find it impossible to get back to sleep -- typically for a couple of hours.
Fortunately, it's been cold enough that staying tucked up in bed is a nice thing to do.
But when I finally get to sleep around 4:00 AM, I'm only able to get maybe two hours' sleep. I don't know how this affects my total sleep inventory, but I don't think it improves it.
Just sayin'
Bad Dream 27 -- Morning of 1/21/19
In my dream, I am a student taking a "heavy" (word from my notes) class. Difficult, in other words. I am -- I think -- in the classroom, chatting with my fellow students. I don't know why, but I only got 10 minutes sleep last night -- and I keep telling fellow students that. They don't care.
I fake my way through a couple of classes, continuing to tell people about only getting 10 minutes sleep.
I am now in what seems to be a large old house that's been converted into essentially a boarding house. I really need to get more sleep. The front desk clerk understands, turns his head slightly and nods as if to say "Walk down the hallway a bit and you'll find a room for yourself." I walk to the first door, which is slightly ajar and push it open -- hoping this is the room the clerk wanted me to use.
In the room, there's a large bed occupied by a very pretty girl wearing nothing but a short nightie. She sees me and rolls across the bed away from me -- not frightened, just rolling. As she does this her nightie comes up over her head and away from her. She's now naked. As she does this, I see that there's also a guy in the bed with her. So I ask myself: "Is she inviting me to join them in bed or is she just moving away from me?" Deciding that the consequence of choosing the first option might be dangerous, I decide the best thing to do is simply close the door and try another room.
Some of the doors are firmly closed and do not invite any investigation. Others are open and reveal a room that has recently been slept in and haven't been tidied up yet. I decide none of these rooms are going to serve my purpose, so I should just try to get some breakfast.
I walk down to the breakfast dining room and see that all the tables are occupied. I enter the door to the kitchen and am surprised and pleased to see an old friend working there. We spend some time talking about my order for scrambled eggs, toast, etc. but finally get the order straightened out.
I walk back out to the dining room, which has become a very large restaurant with a number of unoccupied tables. I choose one and sit down in anticipation of my breakfast showing up sometime soon. Then I realize that there's no jellies or jams at the table, and I will want some grape jelly for my toast.
So I get up and walk around to other unoccupied tables hoping to find a packet or two of grape jelly (which, in Real Life, is certainly not my favorite!) with no success. There doesn't seem to be any jelly or jam in the entire restaurant.
I fake my way through a couple of classes, continuing to tell people about only getting 10 minutes sleep.
I am now in what seems to be a large old house that's been converted into essentially a boarding house. I really need to get more sleep. The front desk clerk understands, turns his head slightly and nods as if to say "Walk down the hallway a bit and you'll find a room for yourself." I walk to the first door, which is slightly ajar and push it open -- hoping this is the room the clerk wanted me to use.
In the room, there's a large bed occupied by a very pretty girl wearing nothing but a short nightie. She sees me and rolls across the bed away from me -- not frightened, just rolling. As she does this her nightie comes up over her head and away from her. She's now naked. As she does this, I see that there's also a guy in the bed with her. So I ask myself: "Is she inviting me to join them in bed or is she just moving away from me?" Deciding that the consequence of choosing the first option might be dangerous, I decide the best thing to do is simply close the door and try another room.
Some of the doors are firmly closed and do not invite any investigation. Others are open and reveal a room that has recently been slept in and haven't been tidied up yet. I decide none of these rooms are going to serve my purpose, so I should just try to get some breakfast.
I walk down to the breakfast dining room and see that all the tables are occupied. I enter the door to the kitchen and am surprised and pleased to see an old friend working there. We spend some time talking about my order for scrambled eggs, toast, etc. but finally get the order straightened out.
I walk back out to the dining room, which has become a very large restaurant with a number of unoccupied tables. I choose one and sit down in anticipation of my breakfast showing up sometime soon. Then I realize that there's no jellies or jams at the table, and I will want some grape jelly for my toast.
So I get up and walk around to other unoccupied tables hoping to find a packet or two of grape jelly (which, in Real Life, is certainly not my favorite!) with no success. There doesn't seem to be any jelly or jam in the entire restaurant.
Sunday, January 20, 2019
Lucid Dreams
Recently I've been experiencing -- what I'm fairly sure are -- Lucid Dreams. They typically show up shortly before I wake up, which makes perfect sense to me.
Here is Wikipedia's definition of that phenomenon: "A lucid dream is a dream during which the dreamer is aware that they are dreaming. During a lucid dream, the dreamer may gain some amount of control over the dream characters, narrative, and environment; however, this is not necessary for a dream to be described as lucid." When I'm in such a state, I can "hear myself" thinking -- and maybe talking -- about what is happening and what should happen next.
I don't know how useful or diagnostic this is. It's quite possible I've been doing Lucid Dreaming for months or years, but given my current interest in dreams, I'm simply more aware of what's going on. At this point, I'm not even sure how many of the dreams I've documented that were Lucid.
I've copied out Wikipedia's entire entry about these dreams and placed the copy in the binder I've set up for my Project.
Here is Wikipedia's definition of that phenomenon: "A lucid dream is a dream during which the dreamer is aware that they are dreaming. During a lucid dream, the dreamer may gain some amount of control over the dream characters, narrative, and environment; however, this is not necessary for a dream to be described as lucid." When I'm in such a state, I can "hear myself" thinking -- and maybe talking -- about what is happening and what should happen next.
I don't know how useful or diagnostic this is. It's quite possible I've been doing Lucid Dreaming for months or years, but given my current interest in dreams, I'm simply more aware of what's going on. At this point, I'm not even sure how many of the dreams I've documented that were Lucid.
I've copied out Wikipedia's entire entry about these dreams and placed the copy in the binder I've set up for my Project.
Saturday, January 19, 2019
Bad Dream 26 -- Morning of 1/19/19
In my dream, I am in some kind of building getting ready for a performance. I'm to be juggling, but other folks are also part of the show. They and I are milling around, trying to feel ready for the performance.
I know we'll suck.
We perform perfectly okay for certain types of audiences, but today's gig doesn't look at all promising. I'm not sure whether the other performers simply don't know this yet or whether they have the same feeling I do and are putting up a brave face. Either one is fine. We're going to do this gig and do it as best we can.
I decide I need to "warm up" my juggling, so I head to the basement -- just to be away from my fellow performers. At the top of the stairs to the basement, I notice that the handrail is completely broken, with most of it disconnected from its support frame and leaning against the stairs themselves.
As I walk carefully down the stairs , I remember that the ceiling height is maybe eight feet -- certainly not suitable for juggling practice. I am now in the basement proper, where there is an immense hole in the shape of two adjoining rectangles. Maybe ten feet on a side and four or five feet deep. My Dad is standing in the hole, holding a shovel. He's wearing an undershirt and I understand he's been doing a lot of this digging. I understand that this basement is the basement of the house I grew up in in Baltimore. I want to ask him what's going on, but don't get the chance.
At the bottom of the hole, I see the head of one of my younger brothers -- but I can't tell if it's Warren or David. The rest of his body is buried -- he's up to his neck in dirt. He doesn't seem terribly perturbed about this situation, and asks a question, the nature of which I can't discern. Dad takes his shovel and pulls dirt over the head of my younger sibling. He seems a little annoyed as he does this -- but that's his only emotion.
I ask my Dad: "What do we do next?" And he motions across the room and says: "Ask him over there." I look in the direction he's pointing. Most of the man's anatomy is hidden behind a pillar that's holding up the building over the basement floor. The only part I can see of the man over there is his hands, which are moving in a circular manner, rather as if he were churning a bicycle crank with handles rather than pedals. He doesn't acknowledge that he's been mentioned. He just keeps cranking away.
I know we'll suck.
We perform perfectly okay for certain types of audiences, but today's gig doesn't look at all promising. I'm not sure whether the other performers simply don't know this yet or whether they have the same feeling I do and are putting up a brave face. Either one is fine. We're going to do this gig and do it as best we can.
I decide I need to "warm up" my juggling, so I head to the basement -- just to be away from my fellow performers. At the top of the stairs to the basement, I notice that the handrail is completely broken, with most of it disconnected from its support frame and leaning against the stairs themselves.
As I walk carefully down the stairs , I remember that the ceiling height is maybe eight feet -- certainly not suitable for juggling practice. I am now in the basement proper, where there is an immense hole in the shape of two adjoining rectangles. Maybe ten feet on a side and four or five feet deep. My Dad is standing in the hole, holding a shovel. He's wearing an undershirt and I understand he's been doing a lot of this digging. I understand that this basement is the basement of the house I grew up in in Baltimore. I want to ask him what's going on, but don't get the chance.
At the bottom of the hole, I see the head of one of my younger brothers -- but I can't tell if it's Warren or David. The rest of his body is buried -- he's up to his neck in dirt. He doesn't seem terribly perturbed about this situation, and asks a question, the nature of which I can't discern. Dad takes his shovel and pulls dirt over the head of my younger sibling. He seems a little annoyed as he does this -- but that's his only emotion.
I ask my Dad: "What do we do next?" And he motions across the room and says: "Ask him over there." I look in the direction he's pointing. Most of the man's anatomy is hidden behind a pillar that's holding up the building over the basement floor. The only part I can see of the man over there is his hands, which are moving in a circular manner, rather as if he were churning a bicycle crank with handles rather than pedals. He doesn't acknowledge that he's been mentioned. He just keeps cranking away.
Friday, January 18, 2019
Bad Dream 25 -- Morning of 1/18/19
I had at least two dreams last night -- dreams both of which I wrote down. A long dream and a short dream. I can't for the life of me find the paper on which I wrote down the long dream -- and feel I have to start considering that, rather than having the long dream per se, I dreamed that I was dreaming, woke up from the dream-within-a-dream, and then dreamed that I wrote down the dream-within-a-dream. Eeek.
Or maybe I just misplaced the paper.
Here's what I have about the short dream:
I am in a room with several other people. Young adults. There are desks/tables like you might find in a school lab here and there. I'm standing (or sitting...) by myself, but looking at a small group of people. One of the people reminds me of Sepp Gabelberger.
"Sepp" has a plucked chicken in a tray in front of him. He asks if anyone knows how to handle the "split plate" of the chicken. (Or it may have been how to split the plate of a chicken. My notes don't clarify this.) By this, I assume he means the sternum of the bird. And from where I am, I can see Sepp's knife resting on the middle of the bird's chest.
I look more closely at what "Sepp" is about to do -- and that is to push what is obviously a dull knife into the breast of the chicken with his right hand while holding the bird still with his left. The direction of the knife push lines up exactly with the position of "Sepp's" left hand. And the problem there is that, if the knife slips in almost any direction, it will plunge unhindered into his left hand.
I briefly consider letting the event unfold without saying anything, but decide I need to tell him and the people around him of the danger that his current hand orientation presents. I move over to the tray and demonstrate a safer way to cut open the chicken, and several of the people in the group begin to giggle. As in "I mean, really what difference does it make?"
I also explain what Zinc told me years ago, that a dull knife is far more dangerous than a sharp one. For several reasons. You don't have to push a sharp knife nearly as hard as you do a dull one, so the chances of a dangerous slip are greatly reduced. Then also, if you do cut yourself, the sharp knife will yield a smooth surface on both sides of the cut. A dull knife more or less tears the skin, so that healing will take a lot longer.
Or maybe I just misplaced the paper.
Here's what I have about the short dream:
I am in a room with several other people. Young adults. There are desks/tables like you might find in a school lab here and there. I'm standing (or sitting...) by myself, but looking at a small group of people. One of the people reminds me of Sepp Gabelberger.
"Sepp" has a plucked chicken in a tray in front of him. He asks if anyone knows how to handle the "split plate" of the chicken. (Or it may have been how to split the plate of a chicken. My notes don't clarify this.) By this, I assume he means the sternum of the bird. And from where I am, I can see Sepp's knife resting on the middle of the bird's chest.
I look more closely at what "Sepp" is about to do -- and that is to push what is obviously a dull knife into the breast of the chicken with his right hand while holding the bird still with his left. The direction of the knife push lines up exactly with the position of "Sepp's" left hand. And the problem there is that, if the knife slips in almost any direction, it will plunge unhindered into his left hand.
I briefly consider letting the event unfold without saying anything, but decide I need to tell him and the people around him of the danger that his current hand orientation presents. I move over to the tray and demonstrate a safer way to cut open the chicken, and several of the people in the group begin to giggle. As in "I mean, really what difference does it make?"
I also explain what Zinc told me years ago, that a dull knife is far more dangerous than a sharp one. For several reasons. You don't have to push a sharp knife nearly as hard as you do a dull one, so the chances of a dangerous slip are greatly reduced. Then also, if you do cut yourself, the sharp knife will yield a smooth surface on both sides of the cut. A dull knife more or less tears the skin, so that healing will take a lot longer.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
Bad Dream 24 -- Morning of 1/17/19
This felt like a pretty complete dream. I'm not sure whether it took place before both fragments (Bad Dreams 22 and 23) or between them.
I am in an office setting. (I wrote down a note about getting teased again -- possibly about working out at the gym -- but I don't remember anything about that aspect of the dream.)
Someone who reminds me of Roger Leimbach comes over to my desk and starts talking about our about-to-be-released product. It's an important new part of our product line, and its proper introduction is really important.
One aspect of it, according to "Roger," is that a training course is required. And someone has to put together the course. "Roger" tells me: "And you're just the guy to do it." That is, put together a training course. I feel perfectly ready and competent to put together a course -- as soon as "Roger" clarifies a few things.
I ask him:
-- is the course for internal people? If so, marketing and sales or tech support or field engineering?
-- or is the course for customers? If so, is it prospective buyers of the product or re-sellers of the product or external marketing folks?
-- will we have one of the products for display and to help the students understand what the product looks like and how it performs?
-- if so, will there be a hands-on workshop session so folks can get a clear idea as to how to manipulate or maintain or install the product?
-- how long do you anticipate the course to last? An hour? Several days?
"Roger" has no answers for me. It seems obvious that he hasn't really considered any of this. I'm a bit concerned that he's likely (given "Roger's" previous behavior) that he might say something really stupid like "Well, you figure out how it should be done." And walk away.
I would absolutely love to put the course together. It's something I do well and am proud of doing well. But I don't stand a chance of success if "Roger" doesn't clarify these issues right at the start. I'm concerned that, if I don't ask "Roger" for answers in just the right way, he's increasingly likely to leave it all in my lap.
I am in an office setting. (I wrote down a note about getting teased again -- possibly about working out at the gym -- but I don't remember anything about that aspect of the dream.)
Someone who reminds me of Roger Leimbach comes over to my desk and starts talking about our about-to-be-released product. It's an important new part of our product line, and its proper introduction is really important.
One aspect of it, according to "Roger," is that a training course is required. And someone has to put together the course. "Roger" tells me: "And you're just the guy to do it." That is, put together a training course. I feel perfectly ready and competent to put together a course -- as soon as "Roger" clarifies a few things.
I ask him:
-- is the course for internal people? If so, marketing and sales or tech support or field engineering?
-- or is the course for customers? If so, is it prospective buyers of the product or re-sellers of the product or external marketing folks?
-- will we have one of the products for display and to help the students understand what the product looks like and how it performs?
-- if so, will there be a hands-on workshop session so folks can get a clear idea as to how to manipulate or maintain or install the product?
-- how long do you anticipate the course to last? An hour? Several days?
"Roger" has no answers for me. It seems obvious that he hasn't really considered any of this. I'm a bit concerned that he's likely (given "Roger's" previous behavior) that he might say something really stupid like "Well, you figure out how it should be done." And walk away.
I would absolutely love to put the course together. It's something I do well and am proud of doing well. But I don't stand a chance of success if "Roger" doesn't clarify these issues right at the start. I'm concerned that, if I don't ask "Roger" for answers in just the right way, he's increasingly likely to leave it all in my lap.
Bad Dream 23 -- Morning of 1/17/19
Second dream fragment of the morning:
I am in a large, open office area. I work here. I walk over to my desk which, like the desks around us, is free-standing. It's not against a wall and it's not enclosed in a cubicle. All these desks (I can only see 4 or 5, but I have the impression that the line of desks goes left and right farther than that) are aligned side-by-side.
As I approach the desk -- from the "visitor's side" rather than the side where my chair is -- I can see that someone has been messing around with stuff on the top of my desk. Not a whole lot, but things are not arranged quite as they were when I last saw my desk.
I approach the desk and notice that my coffee cup is missing. There are (I think) a few pieces of broken crockery, but they're all white while my cup had a dark color to it.
I also note that one of my tooth guards is sitting on my desk. (I can't imagine why it's on my desk to begin with. It belongs home sitting on a drinking cup ledge waiting for me to insert into my mouth as I get ready for bed.) But someone has broken it. Which is equally puzzling, as the tooth guard is a soft, flexible, rubbery plastic. But it definitely has a large piece missing.
I am standing there musing about what has happened when the dream ends.
I am in a large, open office area. I work here. I walk over to my desk which, like the desks around us, is free-standing. It's not against a wall and it's not enclosed in a cubicle. All these desks (I can only see 4 or 5, but I have the impression that the line of desks goes left and right farther than that) are aligned side-by-side.
As I approach the desk -- from the "visitor's side" rather than the side where my chair is -- I can see that someone has been messing around with stuff on the top of my desk. Not a whole lot, but things are not arranged quite as they were when I last saw my desk.
I approach the desk and notice that my coffee cup is missing. There are (I think) a few pieces of broken crockery, but they're all white while my cup had a dark color to it.
I also note that one of my tooth guards is sitting on my desk. (I can't imagine why it's on my desk to begin with. It belongs home sitting on a drinking cup ledge waiting for me to insert into my mouth as I get ready for bed.) But someone has broken it. Which is equally puzzling, as the tooth guard is a soft, flexible, rubbery plastic. But it definitely has a large piece missing.
I am standing there musing about what has happened when the dream ends.
Bad Dream 22 -- Morning of 1/17/19
Short fragment:
I am on a fairly large ship, looking over the rail at the water, which is 10 or 15 feet below me.
I see a pod of dolphins swimming past -- slowly and quite close to the ship's hull. Their fins are quite obvious against the water, and I sometimes see the shape of the rest of their bodies.
Excited, I scamper to a lower deck. Here, there is a large window looking out at the water. The surface of the water is perhaps 1/4 of the way up the window.
The dolphins are still passing the ship -- left to right. I see their absolute black dorsal fins on (I think) most of them, and occasionally the dolphin's back reaches the surface so I can just see the entire fin. Except for the intervening glass, I could reach out and touch them they are so close.
One of them swims very close to the glass and raises his (pretty sure it's a him, but might be mistaken) head above the water. Which allows him to look into the ship. I can see his right eye very clearly -- it's a mottled light brown, which I find surprising. I hope that he's looking at me as I look at him, but I don't know if he does -- or even whether he can, given the reflectivity of the glass. He lowers his head and swims away.
I am on a fairly large ship, looking over the rail at the water, which is 10 or 15 feet below me.
I see a pod of dolphins swimming past -- slowly and quite close to the ship's hull. Their fins are quite obvious against the water, and I sometimes see the shape of the rest of their bodies.
Excited, I scamper to a lower deck. Here, there is a large window looking out at the water. The surface of the water is perhaps 1/4 of the way up the window.
The dolphins are still passing the ship -- left to right. I see their absolute black dorsal fins on (I think) most of them, and occasionally the dolphin's back reaches the surface so I can just see the entire fin. Except for the intervening glass, I could reach out and touch them they are so close.
One of them swims very close to the glass and raises his (pretty sure it's a him, but might be mistaken) head above the water. Which allows him to look into the ship. I can see his right eye very clearly -- it's a mottled light brown, which I find surprising. I hope that he's looking at me as I look at him, but I don't know if he does -- or even whether he can, given the reflectivity of the glass. He lowers his head and swims away.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Reflection #1
(Please note that the following are basically parts of the Reflection paper that I will submit. There is a Word document that will be the final piece.)
INTRODUCTION
My reasons for coming to the School of the Spirit have been overwritten by an quest that feels far more important. I don't normally describe my activities in terms of "journey," but it's becoming increasingly clear that term is quite useful in describing what I feel called to do.
Since I started The School of the Spirit program, I've experienced changes in my daily life -- night and day, as described below -- that surprise me. I feel new opportunities to understand who I really am, who I have been, and who I may become.
Being at the School has given me a place of comfort and support -- socially, physically, and emotionally -- while, at the same time it has opened up new challenges coupled with a chance to revisit my personal history and possibly heal some injuries that I didn't know I had.
At this point in my... journey, I feel that growth and change are not just possible but inevitable. I hear myself saying things I thought I would never be able to say. Reaching out to touch people -- something I never would have done.
Plucking the unique and extraordinary out of the common and ordinary.
BEFORE I CAME TO THE SCHOOL OF THE SPIRIT
From an early age, I don't think I ever thought of myself as someone special. I did, however, have two characteristics that I felt defined me:
While the church-going didn't have much effect on me, one particular book certainly did. My Godparents (appropriately enough) gave me a book titled "Tell Me About God." In the book a child asks his mother to tell him about God, which she does by relating it to the world around the child. No church. No baby Jesus. No crucifixion. It was one of the first books I ever read -- and I feel that I absorbed the book's context and the idea of God independent of a Church.
A considerable number of ministers who served (sequentially) at our little church. I don't remember much about any of them with one major exception. Father Faughnan was a young minister whom I thought was movie-star handsome. His sermons seemed to recognize that most of his flock were nominal Christians. That few if any of them had been lit with the Divine Fire. As he had been. And so he tried his best to help the congregation understand the wonderful gifts that God had placed in front of them -- if only they would reach out and pick them up. Which they tended not to do. I still wonder about the disappointment that he might have felt -- that he couldn't reach into where the flock lived and lead them to the ecstasy that awaited them. I felt sorry for him and was deeply disappointed when he left.
Deeper involvement in Meeting affairs seems to have replaced my commitment to my own faith.
Found that the Tao Teh Ching satisfied my personal cosmology. Some entries are puzzling, but overall more satisfying than trying to understand the Bible -- with all its internal contradictions and laws that we don't follow any more. And felt that so many people supposedly devout Christians follow a wildly different agenda from mine. And my friends mostly can do without Jesus and the Bible as well.
TWO REASONS WHY I CAME TO THE SCHOOL OF THE SPIRIT
REASON #1 -- I've come to the understanding that my spiritual involvement in Meeting has become more shallow -- drier -- than it was in previous years.
I think the progression was something like this:
REASON #2 -- There was a time several decades ago when our Meeting was populated by a considerable number of "Birthright Friends." People who had been raised Quaker and whose life experiences were all viewed from a Quaker point of view.
Nowadays, we have -- I think -- only two members of our Meeting who were born into Quakerism. The rest of us now struggle to acquire the "seasoning" that previous generations were given from birth. Since I'm a "senior" member of Meeting, I feel a responsibility to open pathways to the newer members to find the deeper meanings of the Quaker faith.
Possibly a reflection of my own shallowness, feel/felt that other members of our Meeting. I, at least, recognize that there is a depth available (Marina) and that the way to that depth may need explanation and encouragement from someone else. Like me.
If this meant re-establishing my relationship with God, that was okay. But not necessary. I didn't want to retrace my steps. And/but I didn't know what it meant to move forward.
WHAT I'VE COME TO UNDERSTAND
One of the first activities that our Blue KGroup did when it first met was ask each member to answer the question: "What has your spiritual journey been like -- and how did it bring you here to the School of the Spirit?" Each member was to take roughly 30 minutes to answer this question. Given the time allotted for the KGroup sessions, this meant that two of our members would respond in that first session and the other three would respond in later sessions.
And I knew that I really, truly did not want to be one of the first two. That I had to revisit a considerable number of "waypoints" in my past -- and wanted time to consider them for some time before sharing my story with the group. Fortunately, two members of the group felt comfortable to give their reports that session.
Between the end of that first session and the start of the next, I took time to write out a list of my waypoints and took time to consider what they meant. There were thirteen elements on that list. And I brought the list to the next KGroup meeting.
At that second meeting of our group, another member of our group asked to be allowed to be the first to speak about her journey. And I was highly pleased to see that she had brought a list of her waypoints to the session. It felt like it legitimized my bringing my list.
Now, it's important for me to note here that the first three presenters had presented a dry-eyed, rather matter-of-factual stories of their journey. Not that their stories weren't valid and heartfelt, it was just that they sounded like reports.
When she finished her story, I said I really wanted to go next. And the other remaining person who had not presented seemed comfortable in holding off to the following KGroup session. So I started relating to the group the story behind each element in my list.
By the time I got to the third element of my thirteen-element list, my voice was quivering. By the time I got to the fifth element, I was weeping. And I remained in tears for the rest of my "presentation."
I was amazed and puzzled at why I was crying so much and so hard as I described incidents in my life which, of course, I had known for decades. And I don't recall any new levels of understanding as I read through the list. And (sorry to say, but...) I was The Guy in the Group. Hardly a Macho performance!
As my tears flowed during my presentation, I felt grateful. Here, clearly, was a part of my life's history which needed to be addressed. Here was an opening to new understandings. Events that had happened to me as a young child and as a teenager could now be revisited by me -- now at a greater level of experience, maturity, and objectivity.
I decided to leave the experience alone until my emotional "dust" had settled. And later, in retrospect, I could see that each of the thirteen elements in my list was a disappointment. A disillusionment.
It also occurred to me that none of the elements in that list was caused by someone being mean, being cruel to me. And I thought of how many people, working on such a list for themselves, would have elements in his/her list of people being purposely cruel. People who wanted to harm the author of that list. And I was grateful that I couldn't think of anyone in my life who had worked to cause me serious harm.
WHAT'S HAPPENING TO/WITH ME NOW
Ever since I was a boy, I've struggled with this issue: "If the Christian God created all of us and that God loves all of us, why has that God seen fit to create billions of us with no opportunity to know Jesus? If, as so many Christians of many different stripes claim, that Jesus is the only way to True Peace and Understanding, how could God be so cruel -- and what is His Plan for the afterlife of all those billions of souls? As I understand it, Christians have -- over the centuries -- come up with answers, but these seem to be answers that they invented..."
So I'm deeply grateful to Douglas Gwyn who, in his Pendle Hill pamphlet "But Who Do You Say I Am?" for stating an obvious answer. An answer that I had been seeking for decades and (at least for the time being) find satisfying to my intellect: which is, there is no answer. It's a paradox. The issue cannot be resolved to your satisfaction.
Yesterday, I created a couple of cards with an old old paradox. One side of the card says: "THE STATEMENT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS CARD IS TRUE" and the other side of the card says: "THE STATEMENT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS CARD IS FALSE." So there is no answer.
For decades my "story' had been: "I will continue to look for a resolution to this issue as a path to enlightenment and future spiritual growth." I can now say "There is no answer, and that will have to suffice. Label this issue a Paradox and let it be. And that realization will have to suffice as spiritual growth."
___________________________________
Decades ago, I attended a number of 7-day silent retreats guided by Renee Crauder, a wonderful Quaker lady whose talents and abilities to conduct such retreats were unparalleled. As a result of one of those retreats, I acquired a small cross on a chain -- a pendant -- that I wore for several years.
For reasons I don't recall, I hung the chain and cross on the lamp stand beside my bed. And to this day, every time I looked up from bed to see what time it is, I have to peek around the cross to see the time. It reminds me that I've left something behind. I can't bring myself to take it down and I can't bring myself to wear it.
I see now that my Mother's experience was anxiety about the hereafter. How could she know there was a Heaven? What is/was the path she was being asked to walk? Meanwhile, my Dad was, it seems completely comfortable with a "classical" approach to Christianity and, when left on his own after Mom died, listened to the "Come to Jesus" radio stations. While my Mom, it seemed, was constantly worried about Life in the Hereafter, my Dad had no concerns at all.
Two-fold reasons: Understood that my "involvement" in Meeting was superficial. (And I'm only realizing now that it had become so. It wasn't always like that.) Deepen my spiritual life -- with or without God, with or without Jesus. (But every time I look at my nightstand clock and see the image of my little cross in the middle of the numbers on the clock.)
I remember reading A Testament of Devotion early in my Quaker career and being totally swept up in the author's _____________. So when the book came up on our reading list, I was looking forward to rekindling that _________. So I was surprised at my response.
Confirmation was anything but. Man in the Brown Suit.
Came to Quakerism from reading the Sunday paper. Intrigued and felt at home. Renee Crauder's retreat.
INTRODUCTION
My reasons for coming to the School of the Spirit have been overwritten by an quest that feels far more important. I don't normally describe my activities in terms of "journey," but it's becoming increasingly clear that term is quite useful in describing what I feel called to do.
Since I started The School of the Spirit program, I've experienced changes in my daily life -- night and day, as described below -- that surprise me. I feel new opportunities to understand who I really am, who I have been, and who I may become.
Being at the School has given me a place of comfort and support -- socially, physically, and emotionally -- while, at the same time it has opened up new challenges coupled with a chance to revisit my personal history and possibly heal some injuries that I didn't know I had.
At this point in my... journey, I feel that growth and change are not just possible but inevitable. I hear myself saying things I thought I would never be able to say. Reaching out to touch people -- something I never would have done.
Plucking the unique and extraordinary out of the common and ordinary.
BEFORE I CAME TO THE SCHOOL OF THE SPIRIT
From an early age, I don't think I ever thought of myself as someone special. I did, however, have two characteristics that I felt defined me:
- First, I knew that I was more intelligent than most of the people around me. On several occasions, I answered questions from my school teachers that seemed to astound them. And every now and then, concern them.
And my mother told me that, because I was a December baby and smallish for my age in any case, that she had the option of holding me back from entering First Grade for a year because of my size. But she had me take an IQ test, which came out with a score of 146 (or maybe 164 -- I'm not sure), so the teacher strongly suggested that I should be placed in school at the earliest opportunity. Mom got spooked about the score -- and told me so. - Second, that I was almost painfully shy. Especially around girls. (An attribute that still shows up occasionally.) But I am certainly a devout introvert -- something that I believe I picked up from my Dad at an early age.
While the church-going didn't have much effect on me, one particular book certainly did. My Godparents (appropriately enough) gave me a book titled "Tell Me About God." In the book a child asks his mother to tell him about God, which she does by relating it to the world around the child. No church. No baby Jesus. No crucifixion. It was one of the first books I ever read -- and I feel that I absorbed the book's context and the idea of God independent of a Church.
A considerable number of ministers who served (sequentially) at our little church. I don't remember much about any of them with one major exception. Father Faughnan was a young minister whom I thought was movie-star handsome. His sermons seemed to recognize that most of his flock were nominal Christians. That few if any of them had been lit with the Divine Fire. As he had been. And so he tried his best to help the congregation understand the wonderful gifts that God had placed in front of them -- if only they would reach out and pick them up. Which they tended not to do. I still wonder about the disappointment that he might have felt -- that he couldn't reach into where the flock lived and lead them to the ecstasy that awaited them. I felt sorry for him and was deeply disappointed when he left.
Deeper involvement in Meeting affairs seems to have replaced my commitment to my own faith.
Found that the Tao Teh Ching satisfied my personal cosmology. Some entries are puzzling, but overall more satisfying than trying to understand the Bible -- with all its internal contradictions and laws that we don't follow any more. And felt that so many people supposedly devout Christians follow a wildly different agenda from mine. And my friends mostly can do without Jesus and the Bible as well.
TWO REASONS WHY I CAME TO THE SCHOOL OF THE SPIRIT
REASON #1 -- I've come to the understanding that my spiritual involvement in Meeting has become more shallow -- drier -- than it was in previous years.
I think the progression was something like this:
- Initial enthusiasm and deep spiritual involvement.
- A growing list of personal Meeting responsibilities -- committees and the like. Caused in part by more senior members of Meeting no longer being available to fulfill those responsibilities.
- A gradual shift in seeing my Meeting as a corporate organization rather than a spiritual home. One for which I bore a lot of responsibility that I never asked for.
REASON #2 -- There was a time several decades ago when our Meeting was populated by a considerable number of "Birthright Friends." People who had been raised Quaker and whose life experiences were all viewed from a Quaker point of view.
Nowadays, we have -- I think -- only two members of our Meeting who were born into Quakerism. The rest of us now struggle to acquire the "seasoning" that previous generations were given from birth. Since I'm a "senior" member of Meeting, I feel a responsibility to open pathways to the newer members to find the deeper meanings of the Quaker faith.
Possibly a reflection of my own shallowness, feel/felt that other members of our Meeting. I, at least, recognize that there is a depth available (Marina) and that the way to that depth may need explanation and encouragement from someone else. Like me.
If this meant re-establishing my relationship with God, that was okay. But not necessary. I didn't want to retrace my steps. And/but I didn't know what it meant to move forward.
WHAT I'VE COME TO UNDERSTAND
One of the first activities that our Blue KGroup did when it first met was ask each member to answer the question: "What has your spiritual journey been like -- and how did it bring you here to the School of the Spirit?" Each member was to take roughly 30 minutes to answer this question. Given the time allotted for the KGroup sessions, this meant that two of our members would respond in that first session and the other three would respond in later sessions.
And I knew that I really, truly did not want to be one of the first two. That I had to revisit a considerable number of "waypoints" in my past -- and wanted time to consider them for some time before sharing my story with the group. Fortunately, two members of the group felt comfortable to give their reports that session.
Between the end of that first session and the start of the next, I took time to write out a list of my waypoints and took time to consider what they meant. There were thirteen elements on that list. And I brought the list to the next KGroup meeting.
At that second meeting of our group, another member of our group asked to be allowed to be the first to speak about her journey. And I was highly pleased to see that she had brought a list of her waypoints to the session. It felt like it legitimized my bringing my list.
Now, it's important for me to note here that the first three presenters had presented a dry-eyed, rather matter-of-factual stories of their journey. Not that their stories weren't valid and heartfelt, it was just that they sounded like reports.
When she finished her story, I said I really wanted to go next. And the other remaining person who had not presented seemed comfortable in holding off to the following KGroup session. So I started relating to the group the story behind each element in my list.
By the time I got to the third element of my thirteen-element list, my voice was quivering. By the time I got to the fifth element, I was weeping. And I remained in tears for the rest of my "presentation."
I was amazed and puzzled at why I was crying so much and so hard as I described incidents in my life which, of course, I had known for decades. And I don't recall any new levels of understanding as I read through the list. And (sorry to say, but...) I was The Guy in the Group. Hardly a Macho performance!
As my tears flowed during my presentation, I felt grateful. Here, clearly, was a part of my life's history which needed to be addressed. Here was an opening to new understandings. Events that had happened to me as a young child and as a teenager could now be revisited by me -- now at a greater level of experience, maturity, and objectivity.
I decided to leave the experience alone until my emotional "dust" had settled. And later, in retrospect, I could see that each of the thirteen elements in my list was a disappointment. A disillusionment.
It also occurred to me that none of the elements in that list was caused by someone being mean, being cruel to me. And I thought of how many people, working on such a list for themselves, would have elements in his/her list of people being purposely cruel. People who wanted to harm the author of that list. And I was grateful that I couldn't think of anyone in my life who had worked to cause me serious harm.
WHAT'S HAPPENING TO/WITH ME NOW
Ever since I was a boy, I've struggled with this issue: "If the Christian God created all of us and that God loves all of us, why has that God seen fit to create billions of us with no opportunity to know Jesus? If, as so many Christians of many different stripes claim, that Jesus is the only way to True Peace and Understanding, how could God be so cruel -- and what is His Plan for the afterlife of all those billions of souls? As I understand it, Christians have -- over the centuries -- come up with answers, but these seem to be answers that they invented..."
So I'm deeply grateful to Douglas Gwyn who, in his Pendle Hill pamphlet "But Who Do You Say I Am?" for stating an obvious answer. An answer that I had been seeking for decades and (at least for the time being) find satisfying to my intellect: which is, there is no answer. It's a paradox. The issue cannot be resolved to your satisfaction.
Yesterday, I created a couple of cards with an old old paradox. One side of the card says: "THE STATEMENT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS CARD IS TRUE" and the other side of the card says: "THE STATEMENT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS CARD IS FALSE." So there is no answer.
For decades my "story' had been: "I will continue to look for a resolution to this issue as a path to enlightenment and future spiritual growth." I can now say "There is no answer, and that will have to suffice. Label this issue a Paradox and let it be. And that realization will have to suffice as spiritual growth."
___________________________________
Decades ago, I attended a number of 7-day silent retreats guided by Renee Crauder, a wonderful Quaker lady whose talents and abilities to conduct such retreats were unparalleled. As a result of one of those retreats, I acquired a small cross on a chain -- a pendant -- that I wore for several years.
For reasons I don't recall, I hung the chain and cross on the lamp stand beside my bed. And to this day, every time I looked up from bed to see what time it is, I have to peek around the cross to see the time. It reminds me that I've left something behind. I can't bring myself to take it down and I can't bring myself to wear it.
Two-fold reasons: Understood that my "involvement" in Meeting was superficial. (And I'm only realizing now that it had become so. It wasn't always like that.) Deepen my spiritual life -- with or without God, with or without Jesus. (But every time I look at my nightstand clock and see the image of my little cross in the middle of the numbers on the clock.)
Confirmation was anything but. Man in the Brown Suit.
Came to Quakerism from reading the Sunday paper. Intrigued and felt at home. Renee Crauder's retreat.
Bad Dream 21 -- Morning of 1/15/2019
(This is my second dream of this morning. The first dream drifted away before I could catch any of it.)
I am standing in some sort of public facility. It isn't quite a gun shop and it's not quite a hotel. But people are walking by -- in and out of a very commercial-looking door. They walk past me in a very purposeful manner. Obviously they're going somewhere to do something important to them.
On an extensive rack on the wall, there is a collection of guns -- mainly long guns (rifles and shotguns). I'm concerned that there is no safeguard to keep people from simply walking over to the rack and picking up a gun.
There's nothing I can do to prevent this, but at least I can check all the guns to make sure they're not loaded. So nobody gets hurt.
The first gun I pick up is a very small rifle. Short, light, and holds only a single small-caliber cartridge. I "break" the gun open and look down the barrel. I can see all the way through the barrel to the daylight at the far end, so the gun is certainly safe.
The next gun I pick up is a revolver -- and I don't quite know how to release the cylinder so I can inspect the chambers. I'm concerned that anything I touch on the gun might cause it to go off, so I handle it very carefully. I see that I can rotate the cylinder freely, and this allows me to inspect each and every chamber. I rotate the cylinder considerably to be absolutely sure I've seen every chamber. It's empty of ammunition. I start to feel pretty good about the exercise.
There's a "foggy" piece of the dream here, where I think I muck around with a few other guns, but I don't have any clear image of what I'm doing.
The next gun that I have a clear recollection of is a full-size semi-automatic hunting rifle. Quite possibly a 30-06. It doesn't have an external magazine that I could pull off; rather it stores all its ammunition inside the frame of the gun. I can't see the hammer, so I don't know if it's cocked. It may be fully loaded or completely empty -- and I can't figure out how to find out without possibly discharging the weapon.
I want to put the gun back on the rack and, maybe, move on to the next gun. But I realize that people associated with the facility are watching me with concern. And, since I don't know them and they don't know me, I can easily understand their concern. Keeping my fingers well away from the trigger, I go to place the gun back where I found it. As I move, I abandon my plan of examining all the guns on the rack.
I am standing in some sort of public facility. It isn't quite a gun shop and it's not quite a hotel. But people are walking by -- in and out of a very commercial-looking door. They walk past me in a very purposeful manner. Obviously they're going somewhere to do something important to them.
On an extensive rack on the wall, there is a collection of guns -- mainly long guns (rifles and shotguns). I'm concerned that there is no safeguard to keep people from simply walking over to the rack and picking up a gun.
There's nothing I can do to prevent this, but at least I can check all the guns to make sure they're not loaded. So nobody gets hurt.
The first gun I pick up is a very small rifle. Short, light, and holds only a single small-caliber cartridge. I "break" the gun open and look down the barrel. I can see all the way through the barrel to the daylight at the far end, so the gun is certainly safe.
The next gun I pick up is a revolver -- and I don't quite know how to release the cylinder so I can inspect the chambers. I'm concerned that anything I touch on the gun might cause it to go off, so I handle it very carefully. I see that I can rotate the cylinder freely, and this allows me to inspect each and every chamber. I rotate the cylinder considerably to be absolutely sure I've seen every chamber. It's empty of ammunition. I start to feel pretty good about the exercise.
There's a "foggy" piece of the dream here, where I think I muck around with a few other guns, but I don't have any clear image of what I'm doing.
The next gun that I have a clear recollection of is a full-size semi-automatic hunting rifle. Quite possibly a 30-06. It doesn't have an external magazine that I could pull off; rather it stores all its ammunition inside the frame of the gun. I can't see the hammer, so I don't know if it's cocked. It may be fully loaded or completely empty -- and I can't figure out how to find out without possibly discharging the weapon.
I want to put the gun back on the rack and, maybe, move on to the next gun. But I realize that people associated with the facility are watching me with concern. And, since I don't know them and they don't know me, I can easily understand their concern. Keeping my fingers well away from the trigger, I go to place the gun back where I found it. As I move, I abandon my plan of examining all the guns on the rack.
The Parable of God and Randy in a (Perfectly) Dark Room
After writing up this morning's dream (1/15/19), and trying to settle into my morning's meditation, the following image and story came to me:
I am in a perfectly dark room. Can't see nothing. And I know that God is in here as well. We can hear each other, but (of course) we can't see each other. At least I can't see God. It's an ongoing issue in this story if He can see me. (For me, God is still a masculine entity, but I feel the tug to widen my visceral understanding as to who God "really" is.)
The room is littered with furniture. Some of it is fairly tall, so I can reach out my hand and not crash into the hat rack or tall bookcase. But some of it is low, and banging into it seems like something impossible to avoid. It would be a good thing if we were to touch -- me and God, that is -- and we keep calling out to each other as each of us moves around: "Hey, I moved to over here. Where are You now?" Occasionally, the silence is broken by the sound of one of us running into some piece of furniture or other. I tend to swear when that happens, because it's painful to kick a coffee table. (I guess I'm barefoot or just wearing socks or something, because my toes are taking a beating.)
I kind of wish one or the other of us would simply stand still so that the other could move in a single direction -- towards the voice. But for reasons not explained to me in the dream, that's not going to happen. Each of us moves around in a rather random way.
It occurs to me that my companion in this enterprise is God. Now, I know that I can't see anything and am experiencing pain at every collision. BUT what I don't know is whether God is equally blinded or whether He can see everything perfectly clearly. And, for God-knows-what reason, He's simply running me through this exercise in frustration. I might ask Him if that's the case, but don't feel that I could trust His answer.
But I feel compelled to continue fumbling around in the dark asking the questions "Where are You now?" Again and again.
(I feel this is an image with which I was already acquainted. Whether I had the same revelation years ago or whether I read it or someone told me about it, I don't know...)
I am in a perfectly dark room. Can't see nothing. And I know that God is in here as well. We can hear each other, but (of course) we can't see each other. At least I can't see God. It's an ongoing issue in this story if He can see me. (For me, God is still a masculine entity, but I feel the tug to widen my visceral understanding as to who God "really" is.)
The room is littered with furniture. Some of it is fairly tall, so I can reach out my hand and not crash into the hat rack or tall bookcase. But some of it is low, and banging into it seems like something impossible to avoid. It would be a good thing if we were to touch -- me and God, that is -- and we keep calling out to each other as each of us moves around: "Hey, I moved to over here. Where are You now?" Occasionally, the silence is broken by the sound of one of us running into some piece of furniture or other. I tend to swear when that happens, because it's painful to kick a coffee table. (I guess I'm barefoot or just wearing socks or something, because my toes are taking a beating.)
I kind of wish one or the other of us would simply stand still so that the other could move in a single direction -- towards the voice. But for reasons not explained to me in the dream, that's not going to happen. Each of us moves around in a rather random way.
It occurs to me that my companion in this enterprise is God. Now, I know that I can't see anything and am experiencing pain at every collision. BUT what I don't know is whether God is equally blinded or whether He can see everything perfectly clearly. And, for God-knows-what reason, He's simply running me through this exercise in frustration. I might ask Him if that's the case, but don't feel that I could trust His answer.
But I feel compelled to continue fumbling around in the dark asking the questions "Where are You now?" Again and again.
(I feel this is an image with which I was already acquainted. Whether I had the same revelation years ago or whether I read it or someone told me about it, I don't know...)
Monday, January 14, 2019
Bad Dream 20 -- Morning of 1/14/19
Just a small fragment of this morning's dream:
I am looking at a large stuffed bird (as in taxidermy "stuffed"). It's one of the long-legged type -- ostrich or heron kind of bird. It is located slightly off to my left and maybe 5 feet in front of me.
Also in this scene is a large cat (as in tiger "large") It is also off to my left, and the bird is well within the cat's field of vision.
I sense some concern (from me or elsewhere -- not sure) that the cat will attack the bird. And perhaps either the cat or the bird should be relocated. But there is some counter thought that the cat is too smart to attack a stuffed bird.
I sense that the entities expressing the concern and the counter thought have left. So the only remaining entities are the cat, the bird, and myself.
The cat looks over at me and his expression seems to say: "Hey, it's what I do." And with that, the cat leaps at the bird. His trajectory seems to be aimed at the birds long neck.
I wake up.
I am looking at a large stuffed bird (as in taxidermy "stuffed"). It's one of the long-legged type -- ostrich or heron kind of bird. It is located slightly off to my left and maybe 5 feet in front of me.
Also in this scene is a large cat (as in tiger "large") It is also off to my left, and the bird is well within the cat's field of vision.
I sense some concern (from me or elsewhere -- not sure) that the cat will attack the bird. And perhaps either the cat or the bird should be relocated. But there is some counter thought that the cat is too smart to attack a stuffed bird.
I sense that the entities expressing the concern and the counter thought have left. So the only remaining entities are the cat, the bird, and myself.
The cat looks over at me and his expression seems to say: "Hey, it's what I do." And with that, the cat leaps at the bird. His trajectory seems to be aimed at the birds long neck.
I wake up.
Sunday, January 13, 2019
Bad Dream 19 -- (Out of Sequence) 1/3/19
In my dream, I am attending some kind of retreat. For reasons that the dream doesn't make clear, I find myself in some need of a nice, collared shirt. The phrase that comes to mind is "Just in case." I have plenty of clean T-shirts available, but the potential need for a shirt with a collar moves me to action.
The scene shifts and I am now driving around in a car looking for an appropriate shirt with 2 friends from the retreat. Look as hard as we may, we can't find the right kind of store in which to look for that shirt.
We wind up at a nautical-themed clothing store, which is located by a large body of water. (Clearly, the clothes selection is made with the boaters in mind.) This may be Wilson Point...
It's the wrong season to look for a short-sleeved shirt that's nice enough to suffice for my potential requirement, and it looks like I'm out of luck. I leave the store and am walking down the dock when I spot a rowing shell -- not unlike mine, but a good deal snazzier. It's tan in color with a very pointed bow.
I find myself back in the store, fingering through a stack of collared shirts that may be okay for my needs. I turn over one more shirt and see one that is absolutely perfect. I pick it up out of the stack.
As I look around the store (to find the cashier's location so I can pay for my shirt, quite possibly), I spot an old fire engine and some similar vehicles, which seem to be there to add to the decor. I find the cashier's area and place the shirt on the counter in preparation for paying for it.
(At the end of my notes for this dream, I've written that I didn't want to tell my friends what it was I was looking for. I don't quite know where that fits into the dream sequence.)
The scene shifts and I am now driving around in a car looking for an appropriate shirt with 2 friends from the retreat. Look as hard as we may, we can't find the right kind of store in which to look for that shirt.
We wind up at a nautical-themed clothing store, which is located by a large body of water. (Clearly, the clothes selection is made with the boaters in mind.) This may be Wilson Point...
It's the wrong season to look for a short-sleeved shirt that's nice enough to suffice for my potential requirement, and it looks like I'm out of luck. I leave the store and am walking down the dock when I spot a rowing shell -- not unlike mine, but a good deal snazzier. It's tan in color with a very pointed bow.
I find myself back in the store, fingering through a stack of collared shirts that may be okay for my needs. I turn over one more shirt and see one that is absolutely perfect. I pick it up out of the stack.
As I look around the store (to find the cashier's location so I can pay for my shirt, quite possibly), I spot an old fire engine and some similar vehicles, which seem to be there to add to the decor. I find the cashier's area and place the shirt on the counter in preparation for paying for it.
(At the end of my notes for this dream, I've written that I didn't want to tell my friends what it was I was looking for. I don't quite know where that fits into the dream sequence.)
Saturday, January 12, 2019
I'm Singing!
It just occurred to me this morning that, for no particular reason and at no particular time, I've been singing recently. And I don't mind that much if other people hear me. I've got a decent voice...
The Good Old Songs:
-- "Yes Sir, That's My Baby"
-- "Sunny Side of the Street"
-- "Side By Side"
and the like.
That's new. I just feel like it.
The Good Old Songs:
-- "Yes Sir, That's My Baby"
-- "Sunny Side of the Street"
-- "Side By Side"
and the like.
That's new. I just feel like it.
Friday, January 11, 2019
Bad Dreams 18 -- Morning of 1/11/19
In my dream, I'm standing outside. There are trees around me and I'm standing next to a dirt road. I think there may be a few buildings around me, but they don't get involved much in the "action" of my dream. The weather is warm but not hot. It's a perfect time of day on a perfect day.
I'm standing fairly close to a "boat" that's on some kind of trailer. In retrospect, it's a terrible construction. It's made of tree limbs lashed together. The limbs are in the range of several inches in diameter. The bark's still on the limbs and the limbs themselves are anything but straight. The limbs actually form the outline of a hull with large spaces between adjacent lashed-together pieces of wood. In retrospect, it might barely float but certainly wouldn't perform as a working boat.
I have the feeling that I've just escaped from jail. I'm not worried about being captured and sent back to jail, I just feel as if I've been recently freed. And I'm grateful and feeling wonderful about things.
There are several other people about my age (late teens/early twenties) and we're all examining the "boat" with great admiration and enthusiasm. I'm wondering if I will be allowed to join the crew when the boat's placed in the water. I definitely want to be in that!
We consider the boat to be a catamaran, even though, in retrospect, it is shaped (if you can even call it "shaped") like a scow. There is a vertical assembly of tree limbs which were meant to be the mast. It's nowhere near tall enough to function that way, and nothing visible on it to suggest that you could bend a sail onto it.
The feeling of joint admiration and enthusiasm for the boat is palpable. We all bask in our imagined thoughts of how fast the boat would/will go when placed in navigable water.
I'm standing fairly close to a "boat" that's on some kind of trailer. In retrospect, it's a terrible construction. It's made of tree limbs lashed together. The limbs are in the range of several inches in diameter. The bark's still on the limbs and the limbs themselves are anything but straight. The limbs actually form the outline of a hull with large spaces between adjacent lashed-together pieces of wood. In retrospect, it might barely float but certainly wouldn't perform as a working boat.
I have the feeling that I've just escaped from jail. I'm not worried about being captured and sent back to jail, I just feel as if I've been recently freed. And I'm grateful and feeling wonderful about things.
There are several other people about my age (late teens/early twenties) and we're all examining the "boat" with great admiration and enthusiasm. I'm wondering if I will be allowed to join the crew when the boat's placed in the water. I definitely want to be in that!
We consider the boat to be a catamaran, even though, in retrospect, it is shaped (if you can even call it "shaped") like a scow. There is a vertical assembly of tree limbs which were meant to be the mast. It's nowhere near tall enough to function that way, and nothing visible on it to suggest that you could bend a sail onto it.
The feeling of joint admiration and enthusiasm for the boat is palpable. We all bask in our imagined thoughts of how fast the boat would/will go when placed in navigable water.
Bad Dreams 17 -- Morning of 01/08/19
(I couldn't get myself out of bed and holding onto a pen and piece of paper until this dream was drifting away. I'm sorry because there was considerable detail -- and two of my favorite people showed up in it.)
In my dream, Deb, Martha, and I are in a large corporate-style building in the Boston area. We're walking around; corridor after corridor; hallway after hallway but we don't seem to be getting anywhere in particular. I certainly don't know where we're headed, but the two of them seem to be walking with confidence that we're headed... somewhere. The terrazzo floor is polished to a gleaming surface and there's plenty of light pouring through large windows looking in on these hallways.
I know we have an appointment of some type in southern Massachusetts, and I have a general idea as to where we need to get to. I don't know how we're going to get there. It's much too far to walk. We might rent a car, we might take a plane -- I just don't know. But Martha and Deb are not concerned.
We keep walking.
In my dream, Deb, Martha, and I are in a large corporate-style building in the Boston area. We're walking around; corridor after corridor; hallway after hallway but we don't seem to be getting anywhere in particular. I certainly don't know where we're headed, but the two of them seem to be walking with confidence that we're headed... somewhere. The terrazzo floor is polished to a gleaming surface and there's plenty of light pouring through large windows looking in on these hallways.
I know we have an appointment of some type in southern Massachusetts, and I have a general idea as to where we need to get to. I don't know how we're going to get there. It's much too far to walk. We might rent a car, we might take a plane -- I just don't know. But Martha and Deb are not concerned.
We keep walking.
Thursday, January 10, 2019
Bad Dreams 16 -- Morning of 1/7/19 (approx.)
In my dream, I am a student in a classroom. I'm an adult, as are the other students. I know I was an astronaut who has been to the Moon, but this information is not known by my fellow students.
We're having an exam. And I'm totally unprepared to take the test. I look at the questions and realize that I may not be able to fill in any of the answers. My fellow students are scribbling away madly. Obviously they're well prepared for this exam. Everyone but me.
Oddly/ironically, the test has to do with the Moon -- and it's clear from reading the questions that the questions are the wrong ones. They clearly imply things about the Moon that are either irrelevant of just plain wrong. (e.g., "What kind of cheese is the Moon made of?" That's not one of the questions, but it shows how the question can be wrong to start with. And so the answers are meaningless.)
Having been prepared for my trip to the Moon and having executed the plan to go to the Moon and return safely, I know I could have written the test myself -- with questions that actually made sense, given the true nature of the Moon.
I know that doing well on the test is extremely important (for reasons that don't appear in the dream) and I feel caught in a logical nightmare: I can't jolly well tell folks that their test questions are nonsense, and (for reasons that aren't clear to me) I can't divulge the fact that I've been there and back. I don't think anyone would believe me in any case.
I decide that I have to put down something on paper. I've got nothing to lose. The answers (for me, in any case) are not to be written down in that ubiquitous little "blue book" you may recall, but are to be written down on a "ticket" -- a smallish piece of oblong paper that's already covered with numbers and letters. I start to write out my first answer, and realize to my horror that I'm writing in the wrong direction as far as the ticket shape. I can't erase the numbers and am now in pretty desperate need of a new ticket, but realize the chances of getting one are slim to none.
Some of my classmates see my predicament and try to help. I know that if we move from our seats that we're in trouble -- both others trying to help and me, who needs the help.
The teacher stops by: "Is there a problem?" Everyone is afraid to answer.
Bottom line: no one in the classroom knows what really happened going to the Moon, while on the Moon, returning from the Moon. No one but me.
I know I will fail this test utterly.
We're having an exam. And I'm totally unprepared to take the test. I look at the questions and realize that I may not be able to fill in any of the answers. My fellow students are scribbling away madly. Obviously they're well prepared for this exam. Everyone but me.
Oddly/ironically, the test has to do with the Moon -- and it's clear from reading the questions that the questions are the wrong ones. They clearly imply things about the Moon that are either irrelevant of just plain wrong. (e.g., "What kind of cheese is the Moon made of?" That's not one of the questions, but it shows how the question can be wrong to start with. And so the answers are meaningless.)
Having been prepared for my trip to the Moon and having executed the plan to go to the Moon and return safely, I know I could have written the test myself -- with questions that actually made sense, given the true nature of the Moon.
I know that doing well on the test is extremely important (for reasons that don't appear in the dream) and I feel caught in a logical nightmare: I can't jolly well tell folks that their test questions are nonsense, and (for reasons that aren't clear to me) I can't divulge the fact that I've been there and back. I don't think anyone would believe me in any case.
I decide that I have to put down something on paper. I've got nothing to lose. The answers (for me, in any case) are not to be written down in that ubiquitous little "blue book" you may recall, but are to be written down on a "ticket" -- a smallish piece of oblong paper that's already covered with numbers and letters. I start to write out my first answer, and realize to my horror that I'm writing in the wrong direction as far as the ticket shape. I can't erase the numbers and am now in pretty desperate need of a new ticket, but realize the chances of getting one are slim to none.
Some of my classmates see my predicament and try to help. I know that if we move from our seats that we're in trouble -- both others trying to help and me, who needs the help.
The teacher stops by: "Is there a problem?" Everyone is afraid to answer.
Bottom line: no one in the classroom knows what really happened going to the Moon, while on the Moon, returning from the Moon. No one but me.
I know I will fail this test utterly.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
Who was Jesus for me back then?
When I'm lying in bed, I can look over to my bedside table and see the face of my alarm clock/radio. The face is lit even when the radio is not playing, which is quite convenient for finding out the time without moving a muscle -- except for my eyelids.
Hanging in a direct line between my eyes and the clock face is a cross. It's rather small and it's suspended on a chain, which just happens to place the cross directly in line with the clock face. Depending on the exact position of my face on the pillow, I sometimes have to think about the parts of the numbers on the clock that are obscured by the cross in order to determine the time. (As in "Is that the left-hand part of a six or is that the left-hand part of a zero?")
I could easily relocate the cross just a bit so that it never obscures any part of the clock face. But I never do it. I'm not sure why, but I feel a tug that tells me I shouldn't move the cross. Or the clock.
I purchased the cross and chain many years ago. I don't remember dates -- but I remember that I showed the cross to Renee Crauder during one of the 8-day retreats that I shared with her. So that puts the cross acquisition time back something like 25 or 30 years.
Anyway, this morning (1/3/19), I started thinking about what that cross meant to me back when I purchased it. It was something of a commitment that I felt to... well, I guess to Jesus. And I started thinking about how my understanding and/or commitment and/or feelings and/or whatever about me and Jesus have changed.
What I recall from back then was feeling that Jesus and I could be good friends. I could talk to him about most anything, and he would respond. Somehow. And that Jesus protected me from harm. All sorts of harm. And I was grateful. And this relationship -- as I recall it -- had little or nothing to do with The Trinity or Jesus' divinity or status as deity.
And it then occurred to me that this relationship predated my (fixation?) with the Tao Teh Ching. And a primary facet of that (fixation?) is that it simplifies my relationship to the Universe. And it removes the problem of "If Christianity is The Way of All Truth -- which some folks would have us to believe -- why did God create and allow to prosper these billions of folks who have no connection to the Judeo-Christian God whatsoever? And is it our responsibility to rescue these billions of people from their current religion and offer them our Absolute Truth?" Yes, the Old Problem for Randy. But I see now that this relationship I felt with Jesus may have been a casualty of this (fixation?).
So, is that nagging question -- that Old Problem -- the cause of my movement away from the buddy/buddy relationship I felt I had with Jesus?
I don't know. But I feel I may be on the path to understanding. Something. Can I find my way back? Can I wear the cross again? Without feeling like a hypocrite or a brainwashed non-thinker?
I don't know.
But dammit, am I the only person I know who has to wrestle with this question? I mean, it's all pretty obvious -- the issue, that is -- isn't it?
Hanging in a direct line between my eyes and the clock face is a cross. It's rather small and it's suspended on a chain, which just happens to place the cross directly in line with the clock face. Depending on the exact position of my face on the pillow, I sometimes have to think about the parts of the numbers on the clock that are obscured by the cross in order to determine the time. (As in "Is that the left-hand part of a six or is that the left-hand part of a zero?")
I could easily relocate the cross just a bit so that it never obscures any part of the clock face. But I never do it. I'm not sure why, but I feel a tug that tells me I shouldn't move the cross. Or the clock.
I purchased the cross and chain many years ago. I don't remember dates -- but I remember that I showed the cross to Renee Crauder during one of the 8-day retreats that I shared with her. So that puts the cross acquisition time back something like 25 or 30 years.
Anyway, this morning (1/3/19), I started thinking about what that cross meant to me back when I purchased it. It was something of a commitment that I felt to... well, I guess to Jesus. And I started thinking about how my understanding and/or commitment and/or feelings and/or whatever about me and Jesus have changed.
What I recall from back then was feeling that Jesus and I could be good friends. I could talk to him about most anything, and he would respond. Somehow. And that Jesus protected me from harm. All sorts of harm. And I was grateful. And this relationship -- as I recall it -- had little or nothing to do with The Trinity or Jesus' divinity or status as deity.
And it then occurred to me that this relationship predated my (fixation?) with the Tao Teh Ching. And a primary facet of that (fixation?) is that it simplifies my relationship to the Universe. And it removes the problem of "If Christianity is The Way of All Truth -- which some folks would have us to believe -- why did God create and allow to prosper these billions of folks who have no connection to the Judeo-Christian God whatsoever? And is it our responsibility to rescue these billions of people from their current religion and offer them our Absolute Truth?" Yes, the Old Problem for Randy. But I see now that this relationship I felt with Jesus may have been a casualty of this (fixation?).
So, is that nagging question -- that Old Problem -- the cause of my movement away from the buddy/buddy relationship I felt I had with Jesus?
I don't know. But I feel I may be on the path to understanding. Something. Can I find my way back? Can I wear the cross again? Without feeling like a hypocrite or a brainwashed non-thinker?
I don't know.
But dammit, am I the only person I know who has to wrestle with this question? I mean, it's all pretty obvious -- the issue, that is -- isn't it?
Bad Dreams 15 -- Morning of 12/30/18
In my dream, I am standing in a small country store. It has a few groceries, notions, over-the-counter medications, and the like. I want to buy a ballpoint pen. That's all I need, but I need one pretty badly.
I don't see any for sale on any of the shelves. The store proprietor lady looks worried and apologetic. She seems to know that it's perfectly reasonable to expect to find a pen in a store like hers. And she knows she doesn't have one.
I think about asking to borrow a personal pen from her, but am reluctant to do so. In part because I want a pen that I can take out of the store to use later and elsewhere and in part because I feel it will be embarrassing to her for me to ask.
I notice there is a considerable section of stuff for sale that is Penn State University memorabilia: hats, banners, plates, and so forth. And for a moment I'm enthusiastic about this, since certainly such a display will have a PSU ballpoint pen. But as I look through the display, there are no pens to be had.
I feel bad for the lady. And I'm sorry I'm making her feel bad. There are other people in the room, but no one offers me a pen.
I recall that I had the same predicament recently, but managed to find a pen. So I re-double my search efforts buoyed by this recollection. Still no luck.
By now, I think it's absolutely vital that I find a pen.
I notice a remarkable "toy" on one of the top shelves. It sits still, but launches an endless stream of luminous disks in a straight line moving away from the toy itself. A 1950's version of flying saucers. As the disks move away, they grow fainter until they disappear completely. This disappearing act takes about 4 or 5 feet to complete the vanishing act. I place my hand in the path of the disks and intercept a couple of them. It doesn't hurt my hand, but I look down into my hand to see fragments of the disks.
The "toy" continues to launch the disks.
I don't see any for sale on any of the shelves. The store proprietor lady looks worried and apologetic. She seems to know that it's perfectly reasonable to expect to find a pen in a store like hers. And she knows she doesn't have one.
I think about asking to borrow a personal pen from her, but am reluctant to do so. In part because I want a pen that I can take out of the store to use later and elsewhere and in part because I feel it will be embarrassing to her for me to ask.
I notice there is a considerable section of stuff for sale that is Penn State University memorabilia: hats, banners, plates, and so forth. And for a moment I'm enthusiastic about this, since certainly such a display will have a PSU ballpoint pen. But as I look through the display, there are no pens to be had.
I feel bad for the lady. And I'm sorry I'm making her feel bad. There are other people in the room, but no one offers me a pen.
I recall that I had the same predicament recently, but managed to find a pen. So I re-double my search efforts buoyed by this recollection. Still no luck.
By now, I think it's absolutely vital that I find a pen.
I notice a remarkable "toy" on one of the top shelves. It sits still, but launches an endless stream of luminous disks in a straight line moving away from the toy itself. A 1950's version of flying saucers. As the disks move away, they grow fainter until they disappear completely. This disappearing act takes about 4 or 5 feet to complete the vanishing act. I place my hand in the path of the disks and intercept a couple of them. It doesn't hurt my hand, but I look down into my hand to see fragments of the disks.
The "toy" continues to launch the disks.
Bad Dreams 14 -- Morning of 11/29/18
These two images were, I felt, part of a larger dream sequence. But I couldn't remember any of that sequence. I recall that each of the two images were repeated several times, so that makes it sound important. Here are the two images I recall:
Image 1: I am standing in front of a "blackboard." It's actually one of those green metallic boards like we used back in college, but as you know, they're still called "blackboards." By me, anyway... But I digress.
I am standing in front of a blackboard and my assignment is to draw -- or help draw -- a horizontal line across the board from one side to the other. I am thinking about screw eyes to hold a piece of string in place, but really don't want to start making holes in the board, the frame, or the wall. I consider masking tape to hold the string in place, but that doesn't sound like a firm way to keep the string from pulling loose. And I'm not sure whether the string itself is supposed to be The Line or whether it's simply the guide for the installation of the real line. And although there are several people around me looking at the board, I don't think any of them are any better acquainted with the project than I am. So I don't ask anybody for help. Even though I can't proceed with the project as it is.
Image 2:
I am standing on a hill in the countryside. I look down on fenced-in squares of lush grass and have the idea that these squares are for horses to feed. This would explain the "avenues" separating the squares. The avenues would be to get the horses from one area to another without passing through the squares themselves. Everything seems to be in excellent shape. The fences are painted crisply with white and they show up wonderfully well against the green of the grass.
Image 1: I am standing in front of a "blackboard." It's actually one of those green metallic boards like we used back in college, but as you know, they're still called "blackboards." By me, anyway... But I digress.
I am standing in front of a blackboard and my assignment is to draw -- or help draw -- a horizontal line across the board from one side to the other. I am thinking about screw eyes to hold a piece of string in place, but really don't want to start making holes in the board, the frame, or the wall. I consider masking tape to hold the string in place, but that doesn't sound like a firm way to keep the string from pulling loose. And I'm not sure whether the string itself is supposed to be The Line or whether it's simply the guide for the installation of the real line. And although there are several people around me looking at the board, I don't think any of them are any better acquainted with the project than I am. So I don't ask anybody for help. Even though I can't proceed with the project as it is.
Image 2:
I am standing on a hill in the countryside. I look down on fenced-in squares of lush grass and have the idea that these squares are for horses to feed. This would explain the "avenues" separating the squares. The avenues would be to get the horses from one area to another without passing through the squares themselves. Everything seems to be in excellent shape. The fences are painted crisply with white and they show up wonderfully well against the green of the grass.
What are the odds?
I have three dreams (i.e., mis-named as "Bad Dreams) in notes that I haven't added to this blog, but two things happened yesterday that I need to enter here or I'm afraid they would dissipate forever:
Yesterday was January 1, which means that I had my NYD gig at the Independence Foundation in Center City Philadelphia.
THING 1
I had pulled together half my "costume" the night before (that it, red pants, red shoes, red socks, gold vest) but didn't retrieve my dark green T-shirt -- knowing that it would be buried near the bottom of either the T-shirt drawer or, more likely, the bottom drawer.
So that morning, I went to get the shirt. I checked the bottom drawer first and was a bit surprised that it wasn't there. And realized that if it wasn't find-able in the upper drawer, I would have to figure out something else. Hmmm...
So I opened up the top drawer, and found the dark green T-shirt at the very top of the pile of shirts in the middle of the drawer. Now, there are 20 or so shirts in that drawer -- possibly lots more, I haven't counted them. But may do so at some future date just to satisfy my curiosity. But I simply don't wear that shirt hardly ever. And I can't think of any reason why it should be where it was.
But it saved me several minutes in my frantic effort to get ready to go.
And it gave me pause to wonder...
THING 2
When I got to 30th St. Station and parked the car, I decided to take along my Canon Powershot camera to see what was worth photographing. When I got to the main concourse, I took a couple of shots of the big clickety-clackety board announcing train times and gate locations. (It's an endangered species at the moment. Spare parts, maintenance procedures, etc.)
After two shots the camera refused to take any more. I fussed with the mode of control, shutter speed, etc. but the refusal stayed. I finally figured out that the SD module was full. And I had been clever enough to bring a spare with me, but it was located in the trunk of the car. Which was an easy walk to retrieve. And put the camera back in working order.
Now, if the camera had an extra 5 or 10 exposures available, the disk would have filled when I was 10 or 12 blocks away from the car and running too late to return to retrieve the module. And the chances of any store having such things for sale was practically zero. After all, it was New Years Day.
So as it was, I had the chance to photograph the Super Bowl ring and dozens of Mummers.
The SD module, BTW, had capacity for hundreds of photos, and I think I've replaced it once since I bought the camera years ago.
Is somebody Out There trying to get my attention?
Yesterday was January 1, which means that I had my NYD gig at the Independence Foundation in Center City Philadelphia.
THING 1
I had pulled together half my "costume" the night before (that it, red pants, red shoes, red socks, gold vest) but didn't retrieve my dark green T-shirt -- knowing that it would be buried near the bottom of either the T-shirt drawer or, more likely, the bottom drawer.
So that morning, I went to get the shirt. I checked the bottom drawer first and was a bit surprised that it wasn't there. And realized that if it wasn't find-able in the upper drawer, I would have to figure out something else. Hmmm...
So I opened up the top drawer, and found the dark green T-shirt at the very top of the pile of shirts in the middle of the drawer. Now, there are 20 or so shirts in that drawer -- possibly lots more, I haven't counted them. But may do so at some future date just to satisfy my curiosity. But I simply don't wear that shirt hardly ever. And I can't think of any reason why it should be where it was.
But it saved me several minutes in my frantic effort to get ready to go.
And it gave me pause to wonder...
THING 2
When I got to 30th St. Station and parked the car, I decided to take along my Canon Powershot camera to see what was worth photographing. When I got to the main concourse, I took a couple of shots of the big clickety-clackety board announcing train times and gate locations. (It's an endangered species at the moment. Spare parts, maintenance procedures, etc.)
After two shots the camera refused to take any more. I fussed with the mode of control, shutter speed, etc. but the refusal stayed. I finally figured out that the SD module was full. And I had been clever enough to bring a spare with me, but it was located in the trunk of the car. Which was an easy walk to retrieve. And put the camera back in working order.
Now, if the camera had an extra 5 or 10 exposures available, the disk would have filled when I was 10 or 12 blocks away from the car and running too late to return to retrieve the module. And the chances of any store having such things for sale was practically zero. After all, it was New Years Day.
So as it was, I had the chance to photograph the Super Bowl ring and dozens of Mummers.
The SD module, BTW, had capacity for hundreds of photos, and I think I've replaced it once since I bought the camera years ago.
Is somebody Out There trying to get my attention?
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