Section Nine: Dreams and Other Visions — Consolidation Analysis

This document is an extreme case of iterative drafting left unresolved—the same material appears to have been rewritten at least four times (as standalone Chapters 33-37, then again as Chapters 1-4/23, then again as Chapter 100/147, plus scattered raw fragments), with each pass never removing its predecessor. Below is a chapter-by-chapter recommendation, followed by a proposed consolidated structure.

Redundancy Map

The Introduction (“Is Life But a Dream?”) is unique material — it doesn’t repeat elsewhere. Keep as-is.

Chapter 34 (“Spiritually Significant Dream Categories: Ten Dream Pathways”) appears in at least four forms: the original numbered list of 10,

“Chapter 2: The Typology of the Ethereal” (an expanded, more literary rewrite), “Chapter 9/9-41” style fragments, and the raw list embedded in

“Chapter 100” and

“Chapter 147.”

Chapter 147 is notable because it adds an 11th category (“Farewell and Divergence Dreams”) not present elsewhere.

Decision: Discard the short Chapter 34 list and the Chapter 100 duplicate.

Chapter 36 also exists as two different chapters under one number: “The Cup, the Map, and the Inner Electric” (Matthew Fox dream, Marty Crouch dream) and “A Tapestry of Nocturnal Visions” (a summary retelling of Bob Fero, Di Di, the ring, and Grandfather Great Spirit — all of which are told in far greater detail in the raw “Chapter 147” narrative section).
Decision:

Keep “The Cup, the Map, and the Inner Electric” in full — unique material.

Chapters 38, 100, and the “Radical Empathy Dreams” fragment are all the same short essay on radical empathy dreams, repeated three times almost verbatim, with one copy garbled by a mid-paste of raw lucid-dreaming research notes (the Demirel/Popular Mechanics citations).
Decision: Keep one clean version of the radical empathy essay, and merge the lucid-dreaming neuroscience research (Demirel study, beta waves, psychedelic comparison) into the lucid dreaming discussion in the categories chapter (Chapter 2), where it belongs thematically instead of orphaned in an empathy essay.

The raw “Chapter 147” dream chronicle (individually dated dreams: 1964 Priest, 1978 Bob Fero, 1987 Bobby Clements, 1988 Di Di, 1988 Ring, 1988 Randy Olson, 1992 Grandfather, 2016 June Thomas, 2017 Cup and Map, 2018 Marty Crouch, 2018 Villoldo, 2022 Grandfather Return) is the most complete, well-organized, and clearly-written version of nearly every personal dream story in the entire document. It should become the backbone of the section’s narrative chapters.

Decision: Keep in full as the primary source chapter. This means many other chapters (the raw, undated versions of the Bob Fero dream, the Di Di dream, the ring dream, the Randy Olson dream, the Grandfather dream, the June Thomas dream, the Cup and Map dream, and the Marty Crouch dream scattered earlier in the document) become redundant and should be discarded, since Chapter 147 tells each with more precision, date-stamping, and narrative clarity.

Material to Transfer

Material to Cut Entirely

• The toxic masculinity essay embedded in Chapter 37 (off-topic, off-tone insert)
• The short numbered-list version of the ten dream categories (superseded by Chapter 2’s prose version)
• The raw/undated versions of dreams that reappear, better told, in the Chapter 147 chronicle
• Two of the three duplicate radical empathy essays

Recommended Final Structure

1. Introduction — Is Life But a Dream?
2. Chapter One: The Nocturnal Nexus and the Mystical Intersection.
3. Chapter Two — The Typology of the Ethereal (using “Chapter 2,” plus the added 11th category and folded-in lucid dreaming research)
4. Chapter Three — Radical Empathy Dreams and the Dissolution of the Ego (one clean merged version)
5. Chapter Four — Embracing a Distant Past: The Shaman and the Wounded Leader
6. Chapter Five — The Power of Then: Reclaiming Disassociated Parts of the Self
7. Chapter Six — Projection and Perception: Finding Truth in the Mirror of Reality (the split-out Piaget/forgiveness essay)
8. Chapter Seven — The Cup, the Map, and the Inner Electric
9. Chapter Eight — The Dream Chronicle: A Personal Testament (the full “Chapter 147” dated narrative sequence, serving as the section’s closing centerpiece)

Introduction:  Is Life But a Dream? Exploring the Waking and Sleeping Mind

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—life is but a dream.”

These words, deceptively simple in their rhyme and rhythm, have echoed through generations of childhood classrooms and lullaby-soaked bedrooms since their earliest known printing in 1852. Yet lurking beneath their lilting cadence is a philosophical proposition so profound that it has captivated scientists, mystics, and philosophers alike: What if life itself is a dream?

The closer we draw to the meaning of this ancient question, the more we begin to suspect that the boundary between waking and sleeping is not a wall, but a veil—thin, permeable, and perhaps illusory. Most of us assume that once we shake off the fog of sleep and open our eyes to the morning light, the dreaming is behind us. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The Architecture of the Dreaming Mind

To understand why life might be “but a dream,” we must first understand what a dream actually is—not merely as poetry, but as a neurobiological event.

During Rapid Eye Movement (REM) sleep, the brain does not power down. Rather, it ignites. The limbic system—the brain’s emotional core, housing structures such as the amygdala and hippocampus—surges with activity. Meanwhile, the prefrontal cortex, that seat of rational thought, moral reasoning, and executive function, goes largely offline. The result is a mental theater in which emotion runs freely, unchecked by logic or cultural conditioning. Images cascade. Narratives form without the scaffolding of reason. We fly, we fall, we encounter the dead as though they never left.

Dream researchers have long noted that this prefrontal suppression is not incidental—it is definitional to the sleeping dream state. Without the neo-cortex standing guard, the mind is liberated from its usual filters. We do not overthink. We do not moralize. We do not ask whether what we are experiencing is real. We simply experience.

This is in striking contrast to the waking state, where most humans engage the prefrontal cortex as both author and censor of their inner world. Waking perception is regulated—by cultural norms, religious frameworks, familial conditioning, and social expectation. The waking dream, if we dare call it that, is a far more tightly edited production.

And yet—it is still a production.

The Waking Dream: Projection Upon the Screen of the Senses

Throughout this book, we have been tracing the contours of a great trap: the trap that knowledge sets for the unwary traveler. Knowledge, we propose, is made of the same fundamental mind-stuff as dream imagery. The difference is not one of substance, but of consensus. Knowledge has been collectively ratified. It has been repeated, agreed upon, codified in language and law, passed from one generation to the next through the rituals of schooling, religion, and culture. We call it fact because enough of us have agreed to call it so.

Dreams, by contrast, use imagery and experience that resist collective validation. When you dream of a crimson door in a labyrinthine house, no one else can confirm it. When you dream of your grandmother sitting in her favorite chair, smiling as though she never died, there is no external tribunal to affirm or deny its reality. The dream remains yours—private, unshared, unverified.

But consider, for a moment, what happens in the waking state.

When we open our eyes, we do not perceive reality directly. We perceive a model of reality—one constructed by the brain from billions of sensory inputs, filtered through the lens of memory, belief, and expectation. Neuroscientist Anil Seth has described this process as “controlled hallucination.” The brain, he argues, is constantly generating predictions about the world and revising them against incoming sensory data. Perception, therefore, is not passive reception. It is active construction.

In this light, the waking world is not so different from the dream world. Both are projections of the mind upon the screen of experience. When we walk into a room and feel that someone dislikes us, when we encounter a stranger and immediately construct a narrative about who they are—these are acts of dreaming in the waking state. We are projecting our inner world outward, and then mistaking the projection for truth.

The mystic traditions of the East have long named this phenomenon. In Advaita Vedanta, the waking world is described as maya—illusion, or more precisely, a superimposition of the mind’s categories upon the undifferentiated fabric of consciousness. The Tibetan Buddhist teachings on the dream state propose that the bardo of waking life and the bardo of sleep are not categorically different: both are expressions of mind perceiving its own reflection.

Ultimately, on both levels—asleep and awake—all that we see, and will ever see unto eternity, is ourselves.

Carl Jung, Freud, and the Archetypal Grammar of Dreams

If the sleeping dream is a private projection, it is nonetheless a projection that speaks a shared language. Sigmund Freud was among the first to formalize this insight, proposing in The Interpretation of Dreams (1899) that the imagery of the sleeping mind was not random noise, but coded communication—symbols through which the unconscious expressed desires, fears, and conflicts that the waking ego could not safely acknowledge.

Carl Jung extended this framework considerably. For Jung, the unconscious was not merely personal—it was collective. Beneath the layer of our individual memories and repressions lay a vast, transpersonal reservoir of symbols, characters, and narratives shared by all of humanity across time and culture. He called these the archetypes: the Shadow, the Anima and Animus, the Wise Old Man, the Great Mother, the Hero. These figures, he observed, appeared not only in the dreams of his patients, but in the myths, fairy tales, and religious traditions of cultures that had never made contact with one another.

This means that even in the most private theater of the sleeping dream, we are not entirely alone. The imagery that rises up from the depths carries the watermark of the collective human story. Our dreams are personal, yes—but they are also ancient. When you dream of a serpent, you dream with every human being who has ever dreamed of a serpent. When you dream of a descent into darkness followed by a return to light, you are tracing the same mythological arc as Orpheus, as Persephone, as the Christ narrative of death and resurrection.

So even in our dream world, there exists a collective and historical influence upon our dreaming—just as in our waking perceptual world, where cultural, religious, and familial conditioning shapes the very way we see.

Similarities and Differences: A Neurobiological and Philosophical Comparison

When we place the sleeping dream and the waking dream side by side, several illuminating parallels emerge—alongside equally revealing contrasts.

What they share:

Both states involve the brain constructing a model of reality rather than perceiving it directly. Both are shaped by emotion, memory, and prior experience. Both can carry profound meaning. Both can deceive us. In both states, we are capable of remarkable creativity—it is no accident that artists and scientists alike have credited dreams (sleeping and waking) as sources of breakthrough insight. Dmitri Mendeleev claimed to have seen the periodic table in a dream. Paul McCartney famously heard the melody of Yesterday upon waking. The line between inspired waking thought and dream imagery is, in many cases, vanishingly thin.

Where they diverge:

The neurobiological differences are significant. In the sleeping dream, the prefrontal cortex’s diminished activity produces what researchers call “hypnagogic credulity”—the uncritical acceptance of whatever the dreaming mind presents. We do not question the logic of impossible events. The dragon does not puzzle us. The room that shifts and expands does not prompt rational inquiry.

In the waking state, prefrontal engagement restores what might be called the editorial function. We question, we analyze, we compare incoming experience against the accumulated archive of what we know to be true. We are less credulous—or so we believe.

And yet, here is the paradox: the beliefs through which the waking mind filters experience are themselves inherited dreams—collective narratives absorbed from family, culture, and history. The person who believes they are unworthy of love is not perceiving a fact; they are dreaming a wound. The culture that believes its superiority is destined is not reading the universe; it is projecting a story onto it. The waking mind, for all its prefrontal vigilance, remains in large part asleep to its own dreaming.

This is the great teaching that the old nursery rhyme, in its gentle wisdom, has always carried. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily”—an insistence on joy in the face of the unknown. And then the revelation: “Life is but a dream.”

When the Dream Bleeds Into the World: The Consequences of Dreaming Upon Others

There is a dimension of the dream that we have not yet fully reckoned with—one that moves the inquiry from the private theater of individual consciousness into the shared world we inhabit together. Dreams, it turns out, do not stay neatly inside the dreamer. They spill outward. They press upon the lives of those who dwell nearby. And the consequences of that spillage range from the tender to the catastrophic.

Consider the simplest case: a man is gripped by a nightmare. His body jerks. He cries out in the dark. His breath becomes ragged and shallow. And there, beside him, his wife wakes. Not because she has dreamed anything—but because the tremors of his private terror have crossed the invisible boundary between their two sleeping selves and found her. She reaches out. She places her hand upon his shoulder. She speaks his name, softly at first, then with greater urgency, until the dream releases him and he surfaces, blinking and disoriented, back into a room she has been holding steady on his behalf.

This small nocturnal drama contains, in miniature, one of the most profound truths about the nature of dreaming: we are never entirely alone within it. The sleeping dream, for all its apparent privacy, is porous. It broadcasts. The one who dreams does not merely observe a vision—they become the vision, and in becoming it, they emit it into the relational field.

The mystic traditions intuited this long before neuroscience could confirm it. In certain shamanic lineages, the dreams of powerful individuals—elders, healers, warriors—were understood to have consequences for the entire community. A shaman’s visionary descent was not regarded as a personal adventure; it was a communal undertaking, with attendants who sat watch through the night, holding the thread of ordinary reality so that the traveler might find their way back.

But what of the dreamer who does not find their way back?

Here, the inquiry grows darker, and considerably more urgent.

If the sleeping nightmare can press through the membrane of sleep and touch the one who lies beside us, what does the waking nightmare do—and to whom? The waking dreamer, unlike the sleeper, is mobile. He has agency. He possesses not only the imagery of his fear, but the tools of the world in which that fear is being enacted. He does not merely cry out in the dark. He acts.

There is a man—let us imagine him, though we do not have to look far to find him—who has constructed, from the raw material of his private wounds, an inner world in which he is perpetually besieged. The characters who populate his waking dream are threatening: the stranger on the street whose gaze lingers too long, the government that is engineering his ruin, the neighbor whose intentions seem sinister. These figures are not entirely real in the way the wife standing in the kitchen is real. They are projections—elaborations upon a theme of terror that has been rehearsed so long it has become indistinguishable from perception. He is not seeing the world. He is dreaming it.

And then—because the waking dream differs from the sleeping dream in one crucial, catastrophic respect—he reaches for a gun.

In that gesture, the private theater of one man’s inner life has erupted into the shared world with irreversible consequence. The dream has killed. The projection has taken a life. And the dreamer, by every neurological and psychological account available to us, was not lying when he said he was afraid. The fear was real. The threat, however, was a construction—a shadow on the wall of the cave, mistaken for a predator.

This is not merely a problem of individual pathology. It is a civilizational problem. History is littered with the wreckage of collective waking nightmares: genocides born of the dream that a people constitutes a contamination; wars ignited by the hallucination of existential threat; witch trials, inquisitions, and pogroms—all of them the acting-out of a dream that had been collectively ratified, legislated, and armed.

Herein lies the unsettling asymmetry between the sleeping dream and the waking one. When the sleeper writhes in his nightmare, there is usually someone who can reach across and wake him. The relationship between dreamer and witness is intimate, immediate, and fundamentally oriented toward the dreamer’s relief. The wife does not debate whether the nightmare is real. She simply reaches out.

But who wakes the waking dreamer?

This question is among the most pressing of our age. The man in the grip of a waking nightmare does not know he is dreaming. This is the nature of the condition—the very quality that makes the sleeping dream a dream is its immunity to meta-awareness. The sleeper does not know they sleep. And the waking dreamer, by the same token, does not perceive his terror as a projection. He perceives it as a fact. The world he inhabits is, to him, exactly as dangerous as it appears. To suggest otherwise is not merely unhelpful—it may be experienced as a further threat, one more move in the conspiracy arrayed against him.

The contemplative traditions, in their various vocabularies, speak of the role of a teacher—a guide, a guru, a roshi, a confessor—whose specific function is to interrupt the trance of the waking dreamer. Not through argument. Not through the presentation of contrary evidence, which the dreaming mind is extraordinarily skilled at assimilating into its existing narrative. But through something more intimate and more radical: the transmission of wakefulness itself.

In Zen, this interruption takes the form of the koan—an unanswerable question designed not to satisfy the intellect but to shatter it, creating a momentary fissure through which the light of bare awareness can enter. In the Sufi tradition, the master’s glance—the nazar—is spoken of as capable of dissolving the veils of illusion that the student cannot dissolve for himself. In contemporary psychotherapy, something analogous occurs in the therapeutic relationship when the client, held steadily within the witnessed presence of another, begins to see the dream they have been living as a dream.

In each case, the mechanism is essentially the same: the dreamer requires a witness who is sufficiently awake to hold the space of reality steady while the dream dissolves. Just as the wife holds the room while her husband surfaces from his nightmare, the contemplative teacher holds the field of wakefulness while the student negotiates their return from the waking dream.

The tragedy is one of scale and access. The sleeping man has his wife. But the waking dreamer—particularly the one who has already reached for the gun—may have no such witness near him. The social fabrics that once provided the containing relational field—extended family, religious community, intergenerational neighborhood—have thinned to the point of translucency in many parts of the modern world. And the digital architectures that have replaced them are, in many cases, not structures of awakening but amplifiers of the dream: algorithms designed to confirm and intensify whatever projection the user is already inhabiting.

This is the dream bleeding into the world. This is the consequence of private inner weather upon the shared atmosphere of collective life. And until we find more robust and widely available means of waking the waking dreamer—until the question “Who will reach out and shake his shoulder?” receives a serious cultural answer—we will continue to pay the price of dreams we have not yet learned to recognize as such.

Awakening Within the Dream

If life is a dream, the question that naturally arises is: Can we wake up within it?

Here, the traditions of contemplative spirituality converge with the emerging science of lucid dreaming. In a lucid dream, the sleeping dreamer becomes aware that they are dreaming. The prefrontal cortex, normally suppressed, partially reactivates. The dreamer can observe the dream, navigate it with intention, and even reshape its content. Lucid dreaming has been studied at institutions including Stanford University, where neuroscientist Stephen LaBerge devoted decades to mapping its neurological and experiential dimensions.

The contemplative traditions describe an analogous awakening in the waking state—a moment in which the individual recognizes the constructed, projected nature of their experience and steps back into a witnessing awareness that is no longer lost in the dream’s narrative. The Buddhist concept of rigpa, the Advaitic recognition of Brahman, the Sufi notion of fana (annihilation of the ego)—these are all, in their respective vocabularies, descriptions of lucidity within the waking dream.

What the nursery rhyme understood, what the philosophers have elaborated, and what the neuroscientists are only now beginning to map in their full complexity, is this: the mind is always dreaming. The question is not whether we are in a dream. The question is whether we are awake within it.

Chapter 2: The Typology of the Ethereal – Categories of the Night

If we accept that dreams are indeed a nexus of profound communication, we must then turn our attention to the specific dialects and typologies through which this communication occurs. Over decades of observation, deeply personal experience, and expansive study, I have come to recognize that the dreamscape is populated by distinct categories of experience. These are not rigid boxes, for the fluid nature of the unconscious often blends these categories together in a single night’s journey. However, understanding these typologies provides a crucial map for navigating the often bewildering territory of the sleeping mind.

I am a deeply spiritual, though not traditionally religious, person. I have joined with a vast, invisible community of theologians, mystics, and seekers who firmly believe that dreams are one of the primary mechanisms through which the Divine—whether you call it God, Higher Power, the Universe, Great Spirit, or the Collective Unconscious—captures our attention. In the absolute, fundamental reality of consciousness, there is remarkably little difference between what we experience through the vivid theater of our dreams and what we experience through our so-called waking reality. Awake or asleep, our internal landscape responds in real time to what we witness, treating both experiences as having equal, potent footing in reality. Therefore, it stands to reason that the universe is constantly attempting to impart wisdom to us while the noisy, rational mind is finally quieted in slumber.

The first, and often most profoundly moving, of these categories is the Visitation Dream. It is remarkably common to experience a deeply vivid visitation dream after a beloved friend or family member passes away. In these sacred encounters, the deceased almost always appear in bodily form, but they are invariably healthy, vibrant, and imbued with a luminous, unmistakable energy. Their purpose is usually clear and direct: to communicate an important message of peace. “I am okay,” they tell us, or “There is absolutely nothing to fear about death.”

I have been graced with several of these profound dreams over the years. Following the tragic, sudden death of my father’s dear friend Bob Fero in 1972, my father was paralyzed by a grief he could not process. He refused to attend the funeral, his aversion to death overwhelming his love for his friend. Two nights after I attended Bob’s funeral, Bob came to me in a remarkably lucid dream. He stood before me, vibrant and whole, and explicitly told me not to fear death. He assured me that it was beautiful and deeply peaceful where he resided, and that death was not the great enemy we perceive it to be. This was not merely my own subconscious comforting itself; it possessed an energetic signature of absolute otherness, a genuine connection across the veil.

Equally fascinating are Prophetic Dreams. Our complex human brains come equipped with built-in predictive hardware and highly sophisticated algorithms. It should therefore be no surprise that we possess the capacity to prophesize, utilizing both our waking intuition and our sleeping visions. Countless individuals across history have experienced a “dream that came true.” In many cases, our subconscious minds are simply utilizing vast archives of past experiences and subtle observations to run complex, probable scenarios of future events, showing us likely patterns to help us make better, more informed choices when we awake. I have experienced several dreams that predicted future events with eerie, exact precision. Yet, I have also learned that they remain unreliable predictors of an absolute future, precisely because the future is not static; it is fluid, constantly shifting based upon the myriad choices and changes we implement in our present moments.

Closely related to prophecy is the Warning Dream. The Divine—and the profound intelligence of our own physical bodies—can and will speak to us in dreams to warn us about imminent danger, particularly regarding our physical health. We may dream repeatedly of a specific body part failing, or even receive a direct, verbal warning from a dream character. Research has shown that a staggering percentage of individuals diagnosed with severe illnesses report having experienced highly vivid, often terrifying dreams related to their affliction well before any physical symptoms manifested. The body knows what the conscious mind denies, and it uses the canvas of the dream to scream for our attention.

When we heed these warnings, or when we are in desperate need of energetic realignment, we may be gifted with Healing Dreams. These are profound, internal creations explicitly designed to shift us from a state of deep imbalance into a state of harmony and equilibrium. They frequently involve a mystical encounter with a luminescent being, a wise guide, or an ancestral figure. I have experienced many such dreams, the most awe-inspiring being an encounter with my deceased Grandpa Henry. In this dream, he appeared not as an old man, but as a fierce, fiery cluster—an orb of pure, unadulterated light and unconditional love. I was drawn into his overwhelming energy, knowing instinctively that my fragile physical body and ego structure would be completely destroyed if I fully merged with it. Yet, the desire for that pure love was so overwhelming I did not care. Although I was awakened before the merge was complete, the dream deposited a profound healing energy into my waking life, fundamentally altering my spiritual trajectory and motivating me to build the psychological and physical strength necessary to hold such high vibrations of love.

To experience such love often requires us to visit spaces that feel entirely beyond this earthly realm, leading to what we might call Heavenly Dreams. Studies have shown that a significant portion of healthy adults who dream of death find themselves spending considerable time in a realm that can only be described as heaven. In these dreams, individuals frequently travel down luminous tunnels or beautiful pathways, arriving at breathtaking destinations characterized by impossible colors, celestial music, and profound, unshakeable peace. They frequently encounter deceased loved ones in these spaces. I have had dreams where I was suspended in an expanse of light, hearing the complex, layered songs and harmonics of celestial beings, carrying a message of such staggering beauty that it completely defies the limitations of human vocabulary.

An experience as profound as a radical empathy dream is the astonishing phenomenon of Mutual Dreams. A mutual dream occurs when two individuals—typically, though not always, in separate physical locations—dream of the exact same narrative, landscape, or event at the exact same time. Research into shared dreams shows that they are, on average, incredibly identical in their details. While they most frequently occur between close friends, twins, or deeply connected relatives, a small percentage are astonishingly shared by complete strangers. This phenomenon points to a most profound realization: the collective mind of humanity dreams through the individual, and the individual actively dreams through the collective mind of humanity. It shatters the illusion of the isolated self, proving in the theater of the night that we are, at our core, deeply and fundamentally One.

And, finally, we can consider the dream that closes a chapter in life, the so-called farewell and divergence dreams. Some dreams mark the quiet end of a chapter before waking life catches up, signaling that a relationship or phase of life is coming to a close.

Chapter 5: The Power of Then: The Process of Reclaiming Disassociated Parts of Ourselves, And Healing Traumas from Present or Past Lives

Embracing a Distant Past

Writer’s note: As explored throughout the broader journey of An Electrician’s Guide to Our Universe, and a Life, Love, and Death Upon Its Unlimited Bandwidth, when we begin the process of healing from our human condition, we never know in advance what direction our path will lead us. Such continues to be the case for me.

The tapestry of our lives is often far richer and more intricate than it first appears. Lying beneath the surface of a singular human experience may be countless threads spun from human archetypes, historical narratives, past incarnations, or disassociated aspects of the present self. Each holds the echoes of forgotten traumas, triumphs, and incomplete journeys.

When these fragments of the soul remain hidden in the unconscious, they operate as invisible puppeteers. They dictate our reactions, define our fears, and enforce limitations, giving us the illusion of free will while secretly binding us to ancient scripts. True freedom is an impossibility until these unseen forces—whether born of past-life karma or present-life disassociation—are brought into the light of conscious awareness.

Human consciousness is not a singular, fixed entity. The soul houses wounds older than the body it inhabits, wrapped delicately in layers of forgotten incarnations. During a meditation on July 21, 1987, I received a profound spiritual teaching intertwined with a most confusing revelation. Ever so briefly, in a twice-in-a-lifetime experience, I could see the field of energy that constituted my body/mind awareness. I saw embedded within it two almost complete thought or identity forms, which I recognized as distinct caricatures, or entities. I had two “extras” attached to my field, and I immediately understood that they were not there for my greater good.

I came to regard these two unwelcome components of my life force as tricksters, though I noted that their presence allayed the loneliness of my ego, perhaps because they seemed vaguely familiar. I sensed that I was supposed to let go of these illusions of self, but I did not know what to do with them until I revisited them consciously in recent years. Little did I know that they were to become the most critical components to understand in my desire to heal from trauma and reclaim my autonomy.

Part 1: Unraveling the Wounded Energy Vortices of the Soul

Two specific vortices have shaped my energy field, mirroring fragments of past lives that resonate powerfully in my present. One emerges from a life as an ancient shaman, a healer tethered to the spiritual forces of the earth. The other stems from the life of Bobby Clements, an ill-fated WWII pilot surrounded by camaraderie and sacrifice but plagued by loss.

The Wounded Healer

The shamanic vortex was deeply rooted in the archetype of the wounded healer, a paradox I have often lived without fully understanding. My childhood was rife with night terrors, bedwetting, abandonment fears, and a desperate yearning for connection that rarely found nourishment in peers. Yet, intuitively, I always bridged my inner world with spiritual forces I could barely name.

At eight years old, in 1964, I had a unique, realistic dream that perfectly encapsulated this ancient energy. Having received his directive from “on high,” a priest returned to his village along a high mountain lake. He instructed the villagers to throw every golden figurine and sacred symbol into the lake, telling them they must face the “evil one” without protection from their gods. The priest then retreated to his own home, stripped himself bare, and began summoning the dark forces. Surrounded by fog, sparks flew from his fingertips toward an unknown adversary. As he sacrificed all his life force to pierce the fog and finally see the face of the force that had terrorized his village, a face materialized before his faltering gaze. Collapsing, he could no longer fight an undeniable truth: the face of the evil one was his own.

This dream remains a significant teaching. Idolatry and psychological projection are the modern names for the phenomena shown to me. The shaman forced his village to face their shadow without the help of gods, and I feel certain the village shadow prematurely ended his life for his efforts. Before this energy was made conscious, its negative influence manifested in my present life as a deep-seated fear of abandonment and a crippling hesitation to share my spiritual truths. The shaman’s unresolved trauma whispered that spiritual authenticity equated to alienation and destruction, erecting invisible walls around my heart that prevented true communion with the world.

The Unfulfilled Leader

The second vortex bore the mark of Bobby Clements. In April of 1987, after being sober for about a month following sixteen years of hell, I had a series of three dreams on consecutive nights. In the first dream, I was a young teenager named Bobby Clements, hanging out with five close buddies. In the second, we were all enlisting together to enter WWII, demanding to fly on the same plane. In the third, I was piloting the aircraft with my friends in support roles. We flew into anti-aircraft shelling, taking a fatal blow. As the plane plummeted, I knew we were all going to die.

I researched the name extensively, coming up short until decades later when my sister discovered Robert “Bobby” Kelly Clements of Nova Scotia, Canada. Robert flew a Lancaster bomber for the RAF out of England, and records showed he hand-picked his crew: his five Nova Scotia friends. His story was identical to my dream sequence.

Because Bobby’s final conscious act was one of fatal failure—plummeting from the sky with the crew he had sworn to protect—my own subconscious decision-making was infected by an expectation of inevitable ruin. Bobby’s despair turned inward against me, breeding a profound self-doubt and a depressive paralysis that culminated in a desire to end my own life in 1986. I hesitated to commit to a path, to build a future, or to trust my own leadership, because an unintegrated part of my soul believed that taking the helm would only lead to devastating loss.

The Synergistic Paralysis

These two past incarnations did not merely influence me independently; they merged into a powerful, synergistic force that severely restricted my freedom in this life. The shaman’s trauma dictated that exposing my spiritual authenticity would lead to my ultimate destruction at the hands of those I tried to help. Simultaneously, Bobby’s unresolved grief convinced me that stepping into any leadership role would inevitably result in the catastrophic ruin of those who trusted me.

Together, these intertwined energies created a compounding paralysis. I was terrified to step forward as a spiritual leader or guide, trapped by the dual subconscious conviction that doing so would simultaneously destroy me and fail everyone who relied on me. My free will was entirely usurped by this invisible intersection of ancient fears.

Part 2: Revisiting the Unraveling and the Path to Wholeness

There is an infinite power accessible through becoming lovingly present for “the then.” Yet, many of us live within the confines of “the now,” unable to fathom the depth of these fragments’ influence. Cultural norms and modern-day psychology have conditioned us to frame our challenges solely within the narrative of our childhoods. While significant, it is not the full picture.

These energy vortices do not emerge as straightforward figures but as patterns in your energy field, recurring dreams, vivid meditations, or deeply embedded emotions that feel larger than this life alone. Clues of past-life dynamics often appear through frequent dreams, compulsion-driven decisions, and karmic relationships. Understanding these themes is not about being stuck in the past; it is a path to reclaiming your autonomy. Through introspection, I have developed a three-step process to dismantle these unconscious controls:

Recognition: Notice recurring patterns or archetypal behaviors. Honor the inner acknowledgment of dissonance.

Integration: Employ tools like meditation or journaling to invite the fragments back home. The goal is not to erase the past but to honor it.

Transcendence: View these echoes not as burdens, but as teachers. Acknowledge that time simply creates the context for understanding cycles of spiritual growth.

While there is value in understanding the psychological utility of archetypes, dismissing these experiences as mere imagination strips them of their transformative power. Treating these fragments as real, living components of the spiritual self demands a level of radical vulnerability and accountability that traditional therapy often skirts. By meeting these energies where they are, we stop pathologizing our spiritual depths and begin the sacred work of reclaiming our disassociated parts.

The Spiral of Healing

Healing from the wounds of past incarnations is not a linear march toward perfection; it is a continuous, upward spiral of self-awareness. When I finally recognized and integrated the shaman and the pilot, they ceased to be my captors. They transformed from architects of my suffering into wise companions on my expansive spiritual path. The shaman taught me to transform suffering into light without seeking external validation, and the pilot provided a compass for deep loyalty that does not require the sacrifice of my own individuality.

We are all carrying the weight of wounds far older than the bodies we inhabit. Yet, within those very wounds lies the dormant light of countless lifetimes, waiting to be unleashed. I urge you to look closely at the recurring patterns, the inexplicable fears, and the persistent shadows that haunt the periphery of your life. Do not dismiss them. Seek out the forgotten fragments of your soul and invite them back into the whole. It is only by bravely facing the entirety of our “then” that we can untangle the strings of the unconscious and truly embody the freedom, the peace, and the unlimited bandwidth of our “now.”

Chapter 6: Dreams and July 21, 1987: Projection and Perception—Finding Truth in the Mirror of Reality

Oh, evil’s shadow boxer, when will you ever retire?
‘Tis champion of a lonely dream world to which you aspire.
Stop resuscitating dead illusions with mental pugilist blows,
And a peaceful mind will replace the confusion you now know.

What do you see when you glance into the mirror? A body? A mind? A projection of your woundedness, or a reflection shaped by the judgments you carry? Or do you glimpse something far deeper, the essence of who you truly are? This question, on the surface, may seem simple—but its depths reach into psychology, neuroscience, and our shared spiritual experience.

Projection, a concept often discussed as a psychological defense mechanism, extends beyond our interpersonal conflicts. It manifests in families, communities, religions, and even nations. “All that you see is yourself.” These words reflect an ancient truth, one that challenges our surface understanding of perception and the judgments we carry. Every reaction to another person, every assessment of what is “good” or “evil,” holds up a mirror reflecting our unexamined selves. What we fear most, the “enemy” we see in others, often turns out to be the unrecognized shadow of our own being.

Perception originates within each of us in a unique creative form. Yet, what you see “out there” is deeply intertwined with the narratives and associations you’ve built “in here.” Our inner world serves as a lens, shaping how we perceive reality. We have been assembling an internal model of reality since we were quite young, according to Piaget, and this is our unique creation and the glasses we must look through. Without self-awareness, this lens becomes clouded, chaining us to patterns of fear, projection, and misunderstanding.

Piaget’s theory of cognitive development provides insight into how early in life this process begins. He argued that children construct their internal models of the world stage by stage, using sensory experiences and interactions to assemble frameworks for understanding their environment. These models are not passive recordings of the external world, but active and creative interpretations that evolve into the schemas we carry as adults. It is through these schemas that we approach new experiences, often interpreting them through assumptions rooted in our earliest perceptions.

Furthermore, Piaget highlighted that as we grow, equilibrium between assimilation (integrating new information into existing schemas) and accommodation (altering schemas to incorporate new information) becomes essential. Without this balance, our internal lens can remain fixed, distorting our perspective of the world. For instance, a child who grows up associating discipline with rejection might carry this unresolved narrative into adulthood, projecting fears of abandonment onto authority figures or relationships. To recalibrate this lens, a process of both cognitive and emotional self-reflection is necessary.

But how can we confront something as elusive as perception? To uncover the layers of projection and move closer to clarity, we must dare to venture inward. There are many tools available to assist us in this search for truth, including dream study, cognitive behavioral therapy, journaling, and mindfulness and meditation techniques.

The story of a dream I had during my childhood continues to serve as a beacon of insight for me to this day, illustrating how facing our fears and ourselves is at the heart of transformation. The dream began in a high mountain village by a serene lake, reminiscent of landscapes as timeless as Lake Titicaca in the Andes. Here, the village priest received a divine command, one that was as bold as it was unsettling. He informed the villagers that they were to cast away every golden figurine, every sacred symbol, into the depths of the lake. These objects, meant to protect them, were to be abandoned. Then, the priest instructed each person to face the “evil one” dwelling in their homes without these symbols of comfort or protection.

The priest did not exempt himself from this unsettling task. He returned to his home, stripped himself of his garments, and prepared to summon the dark forces. A dense fog surrounded him as sparks cascaded from his fingertips, channeled toward the enemy hidden in the mist. His pulse quickened, sweat dripped, and dread began to overtake him. He pushed on, straining to confront the menacing presence. Finally, a face began to materialize through the fog. And in his final moment of clarity before collapse, the priest realized a profound truth that shattered his understanding of fear and evil: the face of the “evil one” might be his own.

The symbolism of the dream is both personal and universal. By discarding their idols, the villagers relinquished their dependence on external symbols of security, setting the stage for true self-discovery. The priest, taking this step further, found the possibility of his own reflection in the adversary he thought he was battling. This act of confronting fear without the crutch of external protections highlights a deep truth about human nature. True peace and resilience arise not from suppressing fear, but from engaging with it directly. The priest’s struggle illustrates the paradox that in seeking to destroy what we fear, we often come face to face with fragments of ourselves.

Through this lens, the dream becomes more than a personal narrative. It is a window into the human condition, speaking to our shared tendency to project unacknowledged fears, desires, and judgments onto others. Psychological projection, a concept popularized by Carl Jung, is the act of attributing one’s own unconscious feelings, traits, or impulses to others. It functions as a defense mechanism, shielding us from the discomfort of confronting our inner conflicts.

Neuroscience confirms how subjective perception shapes our reality. Sensory input, filtered through memory, emotion, and bias, creates a unique internal reality for each individual. However, our perceptual lens is not constructed in isolation. Trauma, both personal and intergenerational, profoundly alters the way we see the world. Those who have endured trauma often experience heightened states of vigilance, as their nervous systems have been shaped by the echoes of past threats. The scars of trauma embed themselves in our perceptions, influencing how we assess danger, trust others, and interpret ambiguous situations.

At times, projection becomes an unconscious tool for survival, a way to externalize internal chaos in an attempt to find order. Unresolved trauma acts as a conductor, amplifying projection until it reverberates not just in individuals, but across families and even generational lines. Consider a parent, scarred by their upbringing, projecting their fears onto their child. Or a community, burdened by historical trauma, creating scapegoats from outsiders. Intergenerational trauma compounds this mechanism, adding layers of inherited pain to the distortions of perception. Addressing projection in the context of trauma requires not only self-awareness but also the courage to heal the wounds carried within.

Forgiveness becomes a bridge—not just to others, but to parts of ourselves fractured by pain. Projection often thrives in the absence of forgiveness. Unresolved pain and resentment distort our perceptions, leading us to externalize blame onto others. When we fail to forgive, we perpetuate cycles of projection that deepen divisions and prevent healing.

Take, for instance, a grudge held against someone who has wronged you. Instead of addressing the underlying hurt, you construct narratives that amplify their flaws. This act of storytelling becomes a way to avoid self-examination, trapping you in a loop of blame and denial. Forgiveness interrupts this cycle. By choosing to forgive, we confront and release the pain within ourselves, freeing both ourselves and others from the burden of blame. Forgiveness is not about excusing harmful behavior but about dismantling the walls between projection, judgment, and inner truth.

William Blake urged, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is—infinite.” What does it mean to cleanse these doors? It means moving beyond the limitations of conditioned thinking and seeing life in its fullness. It is a shift from judgment to understanding, from projection to self-awareness. To begin this process, consider these practices:

Mindful Observation: Observe your thoughts and emotions without attaching to them. Learn to differentiate between reality and your inner stories.

Challenge Biases: Reflect on a strong belief or judgment you hold. Is it rooted in truth, or does it stem from unexamined fears?

Meditation: Stillness allows you to transcend the filters of past experiences and encounter pure awareness.

Radical Openness: Engage respectfully with perspectives you once dismissed. This act of listening can reveal more about yourself than about others.

The external world is not a neutral space but a mirror reflecting the depths of our inner selves, both individual and collective. Reality, as we perceive it, is never objective—it is filtered through the lens of our conditioning. Yet within this truth lies a profound opportunity. By examining the judgments and fears we project outward, we can uncover the hidden aspects of our psyche. The shadow we fear most is often our own.

Jiddu Krishnamurti once observed, “You are not an individual; you are part of the vast mind of man. When you realize this fact, you enter into an extraordinary world. You are the entire humanity.” True freedom, then, does not spring from controlling the external world but from mastering our internal landscape. When we strip away the idols, confront our shadows, and accept uncomfortable truths, we touch the essence of shared humanity. Within this shared experience lies both great turmoil and immense healing potential.

Freed from the weight of our past wounds, we are better equipped to engage with the pressing social issues of our time. Take a moment today to confront an uncomfortable truth about yourself. Name it, accept it, and bear witness to it. This act of courage does not diminish you; it liberates you. By turning inward, we free ourselves from the boomerang effects of unconscious projections. These projections, when unnoticed, often return to harm us. Becoming conscious of our shadows, of the judgments we cast, is a step toward inner peace and clarity. Through this sacred self-exploration, the universe perceives itself, and we come to understand our place within a vast, interconnected whole.

Yet, we are not only individuals. We carry a collective identity that overlays our singular experiences. This collective identity is both powerful and susceptible, understood deeply by masters of propaganda and by the self-aware. Unconscious collective patterns can drive us toward profound harm if left unexamined. For example, we are not immune to the destructive forces of what could be called “Trump’s dark enlightenment”—the institutionalized and normalized projection of hatred. The values of deceit, performative hatred, and predatory manipulation ripple through our collective psyche, impacting us all in ways that demand awareness and courage.

It is not only permissible but necessary to reject destructive figures and ideologies. Rejecting Trump and his parade of deceit and criminality has taught me vital lessons about myself:

• I despise creeps, sexual predators, and cons.
• I abhor the use of performative hatred as a tool for manipulation.
• I can name destructive behavior without fear of a shadowy boomerang effect.

Speaking truth to power is not an act of diminishing ourselves; it is an act of collective healing. By understanding and rejecting what corrodes our shared humanity, we strengthen our stand in truth. As we heal individually, we become spiritually present and prepared to confront and transform the disfigured and corrupted aspects of our collective identity. The most profound freedom emerges not from external triumphs but from clear insight into our individual and collective selves. From this space of clarity, we can shed the burdens of unconscious projections and replace them with conscious truth. Healing begins here. And in the collective truth of our shared humanity lies the path to lasting peace and understanding.

Cleansing the Lens of Perception to Transform Ourselves and the World

To see the world clearly is one of life’s greatest challenges. Our perceptions, clouded by prior experiences, biases, and emotional debris, often distort the reality in front of us. Cleansing the lens through which we view the world is no easy task. Yet, when approached with intention and earnestness, it can lead to profound inner transformation, greater compassion for others, and a clearer understanding of the darkness and light that coexist within humanity. This process requires the courage to confront what lies within us and the humility to understand how it shapes the way we see the world. It not only offers personal liberation but extends a ripple of peace and clarity to the collective. What might we uncover, and what transformations might occur, when we undertake this challenging yet vital work?

Reflecting on the human condition often travels through unexpected places. For me, it came through observing, understanding, and then despising the behavior of Donald Trump. To call him a “bad human being” without hesitation was, ironically, a revelation about myself. What I discovered was not simply dislike for one person, but a much deeper truth about my values and the behaviors I am unwilling to tolerate in myself or others. I despise manipulation, self-interest at the cost of others, and the degradation of truth. By examining my emotions toward his actions, I came face-to-face with my own internal judgments and moral boundaries.

Here lies an essential paradox of perception. When we evaluate others’ actions, are we truly seeing them for who they are, or are we projecting our own hidden tendencies? This question led me further down the path of understanding. The world we inhabit feels irreparably fractured, filled with broken systems and broken people. It’s tempting to externalize this brokenness, to see it strictly as a flaw of “others.” Yet, when we take a moment to pause and reflect, we see that this brokenness exists within us as well. Our unhealed wounds, our unacknowledged pain, and our unresolved anger feed into the collective condition. The flaws we despise in others often act as mirrors, reflecting back aspects of ourselves we’ve yet to confront.

This recognition does not absolve harmful actions or justify wrongdoing. Instead, it calls for an inward turn, a willingness to address our inner fractures before we dare critique the broken fragments of the world around us. Healing ourselves is not just a personal endeavor; it is a revolutionary act. Each time we choose self-awareness over denial, forgiveness over bitterness, and love over fear, we move closer to clarity.

When we cleanse our perceptions and address the shadows within, we find that judgment is replaced with discernment. The floodwaters of emotional reaction subside, revealing the quiet truths beneath them. Only then can we begin to see others as they are, untangled from the web of our projections and assumptions. Through healing, we can develop both the vision to identify darkness where it exists and the wisdom to act from a place of love rather than resonance with that darkness. Thus, we reclaim our ability to evaluate others and situations more accurately, free from the distortions of our unhealed inner worlds.

Once we see clearly, we find ourselves face-to-face with an essential truth: the world contains both profound beauty and heartbreaking evil. This duality compels us to make choices—not to ignore the darkness, but to confront it with courage and love. The act of fighting evil, however, is fraught with complexity. It requires aligning ourselves with deeper truths and resisting the temptation to fight fire with fire. Hate cannot end hate; it merely amplifies the cycle of destruction. Instead, we must engage the world with a sense of deep integrity, allowing clarity and love to drive our actions.

It is here that life demands the most of us. Acting in harmony with higher truths while confronting the shadows of the world is no small task. It demands resilience, introspection, and a commitment to growth. Yet, it is through this struggle that we find meaning, purpose, and the courage to contribute positively to humanity.

The more we uncover within ourselves, the more evident it becomes that the world is a reflection of our inner state. All that we witness around us is, in essence, a mirror to the self. The beauty we admire, the flaws we critique, the darkness we condemn, and the light we celebrate all coexist within us. To truly “cleanse the doors of perception” is to see the world as it is. But deeper still, it is to see ourselves as we are. This realization invites us to extend forgiveness—to ourselves and to others—not as a passive allowance, but as an active liberation of the heart.

When we change ourselves, the way we see the world changes. And when enough individuals transform their perspectives, the ripple effect can bring about collective healing. The path to personal and collective transformation requires effort, courage, and a willingness to confront the parts of ourselves we would rather avoid. Yet, it is through this process that we uncover the power of forgiveness, the beauty of clarity, and the strength to act from a place of love and truth.

Take time today to ask yourself these questions:

• Are there areas of my perception that need cleansing?
• What emotions or judgments might be reflections of my inner world?
• How can I engage in daily practices of self-reflection and healing?

Commit to this process and share these insights with others who are walking a similar path. Explore the resources, communities, and practices that support your growth.

Remember this as you go forth today and every day: the world will always be characterized by shadows and light, evil and good, selfishness and selflessness, for that is the eternal perceptual dance human beings engage in. The world becomes clearer and more beautiful to us, even though we now see the darkness where it exists, when we change how we choose to see it. The lens of perception is not fixed; it bends, sharpens, and softens as we grow. It is sometimes very difficult to look at oneself honestly and then look at the world with a clearer vision, yet that is how the world will eventually be saved from itself. With love, courage, and self-awareness, we can transform both our inner worlds and the collective reality we all share.

All that you see is yourself, with red hair, goofy smile, freckles and all. Unless you have first changed yourself.

Chapter 7: The Cup, the Map, and the Inner Electric: Healing, Lucidity, Radical Empathy, and the Work of Conscious Evolution

Among all the dreams that have shaped me, a few stand apart because they do more than comfort or symbolize. They instruct. They diagnose the soul. They illuminate the hidden labor of transformation. They act almost as initiations. Some expose wounds. Some reveal what must be surrendered. Some open into states of consciousness so refined and lucid that one wakes knowing that the dream was not merely about truth. It was itself an event of truth.

One such dream came through grief and love. Diane “Di Di” Mcloud was not a peripheral figure in my life. I loved her deeply. Ours was not a simple romance, and I knew even while in it that both of us carried toxic faults that would make permanence difficult. Yet love does not wait for perfection before it binds itself to memory. After her death in 1988 as the result of a drunk driver, she appeared in one of the most important healing dreams I have ever received.

In the dream, I was confronted by a violent, abusive, deeply unkind man whose presence revolted and frightened me. I called to a policeman, pleading for protection and for the man’s arrest. Then Di Di stepped forward, replacing the policeman, and spoke with piercing clarity: if love was to return fully to my life, I must first arrest these same qualities within myself. I must rehabilitate my own passions. Only then would love reappear.

That dream was not sentimental. It did not flatter me in grief. It used grief as an opening for moral truth. It revealed that what I found intolerable outside myself was not wholly absent within. The dream called for self-interruption, for an arrest of toxic masculine force, aggression, domination, and unredeemed passion. It insisted that love is not merely found; it must be made possible by inner work. The dream ended, but its demand did not. In many ways, I have been living inside that instruction ever since.

Another dream of enormous significance came in 1992 and involved what I can only call Grandfather Great Spirit. In that dream, I was in my grandfather’s home, in the bedroom of my childhood, and above me hovered a fierce orb or cluster of pure light and love. Though it had no human form, I knew it was my deceased grandfather. In shamanic language, one might speak of higher chakra experience; in the language of my own heart, it was my grandfather as a vessel of transcendent love and wisdom. I felt myself being drawn upward into that field, and I knew with certainty that my body was too weak to sustain it. Yet I wanted to go. Sharon, hearing my physical distress, woke me from what she assumed was a nightmare. I woke devastated, not relieved.

The significance of that dream deepened over years. It taught me that if I wished to embody higher vibrations of love, my physical and psychological structures had to be strengthened. Revelation without capacity can become destructive. Energy requires grounding. Spirit requires embodiment. I have long believed that this dream was part of the hidden motivation behind the strengthening of my body and life in the years that followed. Love, if it is real, is not vague. It demands preparation.

A later follow-up dream involving my grandfather brought further clarity. In that dream, dark threatening figures were in the car with us, and I knew I had to confront them to protect him. Over time I came to see these “tricksters” as embedded wounds of trauma within my own life energy. To save Grandfather, Great Spirit, was to clear the field of those destructive forces. The deepest spiritual presences in our lives do not remove us from shadow work. They compel it.

Then there is the dream about June’s brother Dale, which I maintain as a major instance of radical empathy or remote viewing. The dream’s importance lies not only in its eerie accuracy, but in what it suggests about the moral architecture of consciousness. I did not merely observe an event from a distance. I felt the predicament from within. I awoke shaken because the dream had the density of embodiment. For me, this dream remains one of the clearest indicators that dreaming can involve participation in another’s experience through channels of connection we do not understand. The implications are spiritual, psychological, and ethical. If consciousness can extend itself in compassion through dream space, then perhaps empathy is not merely emotional imagination. Perhaps it is a latent faculty of shared being.

And then there is the dream that emerged around the Cosmic Christ workshop with Matthew Fox, which I regard as one of the clearest dream teachings of my entire life.

After an evening seminar on mysticism, I slept deeply and dreamed with unusual lucidity. I entered a well-lit room. A man stood to the right of the entrance holding out a cup. I knew that if I drank from it I would become intoxicated, but not in contradiction to sobriety. This was a different order of intoxication, a holy intoxication, a dissolving of conditioned limitations rather than a descent into unconsciousness. Near him was a table holding an open topographic map. On the right side of the map ran one dark, solid line from bottom to top. On the left were many dotted lines, intersecting, wandering, curving, paralleling without merging. None had obvious beginnings or endings.

The dream stayed with me not merely because of its beauty, but because of its interior certainty. I was unusually awake within it. There was lucidity there, not only in the technical sense of knowing one is dreaming, but in the spiritual sense of receiving coherent instruction from within the dream state itself. The next day, at the workshop, Matthew Fox invited anyone with a dream to share. I hesitated. Later, privately, I told him about it. He smiled and refused to explain it for me, saying only to let the dream tell me its meaning.

It did.

On the drive home, as I recounted it again to Sharon, the meaning broke open through horripilation, through what I call God chills. The solid line on the right was the rut of conditioned life: inherited systems, institutional certainty, socially approved pathways, the road of obedience without discovery. The dotted lines on the left were the pilgrimage of conscious evolution, where the path is made only through walking, where uncertainty is not a problem but a companion, where one chooses curiosity over conformity. The offered cup was the invitation to drink from Spirit itself, to accept a consciousness-altering participation in mystery without abandoning sobriety of soul.

That dream deserves development because it captures something central to the whole dream world: dreams do not merely reflect the life we have lived. They invite the life we have not yet dared to live. The map was not geography. It was vocation. It named the difference between a managed life and an awakened one.

This dream also belongs in the category of lucid mystery because it aligns strikingly with what research has begun to suggest about lucid dreaming. Studies drawing on EEG data have indicated that lucid dreams involve unusual combinations of REM sleep and waking-like brain activity, particularly beta-wave associations tied to conscious awareness, problem-solving, spatial processing, and self-reflective cognition. That matters to me because it implies that the dream world can host not only symbolism and emotion, but genuine conscious participation. Dreaming may be one of the states in which the self becomes aware within mystery rather than simply carried by it.

Some researchers have even noted neurological echoes between lucid dreaming and psychedelic states, particularly in relation to altered imagery and modified self-processing. Yet lucid dreams may preserve more agency than psychedelics often do. This is a profound idea. It means that the dreamer may enter visionary terrain without losing the capacity for response. Consciousness need not be extinguished for transcendence to occur.

That possibility aligns with my own experience. The Cosmic Christ dream did not reduce me to passive awe. It invited interpretation, participation, and eventually commitment. It asked me which side of the map I intended to live on.

The same pattern appears in the electrician dream connected to Marty Crouch. We were in a noisy industrial plant. An electrical system needed reconditioning. I was told that a security lock had to be removed from an electrical panel. Symbolically, it was obvious: self-protective mechanisms can keep the system safe during emergency work, but they must eventually be removed if energy is to flow again. Protection can become obstruction. Fear can masquerade as wisdom. Healing requires re-energizing the system after the repair.

For an electrician, this symbolism is not decorative. It is organic. I understand systems, grounding, overload, flow, interruption, and restoration. Dreams have repeatedly used that language because it is native to my life. The soul speaks in the images we are built to understand.

To honor dreams, then, is not to become irrational. It is to become more fully human. It is to admit that consciousness is wider than our daylight habits. It is to recognize that some of our deepest repair work occurs offstage, in the unseen workshop of sleep, where maps are opened, cups are offered, the dead speak, the future flickers, and the hidden system waits for re-energizing.

Yet, as this circuitry is re-energized, we inevitably discover that the power coursing through us does not originate solely from our present waking life. The hidden system connects to a much older grid. When we truly begin the process of healing from our human condition, we never know in advance how far back the wires will lead us. To fully reclaim the self, we must turn our attention not only to the nocturnal nexus of dreams, but to the distant echoes of past incarnations and the disassociated fragments of our soul that await our conscious embrace.

Chapter 8: The Wisdom of Dreams — Gateways to Self-Healing, Spirit, and Past Lives

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” – Anaïs Nin

Have you ever found yourself captivated by the enigmatic world of dreams? Are they whispers from our biology, creations spun from a wandering imagination, windows into the subconscious, hints of wisdom from a higher power, portals into other people’s lives, or even glimpses of our past incarnations? Most of us have experienced a dream so vivid it lingered in the mind long after waking, or felt an unexplainable pull toward the spiritual realm that left us questioning the nature of existence itself. By venturing into the mystical territory of dreams, spirits, and past lives, we open ourselves to extraordinary possibilities.

My own life has been a river flowing with dreams—from the terrifying nightmares of childhood to the profound visions that followed my recovery from addiction. After 1987, my dream world took on a quality I could no longer ignore, becoming a steady source of insight, healing, and prophecy. What follows is both an exploration of what dreams are, and a testament to the mysterious ways consciousness has spoken to me across a lifetime of visions.

Understanding Dreams: Four Lenses on the Dreaming Mind

Since the dawn of time, dreams have been a source of mystery and fascination—stories our minds weave while we sleep, often escaping the grasp of our waking consciousness. But what are dreams really for? Are they mechanical byproducts of our biology, or do they serve a purpose beyond the physical realm? It’s worth examining dreams through several lenses: neurological, psychological, spiritual, and evolutionary.

Neurologically, dreams arise from brain activity during REM sleep. Brain scans show that regions like the amygdala, which processes emotion, remain active during this state. Some neuroscientists believe dreaming is simply a byproduct of electrical impulses with no inherent purpose, while others argue it helps the brain process emotion or encode memory. Research has even linked the visual cortex’s activity to the vivid imagery of dreams, and the limbic system’s activation to their emotional undertones.

Spiritually, many traditions regard dreams as messages from the divine or the deep subconscious—woven with symbolism that offers guidance, warning, or insight. Cultures throughout history have relied on dreams for decision-making and to anticipate the future. Despite vast differences in interpretation, a comparative look across traditions reveals broad agreement on their spiritual value, and countless personal accounts describe dreams that sparked life-altering realizations.

Evolutionarily, some theorize that dreaming gave our ancestors a “safe space” to rehearse responses to danger. As civilizations developed, this raw survival function became layered with religious and spiritual meaning.

Perhaps the truest value of dreams isn’t found in any single explanation, but in the interplay of all of them—biological programming, psychological truth, and connection to deeper mysteries, meeting at once. Dreams, then, are a nexus where our biological, psychological, neurological, and spiritual selves converge. Each one we remember offers a reflection of our inner workings—and perhaps a glimpse of what it means to be human.

A Life Steeped in Dreams

We all dream, whether we recall it or not. Many who do remember have no framework for interpretation, and so their dreams are casually dismissed as noise. But some of us build a lifelong practice of attention around our dream life, developing a language for it and treating it as a genuine channel of communication.

I found a note I had written while “asleep” in 2007, tucked inside a dream journal rediscovered in 2019. Since then, I’ve had numerous experiences touching the psychic and occult dimensions of human life. My dreams have long served as messages from the many facets of my Self—a window into the subconscious and a channel for healing. They have illuminated hidden emotions, offered guidance, and facilitated genuine transformation. On more than one occasion, I have felt a deep and inexplicable connection with the spirit of a deceased friend or family member within a dream. Others have seemed to reveal fragments of past-life experience—so vivid and emotionally charged that they compelled me to seek their meaning, as though I were catching a glimpse of a previous incarnation, or perhaps the life of someone I never knew.

I am not a religious person, though I stand alongside theologians who believe dreams are one of the primary ways the Divine—God, the Universe, Spirit, Grandfather Great Spirit, the One, whatever name feels right—gets our attention. In truth, there is little difference between what we experience while dreaming and what we call waking reality; internally, we respond to both as though they carry equal weight. So could Truth be trying to reach us while we sleep? What follows is a catalog of the dream types I’ve come to recognize as spiritually significant, followed by the personal chronicle that revealed their meaning to me.

Key Takeaways:

• Dreams possess transformative power, offering avenues for healing and self-discovery.
• Dreams can open windows into past lives, offering lessons for our present existence.
• Dreams can channel spirit connections, providing profound ties to the beyond.
• Personal interpretation of these experiences fuels ongoing spiritual growth.

A Catalog of Spiritually Significant Dreams

1. Visitation Dreams. It’s common to have a visitation dream after a loved one passes. The deceased often appear healthy and luminous, delivering a simple but powerful message: “I’m okay,” or “There is nothing to fear about death.”

2. Prophetic Dreams. Our brains carry built-in predictive machinery, so it’s no surprise that we sometimes “prophesy,” whether awake or asleep. Our minds may draw on past experience to sketch a probable future, sharpening our waking choices—even though the future itself remains fluid, shifting with every decision made in the present.

3. Warning Dreams. Sometimes the body—or something beyond it—speaks through dreams to warn of imminent danger, especially concerning our health. We may dream of a specific body part, or even hear a verbal warning outright. In a 2015 study of women diagnosed with breast cancer, 83 percent reported dreams more vivid than usual, and 44 percent recalled hearing specific words like “breast cancer” or “tumor.”

4. Healing Dreams. These are the internal creations that carry us from imbalance into harmony, often through a mystical encounter.

5. Heavenly Dreams. A 1989 study found that more than half of healthy young adults who dreamed of death spent significant time, within the dream, in heaven—often traveling down a tunnel or pathway toward a heavenly destination, and frequently reuniting with deceased loved ones.

6. Mutual Dreams. A mutual dream occurs when two people, often in separate locations, dream the same thing at the same time. According to a 2017 study, shared dreams are, on average, 80 percent identical, most often occurring between close friends or relatives—though four percent occur between strangers. These dreams point to a profound realization: the collective mind of humanity dreams through individuals, just as individuals dream through the collective mind. We are, in the end, one.

7. Projection and Remote Viewing Dreams. In early occult and spiritualist literature, remote viewing was known as telesthesia or traveling clairvoyance—described by Rosemary Guiley as “seeing remote or hidden objects clairvoyantly with the inner eye, or in alleged out-of-body travel.” These dreams suggest that our sense of self must expand to include the collective consciousness we share as members of the human race—that we may, in dreams, project ourselves into another person’s experience and, for a moment, live their reality.

8. Radical Empathy Dreams. Empathy plays a crucial role in dreaming, offering a window into our subconscious emotions and social bonds. In their most mysterious form, these dreams place us behind another person’s eyes entirely, letting us witness their life as our own—raising unsettling questions about just how porous our individual identities really are.

9. Dreams of Personal Growth and Teaching. Dreams of teaching often reveal a desire to share knowledge, or a sense of responsibility to pass on what we’ve learned. They can highlight leadership qualities, a struggle with communication, or a need to assert ourselves more fully in waking life. Waking from such a dream shaken by the realness of a life fully lived marks a crossing into a higher understanding of the self—wisdom available to saints and skeptics alike. We are far closer to one another than our beliefs allow us to believe.

10. Dreams of Past Lives and Ancestral Spirit. Some dreams seem to reveal fragments of past-life experience or connect us to ancestral spirit rather than personal memory, so vivid and emotionally charged that they demand further exploration.

11. Farewell and Divergence Dreams. Some dreams mark the quiet end of a chapter before waking life catches up, signaling that a relationship or phase of life is coming to a close.

A Personal Dream Chronicle

The categories above are only scaffolding. What gives them life are the dreams themselves—the specific, dated visions that taught me what each of these categories means in practice.

The Priest and the Evil One (1964) — Projection and Teaching

At eight years old, I dreamed I was a priest in a pre-technological village, instructing my people to cast their sacred idols into a lake. Alone in my home, I summoned the darkness that had long terrorized the community. As I exhausted myself fighting this unseen force, a face began to materialize in the fog—my own.

Meaning: This childhood dream was a lesson in psychological projection decades before I had the language for it. The “evil” we perceive in the world is so often a reflection of our own inner shadow. We are all wounded by this process, and until we recognize our role in creating our own demons, we remain trapped by them. We heal together, or we perish alone.

A Message from Bob Fero (1978) — Visitation

Bob and Dorothy Fero were close friends of my parents for as long as I can remember—fellow members of our square-dancing group, camping companions, golf partners. I grew to love and respect Bob deeply. In 1972, driving home from Reno in a fit of rage, Bob crashed head-on into an oncoming car, killing himself and critically injuring Dorothy. My father, too grief-stricken, couldn’t bring himself to attend the funeral. I went in his place. Two nights later, Bob came to me in a dream. He told me not to fear death—that where he was, it was beautiful and peaceful, and death was not the enemy. My father wasn’t consoled, since the dream hadn’t been his to receive, but it planted in me a lasting seed of spiritual understanding.

Meaning: This visitation offered a profound sense of comfort, suggesting that consciousness continues beyond physical death. I’ve had several such dreams since, most recently following the death of a good friend—each one a quiet reassurance.

The Reincarnation of Bobby Clements (1987) — Remote Viewing and Past Lives

A month into my sobriety, I had three consecutive dreams in which my name was Bobby Clements—a teenager enlisting in WWII, then a bomber pilot shot down with the certainty we would all die. Decades later, my sister’s research uncovered the real story of Robert “Bobby” Kelly Clements of Nova Scotia, a bomber pilot whose life—down to hand-picking his five crewmates—matched my dreams with uncanny accuracy.

Meaning: My childhood aspirations to become a pilot, and later an electrician, echoed his life in ways too specific to dismiss as coincidence—suggesting our souls may carry echoes of past experience that shape the present journey.

A Dream of Healing and Self-Love (1988) — Healing and Visitation

I first met Diane “Di Di” McLoud in 1982, and by 1984 we had become lovers, though I sensed our relationship couldn’t survive our shared flaws. She died in 1988, struck by a drunk driver. Shortly after, she appeared in a dream: I was confronted by an aggressive, abusive man and pleaded with a policeman to arrest him. Di Di then took the officer’s place and told me plainly that for love to reappear fully in my life, I first had to “arrest” those same negative qualities within myself and rehabilitate my own passions.

Meaning: This was a direct message from my subconscious—and perhaps from Di Di’s spirit—that healing love always begins with self-rehabilitation.

The Prophecy of the Eight-Jeweled Ring (1988) — Prophetic

I dreamed of searching for a ring with eight jewels but could only find seven; a thought arose that the eighth would be found already mounted to the lost ring itself. At the time, I was engaged to Laurie H., a relationship that ended just weeks later. Decades passed. In 2004, my wife Sharon showed me the ring she’d bought, unprompted and without my involvement, for our second wedding in Las Vegas. It held seven small stones and one larger, distinguishing eighth stone—the ring from my dream, sixteen years earlier. Sharon had never read my journal, nor had I ever mentioned its contents to her.

Meaning: A stunning confirmation of life’s mysterious synchronicities—the future casting light into the present, with the answer waiting patiently to be found at the right moment. Sharon was the eighth jewel.

A Farewell to Randy Olson (1988) — Visitation and Divergence

In a dream, the sky seemed to open and heaven sang a beautiful song about Boston. I found myself flying, without a plane, and received a message that I would be leaving my lifelong friend Randy Olson behind for this phase of my life. Soon after, I traveled to Boston to visit the Mother Church of Christian Science, where I was unexpectedly given access to Mary Baker Eddy’s private study—a privilege I still can’t fully explain. My friendship with Randy grew distant in the years that followed; he continued drinking and smoking long after I’d left that life behind in my own recovery. The last time I saw him, he was loading a twelve-pack into his car, sick and bloated, seemingly avoiding my eyes. Years later, Sharon read his obituary in the newspaper: Randy had died of a heart attack, found in his car after a trip to get a sandwich. His funeral was poorly attended, a quiet end for a man who’d once had thousands of friends.

Meaning: This dream foretold a painful but necessary divergence of paths. I couldn’t carry him to the spiritual places I was called to visit—that willingness was his alone to find. He lives on within me still. You are still loved, my friend.

Grandfather, Great Spirit (1992) — Healing and Transcendence

While living in the Rock Creek area with Sharon, I dreamed I was back in my grandfather’s home, in the very bedroom I slept in as a child, when a fierce, fiery orb of pure light and love hovered above me—formless, yet unmistakably my late grandfather Henry. I understood that joining with it fully would destroy my body, too weak to hold that fire of love and wisdom. I didn’t care; I began to rise toward it anyway. Sharon, hearing my distress, woke me—and I had never felt so disappointed to return to waking life.

Meaning: In shamanic terms, I now recognize this as an encounter with the eighth chakra, the doorway between the immortal soul and the earthbound self. The dream left behind a clear directive: to one day hold that vibration, my body and mind needed to be dramatically strengthened—a conviction that helped carry me toward near-elite athletic fitness by age forty-six.

A Message from June Thomas (2016) — Mutual Dream

June Thomas, a woman I’ve known since 1990 and consider something of a spiritual sister, was visiting her ailing brother Dale in 2016. One night I dreamed I’d fallen in an unfamiliar bathroom and become trapped between the toilet and the wall—vivid enough to shake me upon waking. The next morning, June called to say that in the night, Dale had gone to the bathroom, fallen, and become trapped in that exact position.

Meaning: Coincidence, or evidence that our awareness extends beyond the five senses? I know my own answer; yours may differ.

The Cup and the Map (2017) — Spiritual Teaching

After a Friday evening seminar on mysticism with Matthew Fox, I fell into a deep sleep and had a dream in which I was fully, strangely awake. I opened a door into a well-lit, unfamiliar room, where a man greeted me and offered a cup. I understood that drinking from it would “intoxicate” me in a way still consistent with my sobriety. He led me to a table holding a map divided into two paths: one a solid, unbroken line; the other, several dotted lines that wove and intersected but never crossed the solid path, none with a clear beginning or end. Matthew wouldn’t interpret it for me—he simply told me to let it reveal its own meaning. On the drive home, it did: those who walk the solid line live within the ruts of convention, while those who choose the dotted, uncertain paths embrace the unknown as a constant companion, covering more of life’s scenery in exchange for the risk.

Meaning: This is the path of conscious evolution—curiosity and creativity forging new routes rather than conforming to expectation. As Tolkien wrote: not all who wander are lost.

The Electrician’s Dream for Marty Crouch (2018) — Personal Growth and Healing

I woke at 2:45 a.m. with a profound sense of presence, as though all of us were gathered together, and fell into a dream of a noisy industrial plant where an electrical system needed reconditioning. I understood that a safety lock had to be removed from the panel before the system could be trusted to run again.

Meaning: Healing requires releasing our self-protective controls and trusting the process, even when the noise of the mind and the fear of losing control make that trust feel impossible. Marty carried deep resistance to his own healing, layered over a lifetime; I hoped, through this dream, to show him the beauty and innocence beneath that armor. He maintained his health for only a few more weeks, but I believe the invitation to release control—toward the divine nature we all carry—remained true, whether or not he reached it in this life.

The Foundation Dream at 1440 Multiversity (2018) — Projection and Teaching

During a workshop with Alberto Villoldo, I dreamed of groups of people assembling the foundation of a great new building while Alberto silently observed. Afterward, a voice delivered a monologue on the nature of the “magnetic self,” which I countered eloquently—until, mid-dream, I turned to Sharon and asked, “Do I sound like an idiot?”

Meaning: Even within a dream of expanded consciousness, my oldest wound—self-doubt—found its way in. It remains my life’s work to make peace with that voice.

The Return of Grandfather, Great Spirit (2022) — Ancestral Spirit and Resolution

In 1987, during a transcendent meditation, the Sacred Silence showed me two mysterious “tricksters” embedded in my life energy field. I carried that unresolved image for twenty-nine years, sensing they weren’t there for my good but lacking any narrative to explain them—until, with the encouragement of Sharon, my late friend Marty Crouch, and the writer Sheila Hamilton, I began to understand them as the embedded wounds of trauma. On October 25, 2022, I woke at midnight in acute anxiety after another dream of my grandfather Henry. This time, we were together in a car with two dark, threatening figures. I knew I had to confront and remove them, even at the cost of my own life, to protect him.

Meaning: I am those tricksters when I remain unconscious of them, and I am Grandfather, Great Spirit, when I confront them and refuse the dark paths they point toward. Trauma’s dark forces—intergenerational and personal alike—touch all of us, whether we recognize them or not, and the adaptations we make to survive them often come to define us rather than free us. I grow sick when I stop looking, and I heal—along with anyone inspired by the telling—each time I choose to see.

Closing Reflection

It’s worth remembering that dreams, spirit connections, and past-life impressions are deeply personal. Each person’s journey is unique, and interpretations will vary—what holds profound meaning for one may not resonate with another. Approaching the mystical realm with an open mind and a sense of wonder, rather than certainty, is the only real requirement.

As we navigate this beautifully complex territory of dreams, spirits, and past lives, each vision and each realization becomes another building block in our spiritual journey. The wisdom is already there, waiting in the dotted lines of the map, for anyone willing to wander off the well-worn path. So let us keep exploring, keep learning, and keep growing—unraveling, dream by dream, the extraordinary possibilities that lie within.

Introduction:  Is Life But a Dream? Exploring the Waking and Sleeping Mind

Chapter 34: Spiritually Significant Dream Categories: Ten Dream Pathways Beyond the Ordinary Mind

Chapter 35: The Dreams That Entered My Life: Visitation, Prophecy, Remote Seeing, and the Mystery of Shared Consciousness

Chapter 36: The Cup, the Map, and the Inner Electric: Healing, Lucidity, Radical Empathy, and the Work of Conscious Evolution

Chapter 37: The Power of Then: The Process of Reclaiming Disassociated Parts of Ourselves, And Healing Traumas from Present or Past Lives

Chapter 39: Embracing a Distant Past: Reincarnation and the Wounded Healer

Chapter 1: The Nocturnal Nexus and the Mystical Intersection

Chapter 2: The Typology of the Ethereal – Categories of the Night

Chapter 3: The Architecture of Empathy and the Dissolution of the Ego

Chapter 4: Embracing a Distant Past and the Wounded Vortices of the Soul 

Chapter 38: Radical Empathy Dreams: Blurring the Boundaries of Self

Chapter 100:  Exploring the Mystical Realms–Dreams as a Gateway to Self-Healing and Empowerment 

Chapter 147: The Wisdom of Dreams — Gateways to Self-Healing, Spirit, and Past Lives

Introduction:  Is Life But a Dream? Exploring the Waking and Sleeping Mind

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily—life is but a dream.”

These words, deceptively simple in their rhyme and rhythm, have echoed through generations of childhood classrooms and lullaby-soaked bedrooms since their earliest known printing in 1852. Yet lurking beneath their lilting cadence is a philosophical proposition so profound that it has captivated scientists, mystics, and philosophers alike: What if life itself is a dream?

The closer we draw to the meaning of this ancient question, the more we begin to suspect that the boundary between waking and sleeping is not a wall, but a veil—thin, permeable, and perhaps illusory. Most of us assume that once we shake off the fog of sleep and open our eyes to the morning light, the dreaming is behind us. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The Architecture of the Dreaming Mind

To understand why life might be “but a dream,” we must first understand what a dream actually is—not merely as poetry, but as a neurobiological event.

During Rapid Eye Movement (REM) sleep, the brain does not power down. Rather, it ignites. The limbic system—the brain’s emotional core, housing structures such as the amygdala and hippocampus—surges with activity. Meanwhile, the prefrontal cortex, that seat of rational thought, moral reasoning, and executive function, goes largely offline. The result is a mental theater in which emotion runs freely, unchecked by logic or cultural conditioning. Images cascade. Narratives form without the scaffolding of reason. We fly, we fall, we encounter the dead as though they never left.

Dream researchers have long noted that this prefrontal suppression is not incidental—it is definitional to the sleeping dream state. Without the neo-cortex standing guard, the mind is liberated from its usual filters. We do not overthink. We do not moralize. We do not ask whether what we are experiencing is real. We simply experience.

This is in striking contrast to the waking state, where most humans engage the prefrontal cortex as both author and censor of their inner world. Waking perception is regulated—by cultural norms, religious frameworks, familial conditioning, and social expectation. The waking dream, if we dare call it that, is a far more tightly edited production.

And yet—it is still a production.

The Waking Dream: Projection Upon the Screen of the Senses

Throughout this book, we have been tracing the contours of a great trap: the trap that knowledge sets for the unwary traveler. Knowledge, we propose, is made of the same fundamental mind-stuff as dream imagery. The difference is not one of substance, but of consensus. Knowledge has been collectively ratified. It has been repeated, agreed upon, codified in language and law, passed from one generation to the next through the rituals of schooling, religion, and culture. We call it fact because enough of us have agreed to call it so.

Dreams, by contrast, use imagery and experience that resist collective validation. When you dream of a crimson door in a labyrinthine house, no one else can confirm it. When you dream of your grandmother sitting in her favorite chair, smiling as though she never died, there is no external tribunal to affirm or deny its reality. The dream remains yours—private, unshared, unverified.

But consider, for a moment, what happens in the waking state.

When we open our eyes, we do not perceive reality directly. We perceive a model of reality—one constructed by the brain from billions of sensory inputs, filtered through the lens of memory, belief, and expectation. Neuroscientist Anil Seth has described this process as “controlled hallucination.” The brain, he argues, is constantly generating predictions about the world and revising them against incoming sensory data. Perception, therefore, is not passive reception. It is active construction.

In this light, the waking world is not so different from the dream world. Both are projections of the mind upon the screen of experience. When we walk into a room and feel that someone dislikes us, when we encounter a stranger and immediately construct a narrative about who they are—these are acts of dreaming in the waking state. We are projecting our inner world outward, and then mistaking the projection for truth.

The mystic traditions of the East have long named this phenomenon. In Advaita Vedanta, the waking world is described as maya—illusion, or more precisely, a superimposition of the mind’s categories upon the undifferentiated fabric of consciousness. The Tibetan Buddhist teachings on the dream state propose that the bardo of waking life and the bardo of sleep are not categorically different: both are expressions of mind perceiving its own reflection.

Ultimately, on both levels—asleep and awake—all that we see, and will ever see unto eternity, is ourselves.

Carl Jung, Freud, and the Archetypal Grammar of Dreams

If the sleeping dream is a private projection, it is nonetheless a projection that speaks a shared language. Sigmund Freud was among the first to formalize this insight, proposing in The Interpretation of Dreams (1899) that the imagery of the sleeping mind was not random noise, but coded communication—symbols through which the unconscious expressed desires, fears, and conflicts that the waking ego could not safely acknowledge.

Carl Jung extended this framework considerably. For Jung, the unconscious was not merely personal—it was collective. Beneath the layer of our individual memories and repressions lay a vast, transpersonal reservoir of symbols, characters, and narratives shared by all of humanity across time and culture. He called these the archetypes: the Shadow, the Anima and Animus, the Wise Old Man, the Great Mother, the Hero. These figures, he observed, appeared not only in the dreams of his patients, but in the myths, fairy tales, and religious traditions of cultures that had never made contact with one another.

This means that even in the most private theater of the sleeping dream, we are not entirely alone. The imagery that rises up from the depths carries the watermark of the collective human story. Our dreams are personal, yes—but they are also ancient. When you dream of a serpent, you dream with every human being who has ever dreamed of a serpent. When you dream of a descent into darkness followed by a return to light, you are tracing the same mythological arc as Orpheus, as Persephone, as the Christ narrative of death and resurrection.

So even in our dream world, there exists a collective and historical influence upon our dreaming—just as in our waking perceptual world, where cultural, religious, and familial conditioning shapes the very way we see.

Similarities and Differences: A Neurobiological and Philosophical Comparison

When we place the sleeping dream and the waking dream side by side, several illuminating parallels emerge—alongside equally revealing contrasts.

What they share:

Both states involve the brain constructing a model of reality rather than perceiving it directly. Both are shaped by emotion, memory, and prior experience. Both can carry profound meaning. Both can deceive us. In both states, we are capable of remarkable creativity—it is no accident that artists and scientists alike have credited dreams (sleeping and waking) as sources of breakthrough insight. Dmitri Mendeleev claimed to have seen the periodic table in a dream. Paul McCartney famously heard the melody of Yesterday upon waking. The line between inspired waking thought and dream imagery is, in many cases, vanishingly thin.

Where they diverge:

The neurobiological differences are significant. In the sleeping dream, the prefrontal cortex’s diminished activity produces what researchers call “hypnagogic credulity”—the uncritical acceptance of whatever the dreaming mind presents. We do not question the logic of impossible events. The dragon does not puzzle us. The room that shifts and expands does not prompt rational inquiry.

In the waking state, prefrontal engagement restores what might be called the editorial function. We question, we analyze, we compare incoming experience against the accumulated archive of what we know to be true. We are less credulous—or so we believe.

And yet, here is the paradox: the beliefs through which the waking mind filters experience are themselves inherited dreams—collective narratives absorbed from family, culture, and history. The person who believes they are unworthy of love is not perceiving a fact; they are dreaming a wound. The culture that believes its superiority is destined is not reading the universe; it is projecting a story onto it. The waking mind, for all its prefrontal vigilance, remains in large part asleep to its own dreaming.

This is the great teaching that the old nursery rhyme, in its gentle wisdom, has always carried. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily”—an insistence on joy in the face of the unknown. And then the revelation: “Life is but a dream.”

When the Dream Bleeds Into the World: The Consequences of Dreaming Upon Others

There is a dimension of the dream that we have not yet fully reckoned with—one that moves the inquiry from the private theater of individual consciousness into the shared world we inhabit together. Dreams, it turns out, do not stay neatly inside the dreamer. They spill outward. They press upon the lives of those who dwell nearby. And the consequences of that spillage range from the tender to the catastrophic.

Consider the simplest case: a man is gripped by a nightmare. His body jerks. He cries out in the dark. His breath becomes ragged and shallow. And there, beside him, his wife wakes. Not because she has dreamed anything—but because the tremors of his private terror have crossed the invisible boundary between their two sleeping selves and found her. She reaches out. She places her hand upon his shoulder. She speaks his name, softly at first, then with greater urgency, until the dream releases him and he surfaces, blinking and disoriented, back into a room she has been holding steady on his behalf.

This small nocturnal drama contains, in miniature, one of the most profound truths about the nature of dreaming: we are never entirely alone within it. The sleeping dream, for all its apparent privacy, is porous. It broadcasts. The one who dreams does not merely observe a vision—they become the vision, and in becoming it, they emit it into the relational field.

The mystic traditions intuited this long before neuroscience could confirm it. In certain shamanic lineages, the dreams of powerful individuals—elders, healers, warriors—were understood to have consequences for the entire community. A shaman’s visionary descent was not regarded as a personal adventure; it was a communal undertaking, with attendants who sat watch through the night, holding the thread of ordinary reality so that the traveler might find their way back.

But what of the dreamer who does not find their way back?

Here, the inquiry grows darker, and considerably more urgent.

If the sleeping nightmare can press through the membrane of sleep and touch the one who lies beside us, what does the waking nightmare do—and to whom? The waking dreamer, unlike the sleeper, is mobile. He has agency. He possesses not only the imagery of his fear, but the tools of the world in which that fear is being enacted. He does not merely cry out in the dark. He acts.

There is a man—let us imagine him, though we do not have to look far to find him—who has constructed, from the raw material of his private wounds, an inner world in which he is perpetually besieged. The characters who populate his waking dream are threatening: the stranger on the street whose gaze lingers too long, the government that is engineering his ruin, the neighbor whose intentions seem sinister. These figures are not entirely real in the way the wife standing in the kitchen is real. They are projections—elaborations upon a theme of terror that has been rehearsed so long it has become indistinguishable from perception. He is not seeing the world. He is dreaming it.

And then—because the waking dream differs from the sleeping dream in one crucial, catastrophic respect—he reaches for a gun.

In that gesture, the private theater of one man’s inner life has erupted into the shared world with irreversible consequence. The dream has killed. The projection has taken a life. And the dreamer, by every neurological and psychological account available to us, was not lying when he said he was afraid. The fear was real. The threat, however, was a construction—a shadow on the wall of the cave, mistaken for a predator.

This is not merely a problem of individual pathology. It is a civilizational problem. History is littered with the wreckage of collective waking nightmares: genocides born of the dream that a people constitutes a contamination; wars ignited by the hallucination of existential threat; witch trials, inquisitions, and pogroms—all of them the acting-out of a dream that had been collectively ratified, legislated, and armed.

Herein lies the unsettling asymmetry between the sleeping dream and the waking one. When the sleeper writhes in his nightmare, there is usually someone who can reach across and wake him. The relationship between dreamer and witness is intimate, immediate, and fundamentally oriented toward the dreamer’s relief. The wife does not debate whether the nightmare is real. She simply reaches out.

But who wakes the waking dreamer?

This question is among the most pressing of our age. The man in the grip of a waking nightmare does not know he is dreaming. This is the nature of the condition—the very quality that makes the sleeping dream a dream is its immunity to meta-awareness. The sleeper does not know they sleep. And the waking dreamer, by the same token, does not perceive his terror as a projection. He perceives it as a fact. The world he inhabits is, to him, exactly as dangerous as it appears. To suggest otherwise is not merely unhelpful—it may be experienced as a further threat, one more move in the conspiracy arrayed against him.

The contemplative traditions, in their various vocabularies, speak of the role of a teacher—a guide, a guru, a roshi, a confessor—whose specific function is to interrupt the trance of the waking dreamer. Not through argument. Not through the presentation of contrary evidence, which the dreaming mind is extraordinarily skilled at assimilating into its existing narrative. But through something more intimate and more radical: the transmission of wakefulness itself.

In Zen, this interruption takes the form of the koan—an unanswerable question designed not to satisfy the intellect but to shatter it, creating a momentary fissure through which the light of bare awareness can enter. In the Sufi tradition, the master’s glance—the nazar—is spoken of as capable of dissolving the veils of illusion that the student cannot dissolve for himself. In contemporary psychotherapy, something analogous occurs in the therapeutic relationship when the client, held steadily within the witnessed presence of another, begins to see the dream they have been living as a dream.

In each case, the mechanism is essentially the same: the dreamer requires a witness who is sufficiently awake to hold the space of reality steady while the dream dissolves. Just as the wife holds the room while her husband surfaces from his nightmare, the contemplative teacher holds the field of wakefulness while the student negotiates their return from the waking dream.

The tragedy is one of scale and access. The sleeping man has his wife. But the waking dreamer—particularly the one who has already reached for the gun—may have no such witness near him. The social fabrics that once provided the containing relational field—extended family, religious community, intergenerational neighborhood—have thinned to the point of translucency in many parts of the modern world. And the digital architectures that have replaced them are, in many cases, not structures of awakening but amplifiers of the dream: algorithms designed to confirm and intensify whatever projection the user is already inhabiting.

This is the dream bleeding into the world. This is the consequence of private inner weather upon the shared atmosphere of collective life. And until we find more robust and widely available means of waking the waking dreamer—until the question “Who will reach out and shake his shoulder?” receives a serious cultural answer—we will continue to pay the price of dreams we have not yet learned to recognize as such.

Awakening Within the Dream

If life is a dream, the question that naturally arises is: Can we wake up within it?

Here, the traditions of contemplative spirituality converge with the emerging science of lucid dreaming. In a lucid dream, the sleeping dreamer becomes aware that they are dreaming. The prefrontal cortex, normally suppressed, partially reactivates. The dreamer can observe the dream, navigate it with intention, and even reshape its content. Lucid dreaming has been studied at institutions including Stanford University, where neuroscientist Stephen LaBerge devoted decades to mapping its neurological and experiential dimensions.

The contemplative traditions describe an analogous awakening in the waking state—a moment in which the individual recognizes the constructed, projected nature of their experience and steps back into a witnessing awareness that is no longer lost in the dream’s narrative. The Buddhist concept of rigpa, the Advaitic recognition of Brahman, the Sufi notion of fana (annihilation of the ego)—these are all, in their respective vocabularies, descriptions of lucidity within the waking dream.

What the nursery rhyme understood, what the philosophers have elaborated, and what the neuroscientists are only now beginning to map in their full complexity, is this: the mind is always dreaming. The question is not whether we are in a dream. The question is whether we are awake within it.

Chapter 34: Spiritually Significant Dream Categories: Ten Dream Pathways Beyond the Ordinary Mind

If we are to take dreams seriously, we must also take seriously their variety. Not all dreams are of the same order. Some are obvious reflections of daily stress. Some are symbolic processing. Some feel educational. Some feel sacred. Some arrive with a force, luminosity, or precision that separates them from the ordinary residue of the day. Over the years, and through both experience and reflection, I have come to recognize at least ten spiritually significant dream categories. These are not rigid compartments. Dreams often overlap categories. A healing dream may also be a visitation dream. A lucid dream may contain prophecy. A remote-viewing dream may produce radical empathy. Still, these ten forms provide a useful map for the dreamer moving through inner terrain.

1. Visitation Dreams Visitation dreams often come after the death of a loved one, though not always immediately. The deceased may appear healthy, luminous, emotionally clear, and strangely more themselves than they were at the end of life. The communication is often simple but profound: I am all right. Do not fear. Love continues. What distinguishes these dreams from ordinary memory is their quality. They carry an unmistakable sense of encounter. They do not feel manufactured. They arrive complete.

I have had more than one such dream, and they leave behind a peace unlike imagination. They challenge the assumption that death terminates relationship. At the very least, they heal grief by reorganizing the emotional field around the departed. At their deepest, they suggest that consciousness can survive in ways our culture is poorly equipped to discuss.

2. Prophetic Dreams Prophetic dreams are among the most unsettling because they disturb our ordinary understanding of time. These dreams do not necessarily present a fixed future. More often, they reveal probabilities, patterns, convergences, or symbolic previews. The dreaming mind may be processing subtle data beneath conscious awareness, or it may have access to dimensions of temporality that waking logic does not comprehend.

I have had dreams that later seemed to correspond with actual events so closely that coincidence felt too small a word. Yet I remain careful. Prophetic dreams are not fortune-telling toys. The future remains dynamic. Human choice matters. But dreams may cast forward along likely lines of development, offering warning, preparation, or recognition.

3. Warning Dreams Warning dreams occupy a vital place in the dream ecology. At times, they seem to arise from the body itself. At other times, they feel spiritual in origin. Either way, they serve a protective function. They may alert us to emotional danger, moral error, relational instability, or even physical illness. Sometimes they do so symbolically; sometimes with startling directness.

Accounts of health warnings in dreams are too numerous to dismiss casually. The body knows things before the conscious mind admits them. If waking life is full of denial, the dream may bypass that denial with a warning image or phrase. We need not interpret every disturbing dream as prophecy, but neither should we ignore the possibility that the psyche and body are collaborating in self-preservation.

4. Healing Dreams Healing dreams move us from fragmentation toward wholeness. They restore balance. They reconcile opposites. They sometimes involve sacred figures, deceased loved ones, teachers, ancestors, animals, landscapes of light, or ritual processes that feel older than the dreamer’s individual history. These dreams do not merely comfort; they reorganize. One awakens changed.

In my own life, healing dreams have often emerged after intense suffering, grief, or moral exhaustion. They have instructed me, corrected me, and brought me back into alignment with a deeper current of life. A true healing dream may take years to unfold in meaning, yet one knows immediately that something benevolent and powerful has occurred.

5. Heavenly Dreams Heavenly dreams deserve their own category because they are not simply visitation dreams, though they may include visitations. These dreams often involve realms of beauty, music, radiance, pathways, cities, gardens, songs, tunnels, or forms of presence that exceed language. They can feel like contact with a dimension of ultimate peace.

I have had dreams in which what I can only call the music of heaven was present, and the emotional effect of that sound remains beyond ordinary description. Such dreams are not necessarily theological proofs. They are experiential disclosures. They remind us that beauty may be a mode of revelation, and that the soul seems to recognize certain atmospheres as home.

6. Mutual Dreams A mutual dream occurs when two people dream the same or nearly the same content, often in separate locations. These dreams challenge our assumptions about individual consciousness. They suggest that minds may be more entangled than we understand. Sometimes these dreams occur between close friends, lovers, relatives, or spiritually linked people. More rarely, strangers appear to share dream material.

Mutual dreams imply that dreaming may not be a fully private event. If consciousness participates in a field larger than the individual ego, then dreams may be one of the ways that field becomes temporarily visible. The implications are staggering. We do not merely dream alone. At times, humanity may be dreaming through us.

7. Projection or Remote Viewing Dreams These dreams involve seeing, sensing, or inhabiting circumstances beyond the dreamer’s immediate location or ordinary knowledge. They are often dismissed because they do not fit accepted models of perception. Yet their recurrence across cultures and traditions suggests that some form of extended awareness may occur in dream states.

In older occult language, such experiences were sometimes described as telesthesia or traveling clairvoyance. I have had dreams that seemed to place me directly into remote situations later confirmed in waking life. These dreams demand humility. I do not claim mastery over them. I simply cannot deny the pattern. If consciousness is not strictly local, then the dream state may loosen the usual boundaries enough for remote perception to become possible.

8. Radical Empathy Dreams These are among the most philosophically provocative dreams I know. In a radical empathy dream, one seems to live through the actual perspective of another person. The dreamer may feel another’s fear, limitations, grief, bodily condition, or environment from the inside. It is more than imagining. It is participation.

These dreams blur the line between self and other. They ask whether identity is as sealed as we assume. They also hold moral significance. If dreams can train or deepen empathy by allowing us to experience another life from within, then the dream world may be one of the great unrecognized schools of compassion. In an age increasingly fragmented by ideology and digital overstimulation, radical empathy dreams may be among the last remaining sanctuaries of genuine human interconnectedness.

9. Personal Growth and the Act of Teaching Some dreams call the dreamer into greater maturity, responsibility, expression, or leadership. Teaching dreams belong here. In these dreams, one may be instructing others, guiding a group, presenting insight, solving a problem, repairing a structure, or being pushed to find a voice. These dreams often reveal unrealized capacity.

Teaching dreams are not always flattering. Sometimes they expose fear of visibility, resistance to responsibility, or doubt about one’s authority. Yet even then, they are initiatory. They indicate that the soul is preparing the individual for a wider expression of what has been learned. The dream says: do not merely survive your life; articulate it.

10. Lucid Dreams: A Mystery We Are Beginning to Understand Lucid dreams occur when the dreamer becomes aware that they are dreaming while the dream continues. This state is extraordinary because it combines the immersive symbolic environment of dreaming with a degree of waking-style awareness and sometimes volition. Current research has suggested that lucid dreaming involves distinct patterns of brain activity, including beta-wave associations more common in conscious waking thought. In some studies, lucid dreaming appears neurologically different from ordinary REM sleep, suggesting that consciousness can indeed arise from within sleep itself.

What fascinates me most is that lucid dreaming seems to occupy a threshold state: conscious, but not fully bound by waking logic; imaginative, but not merely chaotic. Some researchers have even compared aspects of the lucid dream state to the neurological correlates of psychedelic experience, though lucid dreams may preserve more self-awareness and agency. This matters profoundly. Lucid dreaming may reveal that consciousness is not binary, not merely awake or asleep, but layered, dynamic, and capable of remarkable hybrid states.

These ten categories are not meant to settle the question of dreams, but to expand it. They remind us that dream life is not monolithic. It is as varied as consciousness itself. We move through warning, grief, instruction, beauty, healing, memory, empathy, projection, and revelation, often in a single night.

And perhaps that is the deepest point. Dreaming is not a lesser mode of existence. It is one of the great theaters in which human consciousness explores its own vastness. The dreamer is not merely resting. The dreamer is traveling, learning, grieving, listening, remembering, healing, and at times touching mysteries that daylight consciousness cannot hold for long.

If you have ever awakened shaken by the reality of a dream, or transformed by its beauty, then you already know this. The dream world is not trivial. It is one of the hidden workshops of the soul.

Chapter 35: The Dreams That Entered My Life: Visitation, Prophecy, Remote Seeing, and the Mystery of Shared Consciousness

It is one thing to describe dreams philosophically. It is another thing to live with them as a recurring force in one’s own life. My own dream history has not allowed me the luxury of dismissing dreams as psychological leftovers. Too many have arrived with instruction, consolation, warning, symbolic precision, or correspondence to external events. They have been companions in grief, mirrors in recovery, and, at times, profound disruptions to my assumptions about selfhood and reality.

One of the earliest and most formative dreams of my life came in 1964, when I was eight years old. Before that time, my dream life had often been dominated by nightmare. Sleep was not always a welcome surrender. I would review the day at night, almost instinctively, as if by improving my waking conduct I might reduce the violence of the inner world. Then came the dream of the priest or shaman.

In the dream, this figure stood above his village, in an ancient landscape untouched by technology. He received instruction from “on high” and returned to tell the villagers to throw every idol, every sacred object, every golden figurine into the lake. They were to face evil without symbols, without divine proxies, without superstition. Then he himself stripped bare, entered his home, summoned the darkness, and fought with all his life force against a hidden enemy in the fog. As his strength drained away, the face of the feared evil finally appeared, and it was or might be his own.

Even now, I regard that dream as a complete spiritual and psychological teaching. It revealed projection before I knew the term. It showed me that what we demonize in the world often reflects unexamined contents within ourselves. It also challenged idolatry, not merely religious idolatry, but all false dependencies we create to avoid confronting our own shadow. That dream was no childish absurdity. It was a map.

This significant dream will be discussed in much greater detail in a later chapter.

Years later came one of the clearest visitation dreams I have ever experienced. Bob Fero had been part of my childhood world through my parents’ friends, square dancing circles, camping trips, and the ordinary intimacies of community life. He was not a perfect man. His anger had a destructive edge, and in 1972 his reckless driving killed him and permanently injured his wife Dorothy. Still, grief does not wait for moral simplification. Bob mattered. My father, devastated, could not bring himself to attend the funeral. I did.

Two nights later, Bob came to me in a dream. The communication was unmistakable: do not fear death. Where he was, he said, was beautiful and peaceful. Death was not the enemy. I cannot prove the ontological status of that encounter to anyone else, but I do not experience it as mere wish fulfillment. It had the unmistakable quality of visitation. I felt not fantasy, but contact. My father was not consoled by hearing of it, though I wish he could have been. Some insights cannot be borrowed. They must be encountered.

After recovery from addiction began in 1987, my dream life intensified in new ways. The nightmare phase of my youth had long since given way to something stranger and more luminous. One profound sequence involved a name: Bobby Clements. Over three consecutive nights, I dreamed a life that did not appear to be my own. First, I was a teenage boy named Bobby Clements with a group of close friends. Second, we enlisted together for World War II and insisted on serving together. Third, I was piloting an aircraft with these same companions when anti-aircraft shelling brought us down. We were all going to die. I knew it.

The sequence shook me. Later research eventually led, through my sister’s determined effort, to Robert “Bobby” Kelly Clements of Nova Scotia, a Lancaster bomber pilot in the RAF who reportedly hand-picked his crew, his close friends. The broad contours of the dream sequence matched the historical story with a force I still find difficult to explain away. Was this past-life memory? Remote viewing across time? An archetypal identification so strong it found historical resonance? I remain open. What I cannot do is pretend the dream was trivial.

This significant dream will also be discussed in much greater detail in a later chapter.

Another dream from that era carried both prophecy and personal tenderness. On March 17, 1988, I dreamed of searching feverishly for a discarded ring with eight jewels. I found seven of them, but not the mounting or the final stone. The dream communicated that the last jewel would be found mounted to the lost ring itself. There was also an unknown woman beside me, and I somehow knew she was not the final answer. Years later, in 2004, Sharon showed me the ring she had purchased for our second wedding in Las Vegas without my involvement in its selection. It held seven small stones and one larger, distinct eighth stone set in place. I had never told her about the dream. There are moments when symbolism arrives so specifically into life that the intellect can only stand back and stare.

Then there was the dream concerning my lifelong friend Randy Olson and Boston. In that vivid expanse of sleep, the sky parted, and heaven itself seemed to sing the words “Boston, Massachusetts.” I found myself flying without an airplane over the vast, churning Atlantic, receiving a profound message: I would be leaving Randy behind as I entered a new phase of existence. I obeyed this strange, divine pull, eventually finding myself immersed in Mary Baker Eddy’s world through the Mother Church and an improbable access to her private study.

The rationality of this visionary parting became painstakingly clear in the waking world. Randy was the man who had woven the threads of my early demise, introducing me to marijuana, Portland’s volatile nightlife with its diversity of intoxicants, and a perilous underworld. Our shared descent culminated in a harrowing blackout on March 18, 1987—a night that nearly ended in unspeakable tragedy before a sudden intervention violently shocked me into what would become decades of profound sobriety. When an intense spiritual awakening followed two months later, I brought that divine energy directly to Randy. Though he physically felt it, he confessed his deep fear that God would irrevocably change him. He chose the familiar comfort of his self-destruction over the terrifying prospect of spiritual metamorphosis.

Thus, the dream merely echoed the inescapable logic of our diverging realities. While I was pulled toward recovery, philosophical exploration, and a vast spiritual community, Randy remained tethered to a fading world—a path that eventually led to an early death and a painfully sparse funeral in 2013. He remained deeply beloved to me, a man who gave me a part of one life even as he nearly cost me another. The dream stood behind that whole stretch of history like a quiet, philosophical witness, acknowledging the tragic but necessary separation of two souls bound by love but separated by the pursuit of salvation.

One of the most striking dreams in the category of projection, remote viewing, or radical empathy came on May 12, 2016. June Thomas, a dear friend and in many ways a spiritual sister, was visiting her ill brother Dale in Medford, Oregon. That night I dreamed that I had fallen in an unfamiliar bathroom and become trapped between the toilet and the wall. The dream was so vivid and unsettling that I told Sharon about it upon waking. Later that same morning, June called and reported that during the night Dale had gone to the bathroom, fallen, and become trapped between the toilet and the wall.

This dream matters immensely to me because it is so difficult to flatten into conventional explanation. It was not a vague premonition. It was a highly specific embodied experience, one that later corresponded to an actual event involving someone I cared about but was not physically near. What am I to do with such a thing? Dismiss it to preserve orthodoxy? I cannot. Dreams like this suggest that consciousness may extend beyond the physical body’s immediate limits, particularly in states where the ego’s defensive structure is softened. They do not prove a tidy theory, but they break the spell of reductionism.

What may be happening in such a dream? Perhaps love creates channels of sensitivity we scarcely understand. Perhaps relational bonds remain active across distance. Perhaps the dream state allows one to enter what I have elsewhere called the collective or shared field of consciousness. June had long felt to me like kin at the soul level. It would not surprise me if dreams move most freely along the lines of such invisible kinship.

Taken together, these dreams have formed a kind of counter-education to modern certainty. They do not ask me to abandon reason. They ask reason to grow larger. They ask me to consider that grief, love, history, identity, and consciousness are far more fluid than our waking categories admit. The dream world has been, for me, a laboratory of the sacred, a site where the inner and outer worlds repeatedly cross.

I do not offer these accounts as dogma. I offer them as testimony. They belong to the strange archive of a lived life. If they suggest anything to the reader, I hope it is this: do not dismiss the dream because it disrupts your inherited worldview. Sometimes disruption is the beginning of a more spacious truth. Sometimes a dream is not an escape from life, but life arriving from another direction.

Chapter 36: The Cup, the Map, and the Inner Electric: Healing, Lucidity, Radical Empathy, and the Work of Conscious Evolution

Among all the dreams that have shaped me, a few stand apart because they do more than comfort or symbolize. They instruct. They diagnose the soul. They illuminate the hidden labor of transformation. They act almost as initiations. Some expose wounds. Some reveal what must be surrendered. Some open into states of consciousness so refined and lucid that one wakes knowing that the dream was not merely about truth. It was itself an event of truth.

One such dream came through grief and love. Diane “Di Di” Mcloud was not a peripheral figure in my life. I loved her deeply. Ours was not a simple romance, and I knew even while in it that both of us carried toxic faults that would make permanence difficult. Yet love does not wait for perfection before it binds itself to memory. After her death in 1988 as the result of a drunk driver, she appeared in one of the most important healing dreams I have ever received.

In the dream, I was confronted by a violent, abusive, deeply unkind man whose presence revolted and frightened me. I called to a policeman, pleading for protection and for the man’s arrest. Then Di Di stepped forward, replacing the policeman, and spoke with piercing clarity: if love was to return fully to my life, I must first arrest these same qualities within myself. I must rehabilitate my own passions. Only then would love reappear.

That dream was not sentimental. It did not flatter me in grief. It used grief as an opening for moral truth. It revealed that what I found intolerable outside myself was not wholly absent within. The dream called for self-interruption, for an arrest of toxic masculine force, aggression, domination, and unredeemed passion. It insisted that love is not merely found; it must be made possible by inner work. The dream ended, but its demand did not. In many ways, I have been living inside that instruction ever since.

Another dream of enormous significance came in 1992 and involved what I can only call Grandfather Great Spirit. In that dream, I was in my grandfather’s home, in the bedroom of my childhood, and above me hovered a fierce orb or cluster of pure light and love. Though it had no human form, I knew it was my deceased grandfather. In shamanic language, one might speak of higher chakra experience; in the language of my own heart, it was my grandfather as a vessel of transcendent love and wisdom. I felt myself being drawn upward into that field, and I knew with certainty that my body was too weak to sustain it. Yet I wanted to go. Sharon, hearing my physical distress, woke me from what she assumed was a nightmare. I woke devastated, not relieved.

The significance of that dream deepened over years. It taught me that if I wished to embody higher vibrations of love, my physical and psychological structures had to be strengthened. Revelation without capacity can become destructive. Energy requires grounding. Spirit requires embodiment. I have long believed that this dream was part of the hidden motivation behind the strengthening of my body and life in the years that followed. Love, if it is real, is not vague. It demands preparation.

A later follow-up dream involving my grandfather brought further clarity. In that dream, dark threatening figures were in the car with us, and I knew I had to confront them to protect him. Over time I came to see these “tricksters” as embedded wounds of trauma within my own life energy. To save Grandfather, Great Spirit, was to clear the field of those destructive forces. The deepest spiritual presences in our lives do not remove us from shadow work. They compel it.

Then there is the dream about June’s brother Dale, which I maintain as a major instance of radical empathy or remote viewing. The dream’s importance lies not only in its eerie accuracy, but in what it suggests about the moral architecture of consciousness. I did not merely observe an event from a distance. I felt the predicament from within. I awoke shaken because the dream had the density of embodiment. For me, this dream remains one of the clearest indicators that dreaming can involve participation in another’s experience through channels of connection we do not understand. The implications are spiritual, psychological, and ethical. If consciousness can extend itself in compassion through dream space, then perhaps empathy is not merely emotional imagination. Perhaps it is a latent faculty of shared being.

And then there is the dream that emerged around the Cosmic Christ workshop with Matthew Fox, which I regard as one of the clearest dream teachings of my entire life.

After an evening seminar on mysticism, I slept deeply and dreamed with unusual lucidity. I entered a well-lit room. A man stood to the right of the entrance holding out a cup. I knew that if I drank from it I would become intoxicated, but not in contradiction to sobriety. This was a different order of intoxication, a holy intoxication, a dissolving of conditioned limitations rather than a descent into unconsciousness. Near him was a table holding an open topographic map. On the right side of the map ran one dark, solid line from bottom to top. On the left were many dotted lines, intersecting, wandering, curving, paralleling without merging. None had obvious beginnings or endings.

The dream stayed with me not merely because of its beauty, but because of its interior certainty. I was unusually awake within it. There was lucidity there, not only in the technical sense of knowing one is dreaming, but in the spiritual sense of receiving coherent instruction from within the dream state itself. The next day, at the workshop, Matthew Fox invited anyone with a dream to share. I hesitated. Later, privately, I told him about it. He smiled and refused to explain it for me, saying only to let the dream tell me its meaning.

It did.

On the drive home, as I recounted it again to Sharon, the meaning broke open through horripilation, through what I call God chills. The solid line on the right was the rut of conditioned life: inherited systems, institutional certainty, socially approved pathways, the road of obedience without discovery. The dotted lines on the left were the pilgrimage of conscious evolution, where the path is made only through walking, where uncertainty is not a problem but a companion, where one chooses curiosity over conformity. The offered cup was the invitation to drink from Spirit itself, to accept a consciousness-altering participation in mystery without abandoning sobriety of soul.

That dream deserves development because it captures something central to the whole dream world: dreams do not merely reflect the life we have lived. They invite the life we have not yet dared to live. The map was not geography. It was vocation. It named the difference between a managed life and an awakened one.

This dream also belongs in the category of lucid mystery because it aligns strikingly with what research has begun to suggest about lucid dreaming. Studies drawing on EEG data have indicated that lucid dreams involve unusual combinations of REM sleep and waking-like brain activity, particularly beta-wave associations tied to conscious awareness, problem-solving, spatial processing, and self-reflective cognition. That matters to me because it implies that the dream world can host not only symbolism and emotion, but genuine conscious participation. Dreaming may be one of the states in which the self becomes aware within mystery rather than simply carried by it.

Some researchers have even noted neurological echoes between lucid dreaming and psychedelic states, particularly in relation to altered imagery and modified self-processing. Yet lucid dreams may preserve more agency than psychedelics often do. This is a profound idea. It means that the dreamer may enter visionary terrain without losing the capacity for response. Consciousness need not be extinguished for transcendence to occur.

That possibility aligns with my own experience. The Cosmic Christ dream did not reduce me to passive awe. It invited interpretation, participation, and eventually commitment. It asked me which side of the map I intended to live on.

The same pattern appears in the electrician dream connected to Marty Crouch. We were in a noisy industrial plant. An electrical system needed reconditioning. I was told that a security lock had to be removed from an electrical panel. Symbolically, it was obvious: self-protective mechanisms can keep the system safe during emergency work, but they must eventually be removed if energy is to flow again. Protection can become obstruction. Fear can masquerade as wisdom. Healing requires re-energizing the system after the repair.

For an electrician, this symbolism is not decorative. It is organic. I understand systems, grounding, overload, flow, interruption, and restoration. Dreams have repeatedly used that language because it is native to my life. The soul speaks in the images we are built to understand.

To honor dreams, then, is not to become irrational. It is to become more fully human. It is to admit that consciousness is wider than our daylight habits. It is to recognize that some of our deepest repair work occurs offstage, in the unseen workshop of sleep, where maps are opened, cups are offered, the dead speak, the future flickers, and the hidden system waits for re-energizing.

Yet, as this circuitry is re-energized, we inevitably discover that the power coursing through us does not originate solely from our present waking life. The hidden system connects to a much older grid. When we truly begin the process of healing from our human condition, we never know in advance how far back the wires will lead us. To fully reclaim the self, we must turn our attention not only to the nocturnal nexus of dreams, but to the distant echoes of past incarnations and the disassociated fragments of our soul that await our conscious embrace.

Chapter 37: The Power of Then: The Process of Reclaiming Disassociated Parts of Ourselves, And Healing Traumas from Present or Past Lives

Embracing a Distant Past

Writer’s note: As explored throughout the broader journey of An Electrician’s guide to our universe, and a life, love, and death upon its unlimited bandwidth, when we begin the process of healing from our human condition, we never know in advance what direction our path will lead us. Such continues to be the case for me.

The tapestry of our lives is often far richer and more intricate than it first appears. Lying beneath the surface of a singular human experience may be countless threads spun from human archetypes, historical narratives, past incarnations, or disassociated aspects of the present self. Each holds the echoes of forgotten traumas, triumphs, and incomplete journeys. When these fragments of the soul remain hidden in the unconscious, they operate as invisible puppeteers. They dictate our reactions, define our fears, and enforce limitations, giving us the illusion of free will while secretly binding us to ancient scripts. True freedom is an impossibility until these unseen forces—whether born of past-life karma or present-life disassociation—are brought into the light of conscious awareness.

Human consciousness is not a singular, fixed entity. The soul houses wounds older than the body it inhabits, wrapped delicately in layers of forgotten incarnations. During a meditation on July 21, 1987, I received a profound spiritual teaching intertwined with a most confusing revelation. Ever so briefly, in a twice-in-a-lifetime experience, I could see the field of energy that constituted my body/mind awareness. I saw embedded within it two almost complete thought or identity forms, which I recognized as distinct caricatures, or entities. I had two “extras” attached to my field, and I immediately understood that they were not there for my greater good.

I came to regard these two unwelcome components of my life force as tricksters, though I noted that their presence allayed the feelings of loneliness of my ego, perhaps because they seemed vaguely familiar. I sensed that I was supposed to let go of these illusions of self, but I did not know what to do with them until I revisited them consciously in recent years. Little did I know that they were to become the most critical components to understand in my desire to heal from trauma and reclaim my autonomy.

Part 1: Unraveling the Wounded Energy Vortices of the Soul

Two specific vortices have shaped my energy field, mirroring fragments of past lives that resonate powerfully in my present. One emerges from a life as an ancient shaman, a healer tethered to the spiritual forces of the earth. The other stems from the life of Bobby Clements, an ill-fated WWII pilot surrounded by camaraderie and sacrifice but plagued by loss.

The Wounded Healer The shamanic vortex was deeply rooted in the archetype of the wounded healer, a paradox I have often lived without fully understanding. My childhood was rife with night terrors, bedwetting, abandonment fears, and a desperate yearning for connection that rarely found nourishment in peers. Yet, intuitively, I always bridged my inner world with spiritual forces I could barely name.

At eight years old, in 1964, I had a unique, realistic dream that perfectly encapsulated this ancient energy. Having received his directive from “on high,” a priest returned to his village along a high mountain lake. He instructed the villagers to throw every golden figurine and sacred symbol into the lake, telling them they must face the “evil one” without protection from their gods. The priest then retreated to his own home, stripped himself bare, and began summoning the dark forces. Surrounded by fog, sparks flew from his fingertips toward an unknown adversary. As he sacrificed all his life force to pierce the fog and finally see the face of the force that had terrorized his village, a face materialized before his faltering gaze. Collapsing, he could no longer fight an undeniable truth: the face of the evil one was his own.

This dream remains a significant teaching. Idolatry and psychological projection are the modern names for the phenomena shown to me. The shaman forced his village to face their shadow without the help of gods, and I feel certain the village shadow prematurely ended his life for his efforts. Before this energy was made conscious, its negative influence manifested in my present life as a deep-seated fear of abandonment and a crippling hesitation to share my spiritual truths. The shaman’s unresolved trauma whispered that spiritual authenticity equated to alienation and destruction, erecting invisible walls around my heart that prevented true communion with the world.

The Unfulfilled Leader The second vortex bore the mark of Bobby Clements. In April of 1987, after being sober for about a month following sixteen years of hell, I had a series of three dreams on consecutive nights. In the first dream, I was a young teenager named Bobby Clements, hanging out with five close buddies. In the second, we were all enlisting together to enter WWII, demanding to fly on the same plane. In the third, I was piloting the aircraft with my friends in support roles. We flew into anti-aircraft shelling, taking a fatal blow. As the plane plummeted, I knew we were all going to die.

I researched the name extensively, coming up short until decades later when my sister discovered Robert “Bobby” Kelly Clements of Nova Scotia, Canada. Robert flew a Lancaster bomber for the RAF out of England, and records showed he hand-picked his crew: his five Nova Scotia friends. His story was identical to my dream sequence.

Because Bobby’s final conscious act was one of fatal failure—plummeting from the sky with the crew he had sworn to protect—my own subconscious decision-making was infected by an expectation of inevitable ruin. Bobby’s despair turned inward against me, breeding a profound self-doubt and a depressive paralysis that culminated in a desire to end my own life in 1986. I hesitated to commit to a path, to build a future, or to trust my own leadership, because an unintegrated part of my soul believed that taking the helm would only lead to devastating loss.

The Synergistic Paralysis

These two past incarnations did not merely influence me independently; they merged into a powerful, synergistic force that severely restricted my freedom in this life. The shaman’s trauma dictated that exposing my spiritual authenticity would lead to my ultimate destruction at the hands of those I tried to help. Simultaneously, Bobby’s unresolved grief convinced me that stepping into any leadership role would inevitably result in the catastrophic ruin of those who trusted me. Together, these intertwined energies created a compounding paralysis. I was terrified to step forward as a spiritual leader or guide, trapped by the dual subconscious conviction that doing so would simultaneously destroy me and fail everyone who relied on me. My free will was entirely usurped by this invisible intersection of ancient fears.

Part 2: Revisiting the Unraveling and the Path to Wholeness

There is an infinite power accessible through becoming lovingly present for “the then.” Yet, many of us live within the confines of “the now,” unable to fathom the depth of these fragments’ influence. Cultural norms and modern-day psychology have conditioned us to frame our challenges solely within the narrative of our childhoods. While significant, it is not the full picture.

These energy vortices do not emerge as straightforward figures but as patterns in your energy field, recurring dreams, vivid meditations, or deeply embedded emotions that feel larger than this life alone. Clues of past-life dynamics often appear through frequent dreams, compulsion-driven decisions, and karmic relationships. Understanding these themes is not about being stuck in the past; it is a path to reclaiming your autonomy. Through introspection, I have developed a three-step process to dismantle these unconscious controls:

Recognition: Notice recurring patterns or archetypal behaviors. Honor the inner acknowledgment of dissonance.

Integration: Employ tools like meditation or journaling to invite the fragments back home. The goal is not to erase the past but to honor it.

Transcendence: View these echoes not as burdens, but as teachers. Acknowledge that time simply creates the context for understanding cycles of spiritual growth.

While there is value in understanding the psychological utility of archetypes, dismissing these experiences as mere imagination strips them of their transformative power. Treating these fragments as real, living components of the spiritual self demands a level of radical vulnerability and accountability that traditional therapy often skirts. By meeting these energies where they are, we stop pathologizing our spiritual depths and begin the sacred work of reclaiming our disassociated parts.

The Spiral of Healing

Healing from the wounds of past incarnations is not a linear march toward perfection; it is a continuous, upward spiral of self-awareness. When I finally recognized and integrated the shaman and the pilot, they ceased to be my captors. They transformed from architects of my suffering into wise companions on my expansive spiritual path. The shaman taught me to transform suffering into light without seeking external validation, and the pilot provided a compass for deep loyalty that does not require the sacrifice of my own individuality.

We are all carrying the weight of wounds far older than the bodies we inhabit. Yet, within those very wounds lies the dormant light of countless lifetimes, waiting to be unleashed. I urge you to look closely at the recurring patterns, the inexplicable fears, and the persistent shadows that haunt the periphery of your life. Do not dismiss them. Seek out the forgotten fragments of your soul and invite them back into the whole. It is only by bravely facing the entirety of our “then” that we can untangle the strings of the unconscious and truly embody the freedom, the peace, and the unlimited bandwidth of our “now.”

Tis champion of a lonely dream world to which you aspire. Stop resuscitating dead illusions with mental pugilist blows, And a peaceful mind will replace the confusion you now know. What do you see when you glance into the mirror? A body? A mind? A projection of your woundedness, or a reflection shaped by the judgments you carry? Or do you glimpse something far deeper, the essence of who you truly are? This question, on the surface, may seem simple—but its depths reach into psychology, neuroscience, and our shared spiritual experience. Projection, a concept often discussed as a psychological defense mechanism, extends beyond our interpersonal conflicts. It manifests in families, communities, religions, and even nations. “All that you see is yourself.” These words reflect an ancient truth, one that challenges our surface understanding of perception and the judgments we carry. Every reaction to another person, every assessment of what is “good” or “evil,” holds up a mirror reflecting our unexamined selves. What we fear most, the “enemy” we see in others, often turns out to be the unrecognized shadow of our own being. Perception originates within each of us in a unique creative form. Yet, what you see “out there” is deeply intertwined with the narratives and associations you’ve built “in here.” Our inner world serves as a lens, shaping how we perceive reality. We have been assembling an internal model of reality since we were quite young, according to Piaget, and this is our unique creation and the glasses we must look through. Without self-awareness, this lens becomes clouded, chaining us to patterns of fear, projection, and misunderstanding. Piaget’s theory of cognitive development provides insight into how early in life this process begins. He argued that children construct their internal models of the world stage by stage, using sensory experiences and interactions to assemble frameworks for understanding their environment. These models are not passive recordings of the external world, but active and creative interpretations that evolve into the schemas we carry as adults. It is through these schemas that we approach new experiences, often interpreting them through assumptions rooted in our earliest perceptions. Furthermore, Piaget highlighted that as we grow, equilibrium between assimilation (integrating new information into existing schemas) and accommodation (altering schemas to incorporate new information) becomes essential. Without this balance, our internal lens can remain fixed, distorting our perspective of the world. For instance, a child who grows up associating discipline with rejection might carry this unresolved narrative into adulthood, projecting fears of abandonment onto authority figures or relationships. To recalibrate this lens, a process of both cognitive and emotional self-reflection is necessary. But how can we confront something as elusive as perception? To uncover the layers of projection and move closer to clarity, we must dare to venture inward. There are many tools available to assist us in this search for truth, including dream study, cognitive behavioral therapy, journaling, mindfulness and meditation techniques The story of a dream I had during my childhood continues to serve as a beacon of insight for me to this day, illustrating how facing our fears and ourselves is at the heart of transformation. The dream began in a high mountain village by a serene lake, reminiscent of landscapes as timeless as Lake Titicaca in the Andes. Here, the village priest received a divine command, one that was as bold as it was unsettling. He informed the villagers that they were to cast away every golden figurine, every sacred symbol, into the depths of the lake. These objects, meant to protect them, were to be abandoned. Then, the priest instructed each person to face the “evil one” dwelling in their homes without these symbols of comfort or protection. The priest did not exempt himself from this unsettling task. He returned to his home, stripped himself of his garments, and prepared to summon the dark forces. A dense fog surrounded him as sparks cascaded from his fingertips, channeled toward the enemy hidden in the mist. His pulse quickened, sweat dripped, and dread began to overtake him. He pushed on, straining to confront the menacing presence. Finally, a face began to materialize through the fog. And in his final moment of clarity before collapse, the priest realized a profound truth that shattered his understanding of fear and evil. The face of the “evil one” might be his own. The symbolism of the dream is both personal and universal. By discarding their idols, the villagers relinquished their dependence on external symbols of security, setting the stage for true self-discovery. The priest, taking this step further, found the possibility of his own reflection in the adversary he thought he was battling. This act of confronting fear without the crutch of external protections highlights a deep truth about human nature. True peace and resilience arise not from suppressing fear, but from engaging with it directly. The priest’s struggle illustrates the paradox that in seeking to destroy what we fear, we often come face to face with fragments of ourselves. Through this lens, the dream becomes more than a personal narrative. It is a window into the human condition, speaking to our shared tendency to project unacknowledged fears, desires, and judgments onto others. Psychological projection, a concept popularized by Carl Jung, is the act of attributing one’s own unconscious feelings, traits, or impulses to others. It functions as a defense mechanism, shielding us from the discomfort of confronting our inner conflicts. Neuroscience confirms how subjective perception shapes our reality. Sensory input, filtered through memory, emotion, and bias, creates a unique internal reality for each individual. However, our perceptual lens is not constructed in isolation. Trauma, both personal and intergenerational, profoundly alters the way we see the world. Those who have endured trauma often experience heightened states of vigilance, as their nervous systems have been shaped by the echoes of past threats. The scars of trauma embed themselves in our perceptions, influencing how we assess danger, trust others, and interpret ambiguous situations. At times, projection becomes an unconscious tool for survival, a way to externalize internal chaos in an attempt to find order. Unresolved trauma acts as a conductor, amplifying projection until it reverberates not just in individuals, but across families and even generational lines. Consider a parent, scarred by their upbringing, projecting their fears onto their child. Or a community, burdened by historical trauma, creating scapegoats from outsiders. Intergenerational trauma compounds this mechanism, adding layers of inherited pain to the distortions of perception. Addressing projection in the context of trauma requires not only self-awareness but also the courage to heal the wounds carried within. Forgiveness becomes a bridge—not just to others, but to parts of ourselves fractured by pain. Projection often thrives in the absence of forgiveness. Unresolved pain and resentment distort our perceptions, leading us to externalize blame onto others. When we fail to forgive, we perpetuate cycles of projection that deepen divisions and prevent healing. Take, for instance, a grudge held against someone who has wronged you. Instead of addressing the underlying hurt, you construct narratives that amplify their flaws. This act of storytelling becomes a way to avoid self-examination, trapping you in a loop of blame and denial. Forgiveness interrupts this cycle. By choosing to forgive, we confront and release the pain within ourselves, freeing both ourselves and others from the burden of blame. Forgiveness is not about excusing harmful behavior but about dismantling the walls between projection, judgment, and inner truth. William Blake urged, “If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is—infinite.” What does it mean to cleanse these doors? It means moving beyond the limitations of conditioned thinking and seeing life in its fullness. It is a shift from judgment to understanding, from projection to self-awareness. To begin this process, consider these practices:

• Mindful Observation: Observe your thoughts and emotions without attaching to them. Learn to differentiate between reality and your inner stories.
• Challenge Biases: Reflect on a strong belief or judgment you hold. Is it rooted in truth, or does it stem from unexamined fears?
• Meditation: Stillness allows you to transcend the filters of past experiences and encounter pure awareness.
• Radical Openness: Engage respectfully with perspectives you once dismissed. This act of listening can reveal more about yourself than about others.

The external world is not a neutral space but a mirror reflecting the depths of our inner selves, both individual and collective. Reality, as we perceive it, is never objective—it is filtered through the lens of our conditioning. Yet within this truth lies a profound opportunity. By examining the judgments and fears we project outward, we can uncover the hidden aspects of our psyche. The shadow we fear most is often our own. Jiddu Krishnamurti once observed, “You are not an individual; you are part of the vast mind of man. When you realize this fact, you enter into an extraordinary world. You are the entire humanity.” True freedom, then, does not spring from controlling the external world but from mastering our internal landscape. When we strip away the idols, confront our shadows, and accept uncomfortable truths, we touch the essence of shared humanity. Within this shared experience lies both great turmoil and immense healing potential. Freed from the weight of our past wounds, we are better equipped to engage with the pressing social issues of our time. Take a moment today to confront an uncomfortable truth about yourself. Name it, accept it, and bear witness to it. This act of courage does not diminish you; it liberates you. By turning inward, we free ourselves from the boomerang effects of unconscious projections. These projections, when unnoticed, often return to harm us. Becoming conscious of our shadows, of the judgments we cast, is a step toward inner peace and clarity. Through this sacred self-exploration, the universe perceives itself, and we come to understand our place within a vast, interconnected whole. Yet, we are not only individuals. We carry a collective identity that overlays our singular experiences. This collective identity is both powerful and susceptible, understood deeply by masters of propaganda and by the self-aware. Unconscious collective patterns can drive us toward profound harm if left unexamined. For example, we are not immune to the destructive forces of what could be called “Trump’s dark enlightenment”—the institutionalized and normalized projection of hatred. The values of deceit, performative hatred, and predatory manipulation ripple through our collective psyche, impacting us all in ways that demand awareness and courage. It is not only permissible but necessary to reject destructive figures and ideologies. Rejecting Trump and his parade of deceit and criminality has taught me vital lessons about myself:

• I despise creeps, sexual predators, and cons.
• I abhor the use of performative hatred as a tool for manipulation.
• I can name destructive behavior without fear of a shadowy boomerang effect.

Speaking truth to power is not an act of diminishing ourselves; it is an act of collective healing. By understanding and rejecting what corrodes our shared humanity, we strengthen our stand in truth. As we heal individually, we become spiritually present and prepared to confront and transform the disfigured and corrupted aspects of our collective identity. The most profound freedom emerges not from external triumphs but from the clear insight into our individual and collective selves. From this space of clarity, we can shed the burdens of unconscious projections and replace them with conscious truth. Healing begins here. And in the collective truth of our shared humanity lies the path to lasting peace and understanding.

Cleansing the Lens of Perception to Transform Ourselves and the World

To see the world clearly is one of life’s greatest challenges. Our perceptions, clouded by prior experiences, biases, and emotional debris, often distort the reality in front of us. Cleansing the lens through which we view the world is no easy task. Yet, when approached with intention and earnestness, it can lead to profound inner transformation, greater compassion for others, and a clearer understanding of the darkness and light that coexist within humanity. This process requires the courage to confront what lies within us and the humility to understand how it shapes the way we see the world. It not only offers personal liberation but extends a ripple of peace and clarity to the collective. What might we uncover, and what transformations might occur, when we undertake this challenging yet vital work? Reflecting on the human condition often travels through unexpected places. For me, it came through observing, understanding, and then despising the behavior of Donald Trump. To call him a “bad human being” without hesitation was, ironically, a revelation about myself. What I discovered was not simply dislike for one person, but a much deeper truth about my values and the behaviors I am unwilling to tolerate in myself or others. I despise manipulation, self-interest at the cost of others, and the degradation of truth. By examining my emotions toward his actions, I came face-to-face with my own internal judgments and moral boundaries. Here lies an essential paradox of perception. When we evaluate others’ actions, are we truly seeing them for who they are, or are we projecting our own hidden tendencies? This question led me further down the path of understanding. The world we inhabit feels irreparably fractured, filled with broken systems and broken people. It’s tempting to externalize this brokenness, to see it strictly as a flaw of “others.” Yet, when we take a moment to pause and reflect, we see that this brokenness exists within us as well. Our unhealed wounds, our unacknowledged pain, and our unresolved anger feed into the collective condition. The flaws we despise in others often act as mirrors, reflecting back aspects of ourselves we’ve yet to confront. This recognition does not absolve harmful actions or justify wrongdoing. Instead, it calls for an inward turn, a willingness to address our inner fractures before we dare critique the broken fragments of the world around us. Healing ourselves is not just a personal endeavor; it is a revolutionary act. Each time we choose self-awareness over denial, forgiveness over bitterness, and love over fear, we move closer to clarity. When we cleanse our perceptions and address the shadows within, we find that judgment is replaced with discernment. The floodwaters of emotional reaction subside, revealing the quiet truths beneath them. Only then can we begin to see others as they are, untangled from the web of our projections and assumptions. Through healing, we can develop both the vision to identify darkness where it exists and the wisdom to act from a place of love rather than resonance with that darkness. Thus, we reclaim our ability to evaluate others and situations more accurately, free from the distortions of our unhealed inner worlds.

Once we see clearly, we find ourselves face-to-face with an essential truth. The world contains both profound beauty and heartbreaking evil. This duality compels us to make choices—not to ignore the darkness, but to confront it with courage and love. The act of fighting evil, however, is fraught with complexity. It requires aligning ourselves with deeper truths and resisting the temptation to fight fire with fire. Hate cannot end hate, as it merely amplifies the cycle of destruction. Instead, we must engage the world with a sense of deep integrity, allowing clarity and love to drive our actions. It is here that life demands the most of us. Acting in harmony with higher truths while confronting the shadows of the world is no small task. It demands resilience, introspection, and a commitment to growth. Yet, it is through this struggle that we find meaning, purpose, and the courage to contribute positively to humanity. The more we uncover within ourselves, the more evident it becomes that the world is a reflection of our inner state. All that we witness around us is, in essence, a mirror to the self. The beauty we admire, the flaws we critique, the darkness we condemn, and the light we celebrate all coexist within us. To truly “cleanse the doors of perception,” is to see the world as it is. But deeper still, it is to see ourselves as we are. This realization invites us to extend forgiveness—to ourselves and to others—not as a passive allowance, but as an active liberation of the heart. When we change ourselves, the way we see the world changes. And when enough individuals transform their perspectives, the ripple effect can bring about collective healing. The path to personal and collective transformation requires effort, courage, and a willingness to confront the parts of ourselves we would rather avoid. Yet, it is through this process that we uncover the power of forgiveness, the beauty of clarity, and the strength to act from a place of love and truth. Take time today to ask yourself these questions:

• Are there areas of my perception that need cleansing?
• What emotions or judgments might be reflections of my inner world?
• How can I engage in daily practices of self-reflection and healing?

Commit to this process and share these insights with others who are walking a similar path. Explore the resources, communities, and practices that support your growth. Remember this as you go forth today and every day. The world will always be characterized by shadows and light, evil and good, selfishness and selflessness, for that is the eternal perceptual dance human beings engage in. The world becomes clearer and more beautiful to us, even though we now see the darkness where it exists, when we change how we choose to see it. The lens of perception is not fixed; it bends, sharpens, and softens as we grow. It is sometimes very difficult to look at oneself honestly and then look at the world with a clearer vision, yet that is how the world will be eventually saved from itself. With love, courage, and self-awareness, we can transform both our inner worlds and the collective reality we all share. All that you see is yourself, with red hair, goofy smile, freckles and all. Unless you have first changed yourself.

Chapter 39: Embracing a Distant Past: Reincarnation and the Wounded Healer

The tapestry of our lives is often far richer and more intricate than it first appears. Lying beneath the surface of a singular human experience may be countless threads spun from human archetypes, historical narratives, past incarnations, or disassociated aspects of the present self. Human consciousness is not a singular, fixed entity. The soul houses wounds older than the body it inhabits, wrapped delicately in layers of forgotten incarnations. Two specific vortices have shaped my energy field, mirroring fragments of past lives that resonate powerfully in my present. One emerges from a life as an ancient shaman, a healer tethered to the spiritual forces of the earth. The other stems from the life of Bobby Clements, an ill-fated WWII pilot surrounded by camaraderie and sacrifice but plagued by loss. The Wounded Healer The shamanic vortex was deeply rooted in the archetype of the wounded healer. At eight years old, in 1964, I had a unique, realistic dream. A priest returned to his village along a high mountain lake and instructed the villagers to throw every sacred symbol into the lake, telling them they must face the “evil one” without protection. The priest then retreated to his own home, stripped himself bare, and began summoning the dark forces. Surrounded by fog, sparks flew from his fingertips. As he sacrificed all his life force to pierce the fog, a face materialized before his faltering gaze. Collapsing, he could no longer fight an undeniable truth: the face of the evil one was his own. This dream remains a significant teaching. Idolatry and psychological projection are the modern names for the phenomena shown to me. The shaman forced his village to face their shadow without the help of gods. Before this energy was made conscious, its negative influence manifested in my present life as a deep-seated fear of abandonment and a crippling hesitation to share my spiritual truths. The Unfulfilled Leader The second vortex bore the mark of Bobby Clements. In April of 1987, after being sober for about a month, I had a series of three dreams on consecutive nights. In the first, I was a young teenager named Bobby Clements. In the second, my buddies and I were enlisting together to enter WWII, demanding to fly on the same plane. In the third, I was piloting the aircraft. We flew into anti-aircraft shelling, taking a fatal blow. As the plane plummeted, I knew we were all going to die. Decades later, my sister discovered Robert “Bobby” Kelly Clements of Nova Scotia, Canada. Robert flew a Lancaster bomber for the RAF out of England, and records showed he hand-picked his crew: his five Nova Scotia friends. His story was identical to my dream sequence. Because Bobby’s final conscious act was one of fatal failure, my own subconscious decision-making was infected by an expectation of inevitable ruin. Bobby’s despair turned inward against me, breeding a profound self-doubt and a depressive paralysis. These two past incarnations did not merely influence me independently; they merged into a powerful, synergistic force that severely restricted my freedom in this life. The shaman’s trauma dictated that exposing my spiritual authenticity would lead to my ultimate destruction. Simultaneously, Bobby’s unresolved grief convinced me that stepping into any leadership role would inevitably result in the catastrophic ruin of those who trusted me. Healing from the wounds of past incarnations is not a linear march toward perfection; it is a continuous, upward spiral of self-awareness. When I finally recognized and integrated the shaman and the pilot, they ceased to be my captors. They transformed from architects of my suffering into wise companions on my expansive spiritual path. We are all carrying the weight of wounds far older than the bodies we inhabit. Seek out the forgotten fragments of your soul and invite them back into the whole.

Chapter 1: The Nocturnal Nexus and the Mystical Intersection

Living a life with unlimited bandwidth requires a courageous willingness to explore the uncharted territories of our own consciousness, to plunge into the silent depths where new possibilities emerge and where our dreams become fertile ground for profound spiritual growth. As I have explored throughout the broader journey of An Electrician’s Guide To Our Universe, and a Life, Love, and Death Upon Its Unlimited Bandwidth, the veil between our waking reality and our sleeping consciousness is far thinner and far more permeable than our conditioned minds can typically imagine. Every night, as we surrender to the heavy pull of sleep, we step across a mysterious threshold. We enter a sacred, liminal realm where linear time dissolves into a fluid tapestry, where the rigid constraints of spatial reality evaporate, where symbolic language reigns supreme, and where our deepest, most authentic truths emerge unbidden from the shadows of the psyche. Are dreams merely the chaotic, meaningless firing of neurons in a resting brain, a nightly house-cleaning of the day’s psychological debris? Or are they something infinitely more profound—whispers from the eternal soul, coded messages from a much deeper, collective consciousness, or perhaps even a tangible bridge to a transcendent spiritual reality? For far too long, we have allowed the collective conversation around dreams to be violently fractured, forcing a false choice between the sterile, quantifiable laboratory of modern neuroscience and the ethereal, subjective temple of spiritual mysticism. This dichotomy is not only false; it is intellectually and spiritually stifling. The truth of the matter is far more integrated and magnificent: dreams represent a nocturnal nexus point, a sacred intersection where our neurology, our psychology, and our spirituality converge to facilitate deep healing, personal growth, and a profoundly expanded understanding of our place within the grand architecture of the universe. The modern, hyper-rationalized world often dismisses the practical power of dreams, viewing them as fanciful, irrelevant, or simply too cryptic to be of any pragmatic use. This deep-seated skepticism stems from a fundamental misunderstanding, not of the dreams themselves, but of the very nature of human consciousness. In our quest for empirical certainty, we have violently separated the quantifiable from the experiential, dissecting the brain from the mind, and isolating the temporal self from the eternal spirit. To truly harness the transformative, life-altering potential of our dreams, we must completely abandon these outdated, mechanistic divisions and embrace a much more holistic, encompassing paradigm. We must begin to recognize the sleeping mind not as a passive bystander being subjected to random electrical storms, but as a deeply active, highly intelligent agent of our own spiritual and psychological evolution. The primary challenge in unraveling the mysteries of the dreamscape lies in reconciling the seemingly disparate, frequently antagonistic worlds of science and spirit. On one hand, neuroscience provides incredibly compelling evidence for the biological underpinnings of dreaming. We know, through advanced imaging and study, that during REM sleep, specific brain regions—like the amygdala, which powerfully governs emotion, and the visual cortex—become intensely active. They generate the vivid, emotionally charged, and visually stunning landscapes of our nocturnal adventures. Some evolutionary theories even posit that our brains are simply running complex, predictive simulations, utilizing past experiences to game out future possibilities and sharpen our survival instincts. In this view, dreaming is merely a neurological form of prophecy, a biological algorithm designed to keep the organism alive in a hostile world. On the other hand, spiritual and wisdom traditions across millennia, spanning every continent and culture, have deeply revered dreams as direct, divine communications. From the sacred dream-temples of ancient Greece, where seekers slept in hopes of receiving healing visions from Asclepius, to the profound vision quests of Indigenous cultures such as Native American Indians and Australian Aborigines, as well as others around the globe, dreams have been consistently viewed as a primary channel for higher guidance, miraculous healing, and profound self-insight. These ancient traditions do not view brain activity as the originating cause of the dream; rather, they see the physical brain as the biological instrument through which a much deeper, universal message is conveyed to the localized self. Where, then, is the bridge between these two distant shores? It is found in the fundamental recognition that the brain is not merely a biological machine that generates consciousness, but rather a highly sophisticated receiver and translator of consciousness. The electrical impulses and chemical reactions observed by the scientist are the mechanics of the transmission, but they do not negate the profound meaning of the broadcast. Just as the intricate wiring and circuitry of a television set allow it to receive invisible broadcast signals and translate them into a coherent, moving picture, our complex neurological hardware may be the very medium through which our subconscious—or perhaps a higher, universal consciousness—communicates with our waking ego. The sudden activation of the amygdala during a nightmare isn’t just a random firing of synapses; it is the neurological signature, the physical footprint, of profound emotional healing work being actively undertaken in the sacred space of the dream state. A common frustration among those who attempt to walk this path is that even when we successfully recall our dreams, their bizarre, fluid, and highly symbolic language can feel entirely impenetrable. A dream about losing all your teeth, or flying effortlessly over a sprawling metropolis, seems absurd and nonsensical if taken literally. This is where a radically new methodology for dream interpretation is required—one that is both deeply, intimately personal and yet universally resonant. While cultures possess vast differences in their specific, localized interpretations, a broad comparative analysis reveals a deeply shared, universal agreement on the potent spiritual value of the dream state. The key to unlocking this value is to move away from rigid, one-size-fits-all “dream dictionaries” that attempt to assign static meanings to fluid symbols. We must move toward a much more intuitive, contextual, and deeply felt understanding. Dream symbols are not static objects; they are living archetypes. Their meaning is utterly unique to the dreamer’s personal history, current emotional state, and broader cultural background. The process of interpretation, therefore, becomes a form of sacred, ongoing dialogue with the deeper self. It involves a profound tuning into emotional resonance: How did the dream actually feel in the body and the heart? The emotional tone is almost always more important than the literal, visual content. A dream of a massive tidal wave might feel utterly terrifying to one person, representing overwhelming waking anxiety and a feeling of drowning in responsibilities. Yet, that exact same imagery might feel wildly exhilarating to another person, symbolizing a powerful, much-needed spiritual cleansing and the washing away of outdated structures. Furthermore, we must look for waking life parallels. Where are the grand themes of your dream—pursuit, tragic loss, miraculous transformation, euphoric flight—showing up in your daily, waking life? Dreams frequently employ highly symbolic, sometimes shocking language to comment directly on the concrete challenges, hidden fears, and unseen opportunities we face in our day-to-day existence. They are the ultimate mirror, reflecting our inner state back to us with unvarnished, sometimes brutal honesty. By adopting this deeply introspective approach, we honor the intimately personal nature of the dream experience. We empower the individual to step into the role of the ultimate authority on their own inner world, transforming the act of dream analysis from a passive, intellectual exercise of looking up generalized meanings into an active, fiercely engaging communion with the soul’s unique, poetic language. When we learn to truly listen to our dreams, they cease to be mere nocturnal curiosities. They transform into powerful, indispensable agents of personal growth, offering a safe, simulated reality where we can confront our deepest terrors, process long-unresolved trauma, and rehearse entirely new ways of being in the world without suffering real-world consequences. This is an extraordinary evolutionary advantage, one that serves not only our psychological stability but our ultimate spiritual survival. Your nightly dreams are not a distraction from your life; they are an essential, vibrant, and fiercely intelligent part of it. They are a free, nightly source of therapy, divine guidance, and boundless creative inspiration. To ignore them is to leave one of your most powerful innate resources for growth lying dormant and untapped, a tragedy of missed potential in a universe that is desperately calling you to awaken.

Chapter 2: The Typology of the Ethereal – Categories of the Night

If we accept that dreams are indeed a nexus of profound communication, we must then turn our attention to the specific dialects and typologies through which this communication occurs. Over decades of observation, deeply personal experience, and expansive study, I have come to recognize that the dreamscape is populated by distinct categories of experience. These are not rigid boxes, for the fluid nature of the unconscious often blends these categories together in a single night’s journey. However, understanding these typologies provides a crucial map for navigating the often bewildering territory of the sleeping mind. I am a deeply spiritual, though not traditionally religious, person. I have joined with a vast, invisible community of theologians, mystics, and seekers who firmly believe that dreams are one of the primary mechanisms through which the Divine—whether you call it God, Higher Power, the Universe, Great Spirit, or the Collective Unconscious—captures our attention. In the absolute, fundamental reality of consciousness, there is remarkably little difference between what we experience through the vivid theater of our dreams and what we experience through our so-called waking reality. Awake or asleep, our internal landscape responds in real time to what we witness, treating both experiences as having equal, potent footing in reality. Therefore, it stands to reason that the universe is constantly attempting to impart wisdom to us while the noisy, rational mind is finally quieted in slumber. The first, and often most profoundly moving, of these categories is the Visitation Dream. It is remarkably common to experience a deeply vivid visitation dream after a beloved friend or family member passes away. In these sacred encounters, the deceased almost always appear in bodily form, but they are invariably healthy, vibrant, and imbued with a luminous, unmistakable energy. Their purpose is usually clear and direct: to communicate an important message of peace. “I am okay,” they tell us, or “There is absolutely nothing to fear about death.” I have been graced with several of these profound dreams over the years. Following the tragic, sudden death of my father’s dear friend Bob Fero in 1972, my father was paralyzed by a grief he could not process. He refused to attend the funeral, his aversion to death overwhelming his love for his friend. Two nights after I attended Bob’s funeral, Bob came to me in a remarkably lucid dream. He stood before me, vibrant and whole, and explicitly told me not to fear death. He assured me that it was beautiful and deeply peaceful where he resided, and that death was not the great enemy we perceive it to be. This was not merely my own subconscious comforting itself; it possessed an energetic signature of absolute otherness, a genuine connection across the veil. Equally fascinating are Prophetic Dreams. Our complex human brains come equipped with built-in predictive hardware and highly sophisticated algorithms. It should therefore be no surprise that we possess the capacity to prophesize, utilizing both our waking intuition and our sleeping visions. Countless individuals across history have experienced a “dream that came true.” In many cases, our subconscious minds are simply utilizing vast archives of past experiences and subtle observations to run complex, probable scenarios of future events, showing us likely patterns to help us make better, more informed choices when we awake. I have experienced several dreams that predicted future events with eerie, exact precision. Yet, I have also learned that they remain unreliable predictors of an absolute future, precisely because the future is not static; it is fluid, constantly shifting based upon the myriad choices and changes we implement in our present moments. Closely related to prophecy is the Warning Dream. The Divine—and the profound intelligence of our own physical bodies—can and will speak to us in dreams to warn us about imminent danger, particularly regarding our physical health. We may dream repeatedly of a specific body part failing, or even receive a direct, verbal warning from a dream character. Research has shown that a staggering percentage of individuals diagnosed with severe illnesses report having experienced highly vivid, often terrifying dreams related to their affliction well before any physical symptoms manifested. The body knows what the conscious mind denies, and it uses the canvas of the dream to scream for our attention. When we heed these warnings, or when we are in desperate need of energetic realignment, we may be gifted with Healing Dreams. These are profound, internal creations explicitly designed to shift us from a state of deep imbalance into a state of harmony and equilibrium. They frequently involve a mystical encounter with a luminescent being, a wise guide, or an ancestral figure. I have experienced many such dreams, the most awe-inspiring being an encounter with my deceased Grandpa Henry. In this dream, he appeared not as an old man, but as a fierce, fiery cluster—an orb of pure, unadulterated light and unconditional love. I was drawn into his overwhelming energy, knowing instinctively that my fragile physical body and ego structure would be completely destroyed if I fully merged with it. Yet, the desire for that pure love was so overwhelming I did not care. Although I was awakened before the merge was complete, the dream deposited a profound healing energy into my waking life, fundamentally altering my spiritual trajectory and motivating me to build the psychological and physical strength necessary to hold such high vibrations of love. To experience such love often requires us to visit spaces that feel entirely beyond this earthly realm, leading to what we might call Heavenly Dreams. Studies have shown that a significant portion of healthy adults who dream of death find themselves spending considerable time in a realm that can only be described as heaven. In these dreams, individuals frequently travel down luminous tunnels or beautiful pathways, arriving at breathtaking destinations characterized by impossible colors, celestial music, and profound, unshakeable peace. They frequently encounter deceased loved ones in these spaces. I have had dreams where I was suspended in an expanse of light, hearing the complex, layered songs and harmonics of celestial beings, carrying a message of such staggering beauty that it completely defies the limitations of human vocabulary. Finally, we must consider the astonishing phenomenon of Mutual Dreams. A mutual dream occurs when two individuals—typically, though not always, in separate physical locations—dream of the exact same narrative, landscape, or event at the exact same time. Research into shared dreams shows that they are, on average, incredibly identical in their details. While they most frequently occur between close friends, twins, or deeply connected relatives, a small percentage are astonishingly shared by complete strangers. This phenomenon points to a most profound realization: the collective mind of humanity dreams through the individual, and the individual actively dreams through the collective mind of humanity. It shatters the illusion of the isolated self, proving in the theater of the night that we are, at our core, deeply and fundamentally One.

Chapter 3: The Architecture of Empathy and the Dissolution of the Ego

As we delve deeper into the intricate mysteries of the dreamscape, we inevitably encounter experiences that completely shatter our conventional, heavily fortified understandings of individual identity. We brush up against the profound, often unsettling realization that the boundaries of the self are porous, fluid, and perhaps entirely illusory. The architecture of human empathy, it seems, is not merely a psychological construct built for social cohesion; it is a fundamental, energetic reality of our shared consciousness, and nowhere is this more vividly demonstrated than in the phenomenon of Radical Empathy Dreams. Empathy plays a crucial, central role in the realm of dreams, acting as an unobstructed window into our deepest subconscious emotions and our complex web of social connections. When we dream, our minds constantly reflect, process, and reconfigure our daily experiences and relationships, providing critical insights that remain obscured by the noise of waking life. However, this aspect of dreaming transcends simple emotional processing when we consider instances where we feel a sudden, overwhelming empathy for others within our dream narratives. But there exists a tier of experience that goes far beyond simply feeling compassion for a dream character. In our deepest slumber, we occasionally encounter nocturnal adventures that utterly defy logical explanation and violently challenge our rigid understanding of the “self.” These are Radical Empathy Dreams—astonishing experiences where the dreamer actually finds themselves completely inhabiting the body and mind of another human being. In these dreams, you do not simply watch another person; you are that person. You witness their specific life through their actual eyes, you feel the precise weight of their unique physical body, you think with their specific cognitive patterns, and you drown in the exact emotional resonance of their personal history. These radical experiences present a staggering challenge to the traditional, Western boundaries that rigidly define “self” and “other.” They violently blur the distinction between our isolated, individual experiences and the experiences of the collective whole. When we dream as someone else, we are forced to question the very solidity and permanence of our own identities. Are we truly just isolated, biological entities trapped within the confines of our skulls, or do we possess a deep, innate, and largely untapped capacity to transcend our localized sense of self and directly, experientially connect with the lived realities of others? The psychological, philosophical, and spiritual implications of radical empathy dreams are immense. They suggest that true empathy might extend far beyond mere human imagination or cognitive perspective-taking. They hint at a visceral, authentic, and energetic connection with the lives of others that operates constantly beneath the surface of our awareness. This notion demands that we completely rethink our understanding of empathy, recognizing it not as a polite social skill, but as an inherent, fundamental human capability to merge consciousness—a capability that easily transcends the limitations of the waking state. An incredibly intriguing aspect of radical empathy dreams is their profound potential to dramatically enhance real-world empathy. Could the shock of experiencing life through a stranger’s eyes in the dream state lead to a massive expansion of understanding, tolerance, and compassion in our waking lives? It seems entirely plausible that the dreamscape acts as a high-level training ground for the soul, allowing us to refine and expand our ability to genuinely comprehend the suffering and joy of others. By nurturing this deep empathetic capacity, we become infinitely better equipped to bridge the bitter divides of politics, religion, and culture that currently tear our world apart. This dissolution of the ego’s boundaries is also a hallmark of another deeply profound nocturnal experience: the Lucid Dream. Recent scientific research has begun to crack the mystery of this phenomenon, defining it as an intricate, highly advanced state of consciousness where the dreamer becomes suddenly, startlingly aware that they are dreaming, while remaining fully immersed in the sleep state. Studies comparing brain activity patterns have found that the eerie, empowering self-awareness experienced in lucid dreams is deeply connected to specific electrical rhythms in the neurons, particularly beta waves in the right central and parietal lobes. These are the exact same high-frequency electromagnetic waves involved in conscious, waking thought processes like complex problem-solving and executive decision-making. What is perhaps most mind-bending about lucid dreams is that neurological imaging shows they affect the brain in ways remarkably similar to the effects of powerful psychedelic substances, such as LSD or ayahuasca. These deeply altered states of consciousness radically modify the activity of the precuneus, allowing for intensely vivid waking imagery. Yet, lucid dreaming may actually represent an evolutionary step past the psychedelic experience. While psychedelics often forcefully lead to a terrifying dissolution of the ego and a chaotic decrease in self-referential processing, lucid dreams allow the dreamer to harness the elements of profound self-awareness while maintaining total cognitive control over an entirely malleable, simulated universe. It is a playground for the gods, a space where the awakened soul can consciously bend the fabric of reality, experiment with infinite possibilities, and directly interact with the architecture of their own mind without the interference of waking fears. It is the ultimate expression of living life on the widest possible frequency.

Chapter 4: Embracing a Distant Past and the Wounded Vortices of the Soul

As our exploration of the unlimited bandwidth of human consciousness deepens, we must inevitably confront the profound possibility that the tapestry of our current life is interwoven with threads spun long before our present birth. The soul, it seems, is a vast, ancient repository, housing memories, triumphs, and deep, unhealed wounds that are far older than the physical body it currently inhabits. When these ancient fragments of the soul remain hidden, repressed in the dark corners of the unconscious, they operate as invisible, tyrannical puppeteers. They quietly dictate our emotional reactions, meticulously define our irrational fears, and strictly enforce our self-imposed limitations, granting us the comforting illusion of free will while secretly binding us to the tragic scripts of a distant past. True, lasting freedom—true healing—is an absolute impossibility until these unseen forces, whether born of past-life karma, ancestral trauma, or present-life disassociation, are bravely brought into the fierce, cleansing light of conscious awareness. Human consciousness is not a singular, fixed, or entirely cohesive entity. Through deep meditation and profound dream experiences, I have come to recognize that my own energy field has been heavily shaped by specific, wounded vortices—fragments of past lives that continue to resonate with overwhelming power in my present reality. Recognizing and integrating these fragments has been the most challenging, yet liberating, work of my spiritual journey. One of the most powerful vortices I have had to confront stems from the life of a young man named Bobby Clements. In April of 1987, freshly sober and desperately seeking equilibrium after sixteen years of addiction, I was struck by a series of three incredibly vivid dreams on three consecutive nights. In the first, I was deeply immersed in the identity of an early teenager named Bobby, surrounded by a close-knit group of five friends. We shared an unbreakable, innocent bond. In the second dream, the innocence was shattered; we were all enlisting as a single unit to fight in World War II, fiercely demanding of the recruiter that we all be assigned to fly on the exact same aircraft. In the final, devastating dream, I was piloting a bomber aircraft, my dearest friends manning the support positions around me. We flew directly into a chaotic storm of anti-aircraft fire. The plane took a massive, fatal blow from below. As I wrestled hopelessly with the controls, I was overwhelmed by the crushing, absolute certainty that we were all about to die violently. The dream ended in that moment of terminal despair. The emotional weight of this experience was staggering. Years later, my sister, a staunch believer in reincarnation and an avid researcher, uncovered the historical reality of Robert “Bobby” Kelly Clements of Nova Scotia, Canada. The records showed he flew a Lancaster bomber for the RAF and had indeed hand-picked his crew from his closest hometown friends. The historical narrative perfectly, chillingly mirrored the tragic sequence of my dreams. The impact of Bobby’s unresolved trauma on my present life was insidious and nearly fatal. Because Bobby’s final conscious moment was one of catastrophic failure—plummeting to a fiery death alongside the brothers he had sworn to protect—my own subconscious architecture was deeply infected by a paralyzing expectation of inevitable ruin. Bobby’s immense, unresolved grief and guilt turned inward against my present self, breeding a profound, crippling self-doubt. It culminated in my own desperate desire to end my life in 1986. I was utterly terrified to commit to a path, to step into any form of leadership, or to trust my own capabilities, because a massive, unintegrated fragment of my soul was absolutely convinced that taking the helm would only lead to the devastating destruction of anyone who dared to trust me. This paralysis was further compounded by a second massive energy vortex—the archetype of the wounded healer, stemming from the ancient Shaman dream of my childhood, where the spiritual leader realized the evil destroying his village was a projection of his own face. Together, the Shaman’s fear of spiritual exposure and Bobby’s terror of leadership created a synergistic, suffocating prison. I was trapped by the dual subconscious conviction that stepping forward into my authentic power would simultaneously destroy my own soul and fatally fail everyone around me. My free will was completely usurped by this invisible, agonizing intersection of ancient, unhealed fears. Healing from the deep, complex wounds of past incarnations is not a clean, linear march toward enlightenment; it is a chaotic, continuous, upward spiral of painful self-awareness and radical acceptance. The process requires a total willingness to abandon the sterile comforts of modern, reductionist psychology, which often attempts to frame our profound spiritual crises solely within the narrow narrative of childhood conditioning. We must employ deep meditation, intentional dream work, and fearless journaling to invite these fragmented, terrified parts of ourselves back into the warmth of the heart. When I finally summoned the courage to recognize and actively integrate the energy of the ancient Shaman and the grief-stricken Pilot, their tyrannical hold over my life began to dissolve. They ceased to be my invisible captors and slowly transformed into wise, deeply experienced companions on my expansive spiritual path. The Shaman, once integrated, taught me the invaluable lesson of transforming deep suffering into illuminating light without desperately seeking external validation from a world that may never understand. The Pilot, freed from the moment of his death, provided me with a profound, unshakeable internal compass for deep loyalty and brotherhood, teaching me that true leadership does not require the sacrifice of my own soul. We are all walking this earth carrying the heavy, unseen weight of wounds far older than the physical bodies we currently inhabit. We are all haunted by tricksters and shadows born of ancient traumas. Yet, we must realize that within those very same terrifying wounds lies the dormant, brilliant light of countless lifetimes, desperately waiting to be unleashed. I urge you to look closely at the recurring patterns in your life, the inexplicable, paralyzing fears, and the persistent shadows that constantly haunt the periphery of your joy. Do not turn away from them in fear or dismiss them as mere neuroses. Seek out the forgotten, terrified fragments of your eternal soul. Speak to them in your dreams, listen to their ancient sorrows, and invite them back into the whole of your being. It is only by bravely, relentlessly facing the entirety of our distant past that we can finally untangle the complex strings of the unconscious, heal the fractured self, and truly embody the freedom, the peace, and the staggering beauty of a life lived upon the universe’s unlimited bandwidth.

Chapter 23: The Nocturnal Nexus and the Physiology of the Soul

Living a life with unlimited bandwidth means exploring the profound, often obscured areas of our existence where new possibilities emerge, and where our dreams become fertile ground for the most radical forms of growth. Are our dreams merely the chaotic firing of neurons in the sleeping brain, a nightly house-cleaning of the day’s mental debris? Or are they something infinitely more vast—whispers from the soul, coded messages from a deeper, universal consciousness, or even a bridge to a transcendent spiritual reality? For too long, the modern mind has allowed the conversation around dreams to be fractured, forcing a false choice between the sterile, empirical laboratory of neuroscience and the ethereal, incense-filled temples of spiritual mysticism. This is a false dichotomy of the highest order. The truth, as I explore deeply in An Electrician’s Guide To Our Universe, and a Life, Love, and Death Upon Its Unlimited Bandwidth, is far more profound and integrated. Dreams represent a nexus point, a sacred and electrifying intersection where our neurology, our psychology, and our spirituality converge to facilitate healing, growth, and a deeper understanding of our fragile yet magnificent place in the cosmos. The modern world often dismisses the practical power of dreams, viewing them as fanciful, irrelevant, or too cryptic to be of use in our hyper-rational, waking lives. This skepticism stems from a fundamental misunderstanding, not of dreams themselves, but of the very nature of consciousness. We have tragically separated the quantifiable from the experiential, the brain from the mind, and the isolated self from the interconnected spirit. To truly harness the transformative potential of our dreams, we must abandon these outdated, Newtonian divisions and embrace a more holistic, quantum paradigm—one that recognizes the sleeping mind not as a passive bystander watching a movie of memories, but as an active, potent agent of our own evolution. The primary challenge in understanding dreams lies in reconciling the seemingly disparate worlds of science and spirit. On one hand, neuroscience provides compelling evidence for the biological underpinnings of dreaming. We know that during REM sleep, brain regions like the amygdala, which governs emotion, and the visual cortex become highly active, generating the vivid, emotionally charged landscapes of our dreams. Some theories even posit that our brains are simply running predictive simulations, using past experiences to game out future possibilities and sharpen our survival instincts—a neurological form of prophecy. On the other hand, spiritual and wisdom traditions across millennia have revered dreams as divine communications. From the dream-temples of ancient Greece to the vision quests of Indigenous cultures, dreams have been seen as a primary channel for guidance, healing, and profound self-insight. These traditions don’t see brain activity as the cause of the dream, but rather as the instrument through which a deeper message is conveyed. Where is the bridge between these two shores? It is found in the recognition that the brain is not just a biological machine, but a quantum receiver and a translator of frequencies. The electrical impulses and chemical reactions are the mechanics, but they do not negate the profound meaning. Just as the intricate wiring of a television allows it to receive broadcast signals and translate them into a coherent picture, our neurological hardware is the very medium through which our subconscious—or a higher, collective consciousness—communicates. The activation of the amygdala isn’t just a random event; it is the neurological signature of the deep, emotional healing work being done in the sacred state of sleep. When we learn to listen to our dreams, they cease to be mere nocturnal curiosities and become powerful agents of personal growth. Dreams offer a safe, simulated reality where we can confront our deepest fears, process unresolved trauma, and rehearse new ways of being without real-world consequences—an evolutionary advantage that serves our psychological and spiritual survival. Personal stories abound of individuals whose dreams have led to life-altering realizations, creative breakthroughs, and profound healing. Dreams have a way of getting our attention, of bringing to the surface what our conscious, waking mind is too busy, too distracted, or too defended to see. Your nightly dreams are not a distraction from your life; they are an essential part of it. They are a free, nightly source of therapy, guidance, and creative inspiration. To ignore them is to leave one of your most powerful innate resources for growth untapped, leaving you to wander the waking world with only half of your perceptive bandwidth engaged.

The Ten Gateways of the Night: Understanding Spiritually Significant Dreams

As we navigate the beautifully complex realm of dreams, spirits, and the echoes of past lives, let us embrace the mysteries that unfold before us. Each dream, each spirit encounter, and each realization serves as a building block in our spiritual journeys. I am a spiritual and not a religious person, though I have joined with the community of many theologians and mystics who believe that dreams are one of the Universe’s primary ways of getting our attention. In the absolute, there is little difference between what we experience through our dreams and through our so-called waking reality. Awake or asleep, internally we respond in real time to what we witness as if both experiences have equal footing in reality. So, could the ultimate Truth be trying to tell us something while we are sleeping? Here we delve into the first half of the ten spiritually significant categories of dreams that reveal the multidimensional architecture of our souls.

1. Visitation Dreams It is a profound and common occurrence to experience a visitation dream after a loved one passes from the physical plane. The deceased often appear in bodily form, appearing healthy, vibrant, and luminous, in order to communicate an important, deeply comforting message: “I am okay,” or “There is nothing to fear about death.” These are not mere wish-fulfillment fantasies projected by a grieving mind. They carry a distinct ontological weight, an undeniable energetic signature of presence. I have had several of these dreams over the years, including the deeply moving encounter with my father’s friend, Bob Fero, shortly after his tragic death in 1978. In that dream, Bob came to me to express that death was beautiful and peaceful, a message that defied the agonizing grief of the waking world. These visitations serve as irrefutable evidence to the dreamer that the bonds of love transcend the fragile vessel of the human body.
2. Prophetic Dreams Our brains are equipped with built-in predictive hardware and algorithms, so it should be no surprise that we have the capacity to prophesize, both in our awake and sleeping states. Many people have experienced a “dream that came true.” Our dreams often synthesize our past experiences, subconscious observations, and environmental data to produce a probable series of future events—showing us intricate patterns that help us make better choices when we are awake. I have had several dreams that predicted exact events before they unfolded, yet they remain fluid, unreliable predictors of an absolute future, because the future is a tapestry constantly being rewoven by the choices we make in the present moment. Prophetic dreams are glimpses of potential timelines, inviting us to steer our waking destiny with greater intention.
3. Warning Dreams The Universe—and our own biological intelligence—can sometimes speak urgently through our dreams to warn us about imminent danger, especially regarding our physical health or psychological well-being. We may dream of a specific body part decaying, or even receive a direct, verbal warning from a disembodied voice. Research has shown that individuals facing severe health crises often experience hyper-vivid dreams preceding their physical symptoms, sometimes even hearing specific medical terminology. These dreams bypass the ego’s denial mechanisms, sounding an internal alarm that demands our immediate, waking attention. They are the ultimate expression of the body and soul conspiring to preserve the vessel of our current incarnation.
4. Healing Dreams These are the internal, alchemical creations that bring us from an “out of balance” state of dis-ease into a state of profound “harmony and balance.” They frequently involve a mystical encounter or a symbolic unburdening. I have experienced many healing dreams in my journey, particularly one astonishing encounter with my deceased Grandpa Henry in 1992. In that dream, I was enveloped by a fierce, fiery orb of pure light and love—a manifestation of the eighth chakra, the doorway between the immortal soul and the earth-bound personality. Healing dreams rearrange our psychic architecture, offering a vibrational medicine that recalibrates our emotional and physical bodies long after we open our eyes.
5. Heavenly Dreams According to extensive psychological and near-death research, individuals who dream of death often spend a significant amount of time in that dream traversing what can only be described as a heavenly realm. These dreamers sometimes journey down a luminescent tunnel or a sacred pathway, arriving at destinations characterized by unimaginable peace, vibrant colors, and ethereal music. They frequently encounter deceased loved ones or spiritual guides. I have had dreams where I have heard the songs and sounds of the “angels of heaven,” carrying a message of beauty entirely beyond my human ability to describe or define. These dreams serve to dissolve our mortal terror of the unknown, reminding us that we are eternal citizens of a vast, loving cosmos.
6. Mutual Dreams A mutual dream occurs when two people—typically in entirely separate physical locations—dream of the exact same scenario, environment, or event at the same time. Studies on shared dreaming indicate that these experiences can be up to eighty percent identical in their details. They most often occur between close friends, twins, or relatives who share a deep emotional resonance. Interestingly, a small percentage of these dreams are shared by complete strangers. Mutual dreams catalyze a profound realization: the collective mind of humanity dreams through individuals, and individuals dream through the collective mind of mankind. They prove that in the realm of consciousness, the illusion of separation is entirely dismantled. We are one, after all, you and I.
7. Projection or Remote Viewing Dreams In 2007, during a period of intense spiritual awakening, I was shown how our sense of self must expand to include the collective human experience. In a profound dream state, I realized that we possess the ability to project our consciousness into another location or even into another human being’s experience, witnessing their version of reality for a fleeting moment. This category encompasses the phenomena early occult literature described as telesthesia or traveling clairvoyance. It is the ability to see remote or hidden objects clairvoyantly with the inner eye. Included within this category are reincarnation dreams, where the soul remote-views its own past incarnations—such as my profound realization of my past life as WWII pilot Bobby Clements. These dreams suggest that time and space are merely navigational constructs, easily bypassed by the untethered soul.
8. Radical Empathy Dreams Empathy plays a crucial role in the realm of dreams, serving as a window into our subconscious emotions and social connections. However, radical empathy dreams present an intriguing challenge to the traditional boundaries that define the self and the “other.” In these deeply philosophical experiences, one may find themselves witnessing life entirely through another person’s eyes, feeling their exact emotional weight and physical sensations. These dreams urge us to question the solidity of our own identities. Are we merely isolated entities, or do we possess an innate capacity to transcend our sense of self and merge with the experiences of others? By nurturing this empathetic capacity in the dream state, we become exponentially better equipped to bridge the divides that separate us in the waking world, cultivating a radical compassion that has the power to heal societal wounds.
9. Personal Growth and the Act of Teaching Dreams often symbolize the imperative of personal growth through the archetypal act of teaching. To find yourself instructing, guiding, or lecturing in a dream indicates a profound soul-level desire to share accumulated wisdom and experiences. It reflects a heavy sense of responsibility to pass on what you have learned from your own suffering and triumphs. These dreams highlight leadership qualities and reveal our aspirations to positively impact the collective. Conversely, dreaming of teaching can also signify a struggle with communication in the waking world—a desperate need to assert one’s truth and be truly heard by a world that often refuses to listen.
10. Lucid Dreams: A Mystery We’re Starting to Crack Lucid dreaming is the phenomenon wherein the dreamer becomes consciously aware that they are dreaming, allowing them to exert cognitive control over the dream’s narrative, environment, and physics. Recent neuroscientific research has begun to demystify this intricate state of consciousness, linking the eerie self-awareness of lucid dreams to beta waves in the right central and parietal lobes of the brain—areas associated with conscious thought and spatial awareness. Fascinatingly, brain activity during lucid dreaming closely mirrors the neurological effects of psychedelic substances like LSD and ayahuasca, modifying the precuneus and leading to profound, mystical visual experiences. However, while psychedelics often dissolve the ego, lucid dreams allow the dreamer to harness elements of self-awareness and absolute control. If you are capable of stepping into the lucid dreamscape, you are effectively entering the ultimate sandbox of the gods—a realm of pure, unadulterated creation.

Echoes of the Infinite: Personal Encounters on the Dreamscape

The tapestry of our lives is far richer and more intricate than it first appears to the waking eye. Lying beneath the surface of a singular human experience are countless threads spun from human archetypes, past incarnations, and disassociated aspects of our present selves. Each holds the echoes of forgotten traumas, triumphs, and incomplete journeys. When these fragments of the soul remain hidden in the unconscious, they operate as invisible puppeteers, dictating our reactions and enforcing limitations. True freedom is an impossibility until these unseen forces are brought into the light of conscious awareness. My own journey through the nocturnal nexus has been defined by a series of dreams that have served as profound teachers, forcing me to confront the wounded energy vortices of my soul. One such vortex emerged from a past life as an ancient shaman—a healer tethered to the spiritual forces of the earth. At eight years old, in 1964, I experienced a dream of staggering weight. I was a priest who ordered his village to throw their sacred idols into a mountain lake, forcing them to face the “evil one” without the protection of their gods. I then retreated to my own home, stripped bare, and summoned the dark forces myself. As I exhausted my life force to pierce the fog and look upon the face of the ultimate evil, the entity materialized before my faltering gaze: the face of the evil one was my own. This was a masterclass in psychological projection and the shadow self. It taught me, even as a child, that the darkness we fear in the external world is born from the unhealed fragments of our own internal landscape. This shamanic energy synergized with another powerful vortex: the unfulfilled leader. In 1987, freshly sober, I experienced three consecutive dreams revealing my past incarnation as Robert “Bobby” Kelly Clements, an ill-fated WWII Lancaster bomber pilot who plummeted from the sky with his closest friends. Because Bobby’s final conscious act was one of fatal failure, my own subconscious decision-making was infected by an expectation of inevitable ruin. I was terrified to step forward as a spiritual leader, trapped by the dual subconscious conviction that doing so would simultaneously destroy me (like the shaman) and fail everyone who relied on me (like Bobby). Recognizing and integrating these past-life echoes through dreamwork allowed me to dismantle this paralysis, transforming these tragic figures into wise companions on my expansive spiritual path. The universe has also spoken to me through profound visitations and prophetic symbols. Following the tragic death of Diane “Di Di” Mcloud, she appeared in a dream to take the place of a policeman, instructing me that for love to reappear in my life in all its fullness, I must first “arrest” the negative, toxic qualities within myself. It was a call to rehabilitate my own passions, a necessary step before I could ever hope to unite with a partner in true spiritual maturity. Years prior, I had a prophetic dream of searching for a discarded ring with eight jewels, finding only seven, knowing the eighth was the ring itself. Decades later, my wife Sharon unknowingly purchased that exact ring for our second wedding—a beautiful validation that our union was written into the fabric of my destiny long before it materialized in the physical world. Whether I am receiving mystical teachings from the Cosmic Christ through the metaphor of a topographical map, or witnessing the electrical, spiritual blockages in the soul of a dear friend like Marty Crouch, my dreams have consistently proven to be a direct conduit to the infinite. They are not mere fantasies; they are the truest reality of our existence translated into a language we can comprehend. I urge you to look closely at your own recurring patterns, the inexplicable fears, and the persistent shadows that haunt the periphery of your life. Keep a dream journal. Engage in a sacred dialogue with your subconscious. Do not dismiss the echoes of the infinite. It is only by bravely facing the entirety of our dreams that we can untangle the strings of the unconscious and truly embody the freedom, the peace, and the unlimited bandwidth of the present moment.

Chapter 38: Radical Empathy Dreams: Blurring the Boundaries of Self

In our slumber, we occasionally encounter dreams that defy logic and challenge our understanding of self. Among these enigmatic nocturnal adventures are radical empathy dreams—experiences where one may find themselves witnessing life through another person’s eyes. These dreams raise compelling questions about the porousness of our identities and invite us to explore the fine line between personal and collective consciousness.

Radical empathy dreams present an intriguing challenge to the traditional boundaries that define self and other. They blur the distinction between our individual experiences and those of others, offering a glimpse into a shared human consciousness. When we dream as someone else—seeing their world, feeling their emotions—we question the solidity of our own identities. Are we merely isolated entities, or do we possess an innate capacity to transcend our sense of self and connect with the experiences of others?

The psychological and philosophical implications of radical empathy dreams are profound. They prompt us to contemplate the nature of identity and our capacity to understand others on a deeper level. Such dreams suggest that empathy might extend beyond mere imagination or cognitive perspective-taking, hinting at a more visceral and authentic connection with the lives of others. This notion challenges us to rethink our understanding of empathy, recognizing it as an inherent human ability that transcends the waking state.

An intriguing aspect of radical empathy dreams is their potential to enhance real-world empathy. Could experiencing life through another’s eyes in the dream state lead to greater understanding and compassion in our waking lives? It seems plausible that such dreams could act as a training ground for empathy, allowing us to refine our ability to connect with and comprehend the experiences of others. By nurturing this empathetic capacity, we may become better equipped to bridge the divides that often separate us.

However, in our modern world, the prevalence of technology and media may play a role in diminishing these profound empathetic experiences. The constant bombardment of digital stimuli and curated content can limit our imaginative capacities, leaving less room for the deep introspection required for radical empathy dreams to flourish. The challenge lies in finding a balance between engaging with technology and preserving the sanctity of our inner worlds.

Radical empathy dreams offer a powerful reminder of the interconnectedness of human experience. They challenge our notions of identity, urging us to explore the potential for empathy that exists beyond the confines of waking consciousness. By understanding and nurturing these dreams, we may unlock new pathways to compassion and connection, enriching our relationships with ourselves and those around us. Dream researchers, philosophers, and the general public alike must continue to investigate these

Radical Empathy Dreams

These are some of the most mysterious dreams, where the dreamer may actually have the experience of witnessing another person’s life through their actual eyes during the course of the dream.  Questions of the porousness of our very identities come to the forefront during investigations of all such dreams.they hold the key to unlocking the true potential of human empathy.

“This research opens the door to a deeper understanding of lucid dreaming as an intricate state ofconsciousnessby pointing to the possibility that conscious experience can arise from within sleep itself,” Demirel said in apress release.

To identify what sets lucid dreaming apart from the rest of sleep, he and his team pulled previous studies—in whichbrain activitywas measured with EEG sensors—together into what is now the most extensive dataset in this field of sleep research. The researchers then compared brain activity patterns for wakefulness, REM sleep, and lucid dreaming to find that that the eerie self-awareness experienced in lucid dreams has a connection to the electrical rhythms in neurons known asbrain waves.

Perception and memory processing in the lucid dreaming state were found to be different from non-lucid REM sleep. The consciousness of existing in a dream was associated with withbeta wavesin theright central lobe(which controls spatial awareness and nonverbal memory) andparietal lobe(which controls the sense of touch and spatial awareness). Beta waves are a type of high-frequencyelectromagneticactivity in the brain involved in conscious thought processes like solving problems or making decisions. Our consciousness is dominated by beta waves when we are awake.

This might explain why there is so muchcognitive controlin lucid dreams. Dreamers deep in REM sleep have no sense of control over factors like thoughts, feelings, andbehaviors, but those in lucid dreaming states do.

Maybe the most mind-bending thing about lucid dreams is that they are, according to the study, similar in the brain to the effects ofpsychedelic drugssuch as LSD andayahuasca. These types of psychedelic experiences are also associated with the precuneus, whose activity is modified when waking imagery is seen despite having closed eyes (something usually only experienced with psychedelics).

Interestingly, however, lucid dreams may even go a few experiential steps past psychedelics. “While psychedelics often lead to a dissolution of ego and decreased self-referential processing […] lucid dreams may actually harness elements ofself-awarenessand control,” Demirel and his team said in the study.

So if you’re capable of lucid dreaming, you’re in for an awesome trip.

there is a better version hidden in the 80 pages of this blog archive

Chapter 100:  Exploring the Mystical Realms–Dreams as a Gateway to Self-Healing and Empowerment (vast, repetitive)

     Have you ever found yourself captivated by the enigmatic world of dreams?  Are dreams just whispers from our biology, creations sprung from dreamtime imaginations, windows to our subconscious minds, hints of wisdom from our higher power,  portals to other people’s lives, or even remote viewing of our past lives?  We have all probably experienced vivid dreams that felt so real, they lingered in our mind long after we woke up. Or maybe we’ve felt an unexplainable connection with the spiritual realm, leaving us wondering about the mysteries of life and existence. By embarking on a journey into the mystical realm of dreams, spirits, and past lives, we can dive in and explore the extraordinary possibilities that await us.

     Since the dawn of time, dreams have been a source of mystery and fascination. They are the stories our minds weave while we sleep, tales that often escape the grasp of our waking consciousness. But what are dreams really for? Are they critical cogs in the machine of our biological existence or do they serve a purpose beyond the physical realm?  It is enlightening to explore dreams through various lenses – biological, psychological, neurological, and spiritual – to delve into the origins and value of this nocturnal phenomenon.

     Neurologically, dreams are a consequence of brain activity during REM sleep. Studies with brain scans have shown that certain areas of the brain – like the amygdala, involved in processing emotions, are active during this state. Some neuroscientists speculate that dreaming is a byproduct of these electrical impulses and serves no direct purpose. However, other theories suggest dreaming could be a way the brain processes emotions or encodes memories.  Research has even linked specific types of brain activity with the content of dreams. Scans have shown that the visual cortex’s activity may relate to the vivid imagery of dreams, whereas the limbic system’s activation might correlate with the emotional content.

     On a more mystical plane, many believe that dreams hold spiritual significance, acting as messages from the divine and/or the subconscious. Dreams often weave intricate symbolisms that many spiritual traditions interpret as signposts for guidance, warnings, or insights into one’s deep self.  Cultures throughout history have used dreams to make decisions or predict future events. A comparative analysis across cultures shows that despite the vast differences in interpretation, many agree on the potent spiritual value of dreams. Personal stories abound of individuals claiming that dreams led to life-transforming realizations and decisions, implying a higher significance to these nighttime visions.

     What then are the origins of dreams? Evolutionary theories suggest dreams might have assisted our ancestors in survival, giving them a ‘safe space’ to simulate dangerous situations and practice responses. As cultures evolved, so did the understanding and appreciation of dreams, imbuing them with religious and spiritual importance.  Yet the real value of dreams might not lie in any one perspective but rather in the interplay of all. They can be as much about biological programming as they are about confronting psychological truths or connecting with the universe’s deeper mysteries.

     Clearly, dreams are multifaceted in their significance and importance. They are a nexus where our biological, psychological, neurological, and spiritual selves meet. Well beyond mere scientific curiosity, this intersection offers rich insights into the complexities of human consciousness and experience. With each dream we remember upon waking, we glimpse a reflection of our inner workings – and potentially, the essence of what it means to be human.

     We all dream, whether we recall them, or not.  Often, those who can recall their dreams have no context with which to interpret them, and the dreams are often  just casually dismissed.  But there are many of us who have developed a context of understanding for our dream works, and pay keen attention to them.

Sharon found this note that I had written while “asleep” in 2007. It was hidden in a dream journal that was found in our suitcase on our trip to Japan in 2019.  Since then, I have had several experiences touching the psychic and occult levels of human experience.  I prefer to “project” into happier environments, in both waking and sleeping environments.

My dreams have always been an important part of my life, and I consider them as messages from the many facets of my Self. Dreams have long been regarded as a window into my subconscious and a channel for personal healing. They have illuminated hidden emotions, offered guidance, and even facilitated profound personal transformations. In two.  I have encountered instances where I felt a deep and inexplicable connection with a spirit of a deceased friend or family member in my dreams. The experiences I’ve had, along with countless anecdotes from others, reinforce the belief that dreams can serve as a conduit for spiritual connections.

In two separate instances, I had dreams that seemed to reveal fragments of past life experiences. These dreams were so vivid and emotionally charged that it compelled me to seek interpretation and explore the concept of past lives further. I have stepped into a dream and found myself in an unfamiliar time and place, experiencing events that felt oddly familiar. These dreams, perhaps, offer glimpses into our previous incarnations, or even into the lives of others who we never knew.. Some believe that these dreams provide insights into our present lives, shedding light on unresolved issues or patterns that continue to influence us. Exploring dreams as windows into past or other lives presents an opportunity for self-reflection, self-discovery, and a deeper understanding of our existence.

      It is important to remember that dreams, spirit connections, and past lives are deeply personal experiences. Each individual’s journey is unique, and interpretations will vary. What may hold profound meaning for one person may not resonate with another. Embracing the infinite possibilities of the mystical realm encourages us to approach these experiences with an open mind and a sense of wonder.

    I am not a religious person, though I have joined with the community of many theologians who believe that dreams are one of God’s (or, Higher Power, Universe, Healing, Spirit, Grandfather Great Spirit, The One, etc.)primary ways of getting our attention. In the absolute, there is little difference between what we experience through our dreams and through our so-called waking reality. Awake or asleep, internally we respond in real time to what we witness as if both experiences have equal footing in reality. So could God/Truth be trying to tell us something while we are sleeping? Here are six spiritually significant dreams that may be more than meets the mind’s eye….

Key Takeaways:

• Dreams possess transformative powers, offering avenues for personal healing and self-discovery.
• Dreams can provide windows into past lives, offering insights and lessons for our present existence.
• Channeling spirits through dreams can provide a profound connection with the spiritual realm.
• Personal experiences and interpretations of dreams and spirit connections contribute to an individual’s spiritual growth.

    As we navigate the beautifully complex realm of dreams, spirits, and past lives, let us embrace the mysteries that unfold before us. Each dream, each spirit encounter, and each realization serves as a building block in our spiritual journeys. So, let us continue to explore, learn, and grow, as we unravel the extraordinary possibilities that lie within the mystical realm.

List below is missing the tenth entry

1. Visitation Dreams

It’s common to have a visitation dream after a loved one passes. The deceased often appear in bodily form, healthy and luminous, in order to communicate an important message: “I’m okay.”, or “There is nothing to fear about death”. I have had several of these dreams over the years, with my most recent experience revolving around the recent death of a good friend.

2. Prophetic Dreams

Our brains have built-in predictive hardware and algorithms, so it should be no surprise that we can prophesize, in both iur awake and sleeping times. Many people have had a “dream that came true.” Our dreams may use our past experiences to produce a probable series of future events—showing us patterns that help us make better choices when we’re awake. I have had several dreams that have predicted EXACTLY events that were to happen, yet they remain unreliable predictors of the future, because the future is always changing, depending upon changes made in the present.

3. Warning Dreams

God—and our body—can sometimes speak in dreams to warn us about imminent danger, especially regarding health. We may dream of a specific body part or even receive a verbal warning. In a 2015 study of women diagnosed with breast cancer, 83 percent had dreams that were more vivid than normal. And 44 percent reported hearing specific words like “breast cancer” or “tumor.”

4. Healing Dreams

These are the internal creations that bring us from an “out of balance” place into “harmony and balance.” They often involve a mystical encounter. I have experienced many healing dreams, I had one amazing dream with my deceased grandpa Henry which, to this day, inspires and confounds me.

5. Heavenly Dreams

According to a 1989 study, more than half of healthy young adults who dreamed of death spent a significant amount of time in that dream in heaven. These dreamers sometimes go down a tunnel or pathway and arrive at heavenly destinations. They also frequently encounter deceased loved ones. I have had dreams where I have heard the songs and sounds of the “angels of heaven”, carrying a message of beauty beyond my ability to describe or define.

6. Mutual Dreams

A mutual dream is when two people—typically in separate locations—dream of the same thing at the same time. According to a 2017 study, shared dreams are 80 percent identical on average. They often occur between close friends or relatives. Interestingly, 4 percent of these dreams are shared by strangers. A most profound realization and insight may come to the dreamer, that the collective mind of man dreams through individuals, and individuals dream through the collective mind of mankind. We are one, after all, you and I.

7. Projection or Remote Viewing Dreams

In 2007, I was able to see that my sense of self had to include the much more expansive collective self that we all share as being conscious members of the human race. In a dream, I was shown how all of us may project ourselves into another human beings’ experience in our dream world and experience their version of reality for a moment or two. In early occult and spiritualist literature, remote viewing was known as telesthesia and traveling clairvoyance. Rosemary Guiley described it as “seeing remote or hidden objects clairvoyantly with the inner eye, or in alleged out-of-body travel.

8. Radical Empathy Dreams

Empathy plays a crucial role in the realm of dreams, serving as a window into our subconscious emotions and social connections. When we dream, our mind often reflects our daily experiences and relationships, providing insights that may not be readily apparent in waking life. This aspect of dreaming becomes particularly interesting when considering instances where we feel empathy for others within our dream narratives. For example, dreaming about feeling compassion for someone who is being scolded can indicate deeper insights into our emotional state and values. These are some of the most mysterious dreams, where the dreamer may actually have the experience of witnessing another person’s life through their actual eyes during the course of the dream. This category of dream is similar to the projection or remote viewing type of dream. Questions of the porousness of our very identities come to the forefront during investigations of all such dreams.

9. Personal Growth and the Act of Teaching 

Teaching in dreams may indicate a desire to share knowledge or experiences, reflecting a sense of responsibility to pass on what you have learned. Dreams often symbolize personal growth and the act of teaching. They can reflect our innermost thoughts, desires, and challenges, often revealing our aspirations to guide or inspire others. These dreams can also highlight leadership qualities and the potential to positively impact those around you. Additionally, dreaming of teaching can signify a struggle with communication or a need to assert oneself in waking life. Understanding these dreams can help individuals reflect on their relationships and interactions with others, promoting deeper self-awareness and meaningful connections. If you have ever awakened from a dream, shaking from the experience of living in a very real, but alien, life experience, you have walked across the mysterious threshold into a higher dimension of understanding our self. Wisdom and insight are available through our “dream channels”. Atheists and agnostics have the same capacity as the saints, as far as the ability to access dream wisdom goes. We are much closer than we presently believe, and our beliefs keep us more separate as a human being, than together as spiritual beings.

August 1978 Dream

Bob and Dorothy Fero were friends that my parents had, from the time I can first remember my parents having friends.  They shared the Oakey Doaks square dance group with my parents, and about twenty other local couples. We frequently camped with them in travel trailers during the summers from 1962-1970, and my sister and I spent many nights over at their home, staying with their children Michael and Robby, while my parents went out to dance and party with them on weekends.  When I learned how to play golf as an twelve-year old, Dad and Bob would frequently take me with them, and I got to see both men on a different level than just my elders.  I really grew to love and respect Bob, and I always assumed that he would be around forever. Bob had anger issues, and it was best not to get Bob too riled up, or someone was going to feel the wrath.  On the car driving trip home from Reno with Dorothy, in 1972, Bob’s anger came to a head.  I do not know if he had been drinking, or what, but in a fit of anger at Dorothy, he recklessly passed cars on the way home, and took all sorts of suicidal chances with his driving.  Finally, his risky behavior caught up with him, and he slammed his car head-on into an oncoming vehicle, killing Bob, and critically injuring Dorothy.  Dorothy was to recover eventually, though her crushed hip remained an issue for the rest of her life. Bob had his funeral in Milwaukie at the Catholic Church.  My father refused to attend, as he was so averse to funerals, and his grief over the loss of his friendship with Bob was just too overwhelming for Dad.  I attended the funeral, not having the same aversion to death that my father had. Two nights later, I had a dream, where Bob came to me in the dream.  He told me not to fear death, that is was beautiful and peaceful where he was, and that death was not the enemy.  My father was not consoled by that dream from me, and it would have been much better for him had he received the insight, or the dream, himself.

June 3 1987 Dream

I first met Diane “DIDi’ Mcloud in 1982.  In 1984, after we both experienced some permanent relationship end points with others, we connected again as friends, then lovers.  I fell deeply in love with her, though I knew our relationship could not survive for long, because of both of our toxic faults as human beings.   Di Di became a part of myself and my consciousness, and I had one profound dream with her in it, shortly after her 1988 death as a result of a drunk driver.. In the dream, I am confronted by a man exhibiting aggressive, unkind, abusive behavior. In the dream, I am appalled, disgusted, and threatened by his manner. I call out to a policeman, imploring him to arrest that man, and protect all of us from his violence. Di Di then walks up to me in the dream, taking the policeman’s place, and states quite plainly that for love to reappear in my life, in all of its fullness, I must first “arrest” all of these negative qualities within myself, and rehabilitate my own passions, then love will reappear. This dream ends, but the waking dream, and the journey continues. (Poem given to Di Di prior to her death) Though hibernating for oh so long And hiding from the deep pain of winters’ chill Love reawakens to sing its special song So for how much longer can we be still? With eyes that melt winters’ deepest snow A tender touch that always seem to say That all we will ever need to know Will be learned along Love’s way Two minds that were brought together Two hearts that seek to share, Two bodies that need no tether Two become one, though still a pair Heavenly nights and rapturous mornings, Love promises through all of our years, The sweet, stirring music of love sings For two souls who now have the ears to hear. True love can be the source of dreams For two hearts continuing to awaken. I pray that we are all each other seems And share in Love’s next journey taken. Poem written for Di Di, in 1984.

It’s Time to Arrest the Toxic Masculinity That’s Suffocating Society

The fable of masculinity handed down generation to generation has often been laced with toxic strands—a legacy that shapes minds and twists relationships. It’s a construct, a cultural conditioning, that prescribes stoicism over sensitivity, dominance over empathy, and leads to a silent yet screaming toxicity that infests the potential for growth in men and inflicts often irreparable damage on society.

Stripping the toxicity from masculinity is not just an act; it is a resolute stance, a clarion call for accountability and healing. Every man carries the indomitable power to introspect, identify, and obliterate these negative attitudes and behaviors. Just as rust corrodes the strongest iron, so does toxic masculinity erode the core of authentic manhood.

In the endeavor to dismantle these oppressive energies and claim a rejuvenated sense of self, one must earnestly look inward. Self-scrutiny is the harpoon that pricks the bubble of toxic masculine ego. Whether it’s the way we converse, the media we consume, or the biases we nurture, each man must be willing to confront the abhorring reflection of societal masculinity and take the individual responsibility to sculpt a healthier version.

Men must not only stand together but also stand corrected by the women and men in their lives. It takes immense courage to acknowledge the conditioning etched deep in our psyche and even greater strength to seek transformation. The path of reparation must wind through a process of empathetic listening and learning—relating to experiences beyond our own, dismantling privilege, and fostering environments where vulnerable expressions are not just tolerated but valued.

The solution is not belittlement; it is not found in silencing what has been termed ‘masculine.’ Instead, it lies in redefining that very concept—to cherish the strength not for domination but for support, the resilience not for suppression but for lifting others. It’s about fostering a manhood that is secure enough to celebrate achievements without diminishing others and to show love without fear of perceived weakness.

Calling out injustice and standing tall against the alluring tide of toxic norms cannot be a silent battle. We must articulate these dark truths in vivid words, heralding a time when emotional literacy is emblematic of true masculine strength. It is a collaborative healing process, where dialogues do not shy away from discomfort and where accountability becomes a communal endeavor.

This is not an assault on manhood. It’s a rescue mission for its soul. We owe it to our peers, to our children, and to ourselves. The eradication of toxic masculinity begins when the courage to heal outshouts the seduction of dominance. It begins here, it begins now, and it begins with the decision of each man to look at himself and declare, “The time for change is mine to command.”

In this profound paradigm shift, silence is the most treacherous of companions. When our voices join in a chorus that venerates respect, health, and equality over toxic societal expectations, we collectively break the shackles that bind us to outdated, harmful constructs. We must harness our internal revolutions and engage openly with those around us—fathers, brothers, friends, and mentors—to induce a collective acknowledgment and evolution.

We unite not only in brooding but in blossoming—acknowledging that healing is a shared pilgrimage, a synergetic dance between introspection and activism. For all the men who have felt stifled by the ironclad grips of toxic masculinity, know this: liberation lies in the unity of our voices, in the decisive actions of our reclaimed integrity, and in our earnest commitment to transform toxicity into a legacy worthy of the generations that follow.

Together, we can redefine strength, redraw the contours of masculinity, and cultivate a legacy of authentic, compassionate manhood. It’s not just an option—it’s an obligation to ourselves and to society. And it starts with a single, yet powerful act—the choice to change.

March 17, 1988 Dream

Recently, I was reading my journal from March of 1989, which I had placed in storage in April of 1988. There was an entry about a mysterious dream that I had on March 17, 1988, where I am looking for a discarded ring with 8 jewels. After feverishly looking about, I locate 7 of the jewels, and not the mounting, or the eighth jewel. The last jewel will be found mounted to the lost ring itself, the thought comes to me in the dream. I am with an unrecognizable girlfriend at the time, and there is sadness associated with this friendship. I know that this woman is not the final jewel, and my search must continue. The dream tells me that this is a view of the future, so when I woke up, I was a little more than just skeptical, to say the least. I was with Laurie H. at the time of the dream. I first met her in an ACOA (adult children of alcoholics) meeting in October of 1987. Laurie and I were engaged to be married at the time of the dream, though several weeks later we cancelled the engagement, in June of that year. My seventh adult relationship with another woman was with Laurie.  When I found out that she had wandering eyes, and was seeking other male friendships, I easily surmised that Laurie was the unrecognizable woman of the dream, for I had no idea that she would engage in wandering behavior.  I ended the relationship in June of 1988. Last night, Sharon showed me the ring that she bought for our 2nd wedding, in Las Vegas, in 2004. Sharon bought the ring in Portland, prior to our leaving for Las Vegas, and I was not involved in its purchase, though I asked her, prior to leaving, if she had a ring for our fun 2nd marriage. She then went to purchase it at Mother Goose, a store in Portland. On it was mounted 7 small stones, with one large green eighth stone distinguishing the setting. I had seen it before, and yet never understood its significance, until I re-read my journal. WOW, the ring, and the story, straight from the dream! Sharon had never seen my journal before, and I have never discussed its contents with her, either, nor had I even thought about it once in the intervening years.

August 1988 Randy Olson and Boston

My nighttime world has always been populated with many interesting and challenging dreams..  In one 1987 dream, it was like the sky opened up, and “heaven” started singing a most beautiful song.  The song spoke of Boston, Massachusetts.  Then, I am flying in the dream, minus an airplane, and starting to go over what might be the Atlantic Ocean.  The message comes to me that I will be leaving Randy Olson behind for this phase of my life.  Well, OK, where did that come from, and what does it mean?  All that I knew was that I needed to travel to “Boston, Massachusetts”, and that Randy was to become less of a presence in my life from this point forward. I did fly to Boston, not knowing what the heck I was supposed to do there. One of my teachers, the mystic and healer Joel Goldsmith, had given me extensive teaching from Mary Baker Eddy’s work, in addition to his own, which is known as the Infinite Way.  The Mother Church of the Church of Christian Scientists, is located in Boston and so I visited there.  After an aide to the head minister noted my presence and had a conversation with me, I was escorted to Mary Baker Eddy’s private study, where I was allowed to read her notes, and to meditate in her private study, one of her “holy places”.  Nobody else gets that privilege, so I may have been meant to visit there, but who knows for sure?

My future conversations with Randy while I enjoyed recovery became increasingly less productive, and I found that I was losing touch with Randy spiritually, emotionally, and, finally, physically.  Randy was still drinking alcohol excessively, partying like it was the 1980’s, and smoking cigarettes, and that behavior I had abandoned in March of 1987.  I just could not keep in connection with him because of his choices.  Our friendship was on hold for nearly six-years, before sharing the thirty year Rex Putnam high school reunion experience with him.  He also joined us for Thanksgiving dinner that same year. The last time that I saw Randy, he was placing a 12 pack of beer into his car at a Fred Meyer’s store. He was hesitant to acknowledge me, and I felt as if he was trying to avoid me. He appeared sick, and bloated, and I wanted to say something to him about it. But I did not, thinking that it was not my right to intrude upon his life now. I had phone conversations with him three more times over the last eight years, with the last time being in 2010. Our friendship on the “outer plane” of life apparently was already dead. And then, my wife Sharon reads his obituary in the Oregonian newspaper, shocking me to my core. My lifelong friend, Randy, was dead, apparently of a heart attack.  His body was discovered in his car in his driveway, having just returned from a Subway sandwich shop. And yet, he lives within me. I am so grateful to have known Randy. I now know that I could not take him to the spiritual places that I was to visit. It would have been the least that I could do for Randy, if it were only possible. He only needed a little willingness to join with me, to experience some of the joys of being on the path of recovery, healing, and love.. Yet that willingness was something that none of us can give to another human being. I had pointed to the new direction, but he chose to look the other way. His funeral was a shock to me, it was poorly attended (I only found out about it through chance, when Sharon happened to read the obituaries, and saw a listing for his funeral the day before). The most popular and friendly person that I had ever known died almost anonymously. He had, literally, thousands of friends and acquaintances through the years, but in the end, he was nearly forgotten. He died in isolation, but he deserved so much better than that. You are still loved, my friend. I am grateful to have known you, and to have experienced the thousands of hours of life with you, the 48 years of life that we partially shared. May you be at peace my dear friend, at the center of it all, from where you started, and to where you have finally returned. Save a place on your couch for me, will you please? I will know that I will be welcome in the Kingdom to come, if I see your apartment there.

1992 Dream-Grandfather Great Spirit

in 1992 , while living in the Rock Creek area with Sharon, I had a most amazing dream. In this dream, I was in my grandfather’s home, sleeping in the bedroom that i always slept in as a child.  A “fierce, fiery cluster, or orb, of pure light and love” hovered over me, and though it did not have human form, I knew it to be my grandfather.  In shamanic terms, it was an actual experience of my eighth chakra, though, in my dream state, I recognized it as my deceased grandfather.  I was being drawn into his love light, and I knew that, for me to continue, this energy would destroy my body because my body was too weak to support this fire of love and wisdom that was about to engulf me.  I did not care, for I had finally found what I was looking for, and I began to rise up, and attempt to join with it, knowing my body would be destroyed in the process.

Connect to our Higher Self    The 8th chakra is the doorway between the immortal soul and the earth-bound personality.

Now, in real-time, in the physical world, my body was shaking and almost convulsing, and, to Sharon, my “crying and distress” showed that I was having a nightmare.  In her concern, she woke me up, and I had never felt so disappointed to have to wake up, as it ripped me away from this most remarkable inner experience.  But the dream carried many fruits with it into the world that our bodies inhabit.  I knew that if I wanted to entertain, or to even host, these higher vibrations of love and its wisdom, my physical body and the body of thought constituting myself needed to be dramatically strengthened.  Otherwise, my body would be destroyed, and this was part of the underlying motivation that culminated in becoming nearly an elite athlete by the time I was 46 years old.

October 25, 2022 Follow-up To 1992 Grandfather Great Spirit Dream

     I was the beneficiary of a transcendent meditation in 1987, My Holy Spirit, appearing as the Sacred Silence, gave to me, for a brief moment, a view of my life energy field.  In it were embedded two mysterious tricksters.  The Silence just witnessed these forces with me-for we were One for that miraculous moment, but We/I took no immediate action upon them.  I was troubled for 29 years as to what these tricksters represented, but I knew that they were not there for my good, and yet I had no narrative for them.   I eventually forgot about them, and continued the process of rebuilding my new, more spiritualized identity, without directly addressing tthese influences until late 2016.  With the encouragement of my wife Sharon, and best friend Marty Crouch(deceased), and the inspiration of Sheila Hamilton, writer of the book All The Things We Never Knew, I finally began weaving these two tricksters into a coherent narrative about the collective and individual effects of traumatic wounding.  My tricksters were the embedded wounds caused by trauma.

On October 25, 2022 I awoke at midnight, with an extreme anxiety reaction after another “Grandfather” dream..

I was in a car with my beloved grandpa Henry, my mother’s father, who died in 1990. There were two dark, threatening characters in the car with us. I knew that I must confront the two dangerous men and permanently remove them, to protect my grandpa. I exited the car, and, in my mind, knew that I must subdue these men, even if it cost me my life, otherwise my grandpa would perish.

The conclusion says it all–I was totally willing to sacrifice myself to save the presence of my grandfather. The word, and the experience, of “grandfather”  means the higher vibrations of love  and wisdom to me on the psychological/spiritual plane, so Grandfather has ultimate importance attached to it.  By the confrontation with, insight into, and the subduing of these two dark forces, or tricksters, the liberation of “Grandfather, Great Spirit” became inevitable.

Dark forces caused by traumatic wounding are common to all humanity, and plague all of us, either directly through our life experience, or through our relationships with other members of our family and of society.  Intergenerational trauma (the effects of war, terrorism, murder, religious wounding, alcoholic predispositions, patriarchal-societal dominance and oppression, with resultant misogyny and child neglect, racism, income inequality, etc.) plagues all of us, whether we are conscious of these facts, or not.  We all make accommodations to these dark forces,  and yet those adaptations that we make often define us, rather than encourage us to fearlessly confront the issues, and press onward for transformative change within ourselves and our world.

Personal wounding and subsequent dysfunction and repressive responses through individual life experience (moral injury, abandonment/neglect as baby, ptsd) are dark forces that torment most of us and must be faced, if we are to be clearer channels for healing and love’s intentions.

I am those tricksters, while remaining unconscious, and unmotivated to do anything about them.

I am Grandfather, Great Spirit when I confront these issues, see them for what they are, and refuse to be led down the dark pathways that they inevitably point to.

I get very sick when I stop looking at these issues, and also stop writing about them.

I continue to evolve, and as I also write and talk about my insights, the process of spiritual healing will bring greater health benefits to me, and to those inspired to action by all such efforts.

May 12, 2016 Dream

My wife Sharon has known June Thomas since the 1970’s when they were neighbors in southwest Portland. I have always loved June. I have known June since 1990, when she was married to Victor (Victor died in 1996). We have spent many, many hours vacationing together, with several great hiking trips together, and one great rafting adventure through the Grand Canyon in 2014.. I sometimes had the feeling that June was some sort of spiritual sister of mine, perhaps a feminine variation of my soul, because we had so much in common. I actually lived with June in her Tacoma home for four months in 2003, when I was relocated to the Puget Sound Naval Shipyards for an electrical installation job where I helped to install a server farm for the US Navy.

June and Sharon in Las Vegas, 2017

I would like to share an interesting dream that I had in May of 2016. June, who now lives in Tucson, Arizona was visiting her sick brother Dale in Medford, Oregon, for a week in May of 2016. On a Friday evening in May, I awoke from a strange, disturbing dream. In the dream, I had fallen in an unfamiliar bathroom, and had become trapped between the toilet and the wall. When Sharon awoke, I told her about the unusual dream. It was so real to me that I was a little shaken up. Later that morning, June called Sharon, as she frequently does in the morning. June related to Sharon that she was still at Dale’s house, and that his health was not good. In the middle of the night, Dale had gone to the bathroom, fallen, and became trapped between the toilet and the wall!!! As I look at my life’s history, I am amazed by the dreams from its Mystery COINCIDENCE? Are dreams really just fantasies? Do we have the capacity to extend our awareness beyond the limits of our five senses? Well, I know the answers to those questions, but your answers may be different, for sure!.

Dream at Matthew Fox Cosmic Christ Workshop April 1 2017 Dream

After Friday evening’s seminar about mysticism with the Master Spiritual Teacher, Matthew Fox, we returned to our hotel room, to rest up for the next morning’s follow-up workshop on the Cosmic Christ. I had quite the deep, peaceful sleep, which lasted six hours for me. Prior to awakening, I had a most interesting, powerful dream. What was/is fascinating about this dream is how absolutely awake I was, while having the dream.  It is a complete spiritual teaching, and for that, Great Spirit, I thank you, and my gratitude will be expressed through the life lived through me, for now and all time to come.

Curiosity only thrives in an unconditioned mind. Drink freely from its chalice of the Spirit!

In the dream, I opened a door, and walked into a room that was well-lit.  The room seemed unfamiliar to me. Inside of the room there was a man standing to the right of the entrance. He greeted me, holding a cup out to me in his hand. He gently offered it to me, and for a moment I considered what it’s contents might be. I then knew that if I drank from it, I would become “intoxicated”, but of a different nature that was still consistent with the path of “sobriety” I currently walked upon. I then noticed a table, where an opened map laid open upon it. The man walked with me to the table, still holding the cup. I looked at the map, and it was a topographic style map, similar to what I might use for traveling and/or hiking with. There were two distinct areas to it. The path or road, on the right side of the map, had only one dark, solid line drawn from the bottom to the top of the map. But, the section on the left side of the map had several dotted lines that only remotely “paralleled” the route on the right side of the map. I had no judgement about each of the path styles, yet I remained curious about the several dotted line paths, which intersected each other, while also “snaking” their unique individual routes up the map. I noted also that the “dotted line” paths also did not ever cross the path of the solid, dark line, though all of the paths had no distinct starting, or end point. At the Cosmic Christ workshop, Matthew asked if anyone had a dream that they wanted to share in the big group. Not being a spiritually “realized person”, I felt uncomfortable sharing the dream. But when it came time for a break, I took a book to Matthew for signing, and shared my dream with him. He refused to tell me what it might mean, but he had a smile on his face, and told me to let it tell me it’s meaning. On our drive home, Sharon White took controls of the car, and I started telling her the dream again. It was then that the horripilation (God chills) began in earnest, and the full meaning came through me. A complete mystical understanding, and teaching, was built into that dream, and it was then I realized that I had indeed drunk from the cup of the Spirit. Yes, I became quite “intoxicated” with Spirit, and I knew then that we had truly been blessed by the Master Teacher. I don’t expect anybody who remains stuck in their conditioned mind, or in the rut on the right side of the map to understand this dream.  Those who travel on the left side, where the unknown and the freedom to consciously wander are represented, will understand two main points:  1).  the pathways are made of dotted lines, showing that the unknown will be a constant companion on the journey:, and 2) a lot more of the “scenery” will be covered by those who choose to live outside of the ruts in life.  Those willing to take the risk will earn the greatest reward, which is a vastly enhanced spiritual consciousness. This is the path of conscious evolution, where our curiosity and creativity drives us to create new paths of consciousness, rather than just conforming to the expectations of church, society, and family. Mysticism, the heart of all vibrant, evolving religions, also can be a personal reality. It is not, however, for those clinging to structured understandings of life. Not all who wander are lost—-JRR Tolkien

Marty Crouch and the Electrician Dream

Now Marty, to bring you up to the present, I awoke this morning at 2:45 am, and I had a profound “sense of the presence”, whatever that means.  I could almost feel all of us gathered together again, and I asked for the “blessing” for all of us.  I have no concrete proof if such an internal process actually reaches anybody outside of my “field”, but I then entered a dream state, and something profound occurred. I dreamed that we were all together in some sort of  noisy “industrial plant”, and there was an electrical system that needed reconditioning.  As I awoke, I was “told” that your security lock needed to be removed from the “electrical panel” that I was working on  (me, with you and Sharon witnessing).

I was wearing sound proof headsets, to protect me from the “industrial noise”.  I also observed others who had already performed their “work”, noting the discards in the nearby “dumpster”. I also saw how I needed to integrate my actions with their work, though it felt like we might be getting into each others’ way at times. Symbolically to me, it is obvious what my subconscious was communicating with me. Letting go of the controls, trusting in “the process” and turning over our “work” to “others”, even if for a moment, is difficult while being overwhelmed with the daily “noise of the mind” and the activities of our lives, and threats to our health and well-being.  But, even if we succeed in “getting the work done”, whatever that means, and how it might express itself, we have to suspend our fear and lack of trust in the process, as we still have to turn over the “operation” to others (trust in a higher power within our isolated self and its limiting ideas, all the while knowing that power resides within our heart and soul). Marty, you have a resistance to your own healing.  You must remove the self-protective mechanisms and controls that you, and perhaps your wife, have layered over your consciousness for many years, or, perhaps, for your entire life.  These controls lock you out of your own greater good.  The very state of consciousness that made the melanoma possible, and helped support its presence and growth, is still embedded within your mind and heart.  Infusions and medications, though potentially helpful, alone will not get the job done.  If the supporting structure embedded within your ego is not dramatically altered, or transformed, then the conditions for the continuation of the growth and spread of the cancer have not been sufficiently altered either. My “higher power” has ultimate confidence in you, and sees the absolute present beauty of who you are, how you are “innocent” and  Not Responsible for this melanoma wounding, and it has also seen the wonderful potential for your future life.  Once again, there are no guarantees, but I see this for you. I plan on living into this dream with you, for a long time to come, Marty. Thanks again for a wonderful evening, Blessings to you! Marty was able to maintain good health for only a few more weeks.  I gave to him a copy of a meditation that I had created, but it had little positive impact for Marty.  My intention was to help him release his understanding of who he was, and for him to have an experience of his divine nature at the deepest, most healing levels.  Marty was a man of highest intellect, character, moral and ethical integrity, yet he had not ever experienced the release of his great creation, his ego, into the great Unknown, though he certainly desired to reach that place in consciousness.

May 1, 2018 -Alberto Villoldo Workshop at 1440 Multiversity

On Friday night of the workshop, Alberto asked for us to ask our Spirit for a dream. Well, I had a dream, and its essence was relevant. In it, Alberto was a non-vocal observer, watching groups of people assembling a large foundation for some sort of huge, new building. Sharon and I struggled a bit with our contribution, but it all was coming together at the end of the dream, and I could see that we were about to get our part assembled successfully. We then came together as a full assembly of participants, where a male voice gave an extended monologue about the nature of the “magnetic self”. In the dream, I countered his monologue with an extended message of my own, articulately and with precision. But then, I looked to Sharon in the dream, and asked her “Sharon, do I sound like an idiot?” I then woke up. Yes, there I go again. Even in the dream, I doubt myself, my ability to communicate, and my “understanding”. It is my life’s challenge to make peace with that wayward voice within me that brings self-doubt, and keeps me silent, and not wanting to extend myself to others who might misinterpret me and my intentions. Thanks, father, for that! The gift that keeps on giving to me, until I transform myself enough and stop accepting it!.

Chapter 147: The Wisdom of Dreams — Gateways to Self-Healing, Spirit, and Past Lives

“We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” – Anaïs Nin

Have you ever found yourself captivated by the enigmatic world of dreams? Are they whispers from our biology, creations spun from a wandering imagination, windows into the subconscious, hints of wisdom from a higher power, portals into other people’s lives, or even glimpses of our past incarnations? Most of us have experienced a dream so vivid it lingered in the mind long after waking, or felt an unexplainable pull toward the spiritual realm that left us questioning the nature of existence itself. By venturing into the mystical territory of dreams, spirits, and past lives, we open ourselves to extraordinary possibilities.

My own life has been a river flowing with dreams—from the terrifying nightmares of childhood to the profound visions that followed my recovery from addiction. After 1987, my dream world took on a quality I could no longer ignore, becoming a steady source of insight, healing, and prophecy. What follows is both an exploration of what dreams are, and a testament to the mysterious ways consciousness has spoken to me across a lifetime of visions.

Understanding Dreams: Four Lenses on the Dreaming Mind

Since the dawn of time, dreams have been a source of mystery and fascination—stories our minds weave while we sleep, often escaping the grasp of our waking consciousness. But what are dreams really for? Are they mechanical byproducts of our biology, or do they serve a purpose beyond the physical realm? It’s worth examining dreams through several lenses: neurological, psychological, spiritual, and evolutionary.

Neurologically, dreams arise from brain activity during REM sleep. Brain scans show that regions like the amygdala, which processes emotion, remain active during this state. Some neuroscientists believe dreaming is simply a byproduct of electrical impulses with no inherent purpose, while others argue it helps the brain process emotion or encode memory. Research has even linked the visual cortex’s activity to the vivid imagery of dreams, and the limbic system’s activation to their emotional undertones.

Spiritually, many traditions regard dreams as messages from the divine or the deep subconscious—woven with symbolism that offers guidance, warning, or insight. Cultures throughout history have relied on dreams for decision-making and to anticipate the future. Despite vast differences in interpretation, a comparative look across traditions reveals broad agreement on their spiritual value, and countless personal accounts describe dreams that sparked life-altering realizations.

Evolutionarily, some theorize that dreaming gave our ancestors a “safe space” to rehearse responses to danger. As civilizations developed, this raw survival function became layered with religious and spiritual meaning.

Perhaps the truest value of dreams isn’t found in any single explanation, but in the interplay of all of them—biological programming, psychological truth, and connection to deeper mysteries, meeting at once. Dreams, then, are a nexus where our biological, psychological, neurological, and spiritual selves converge. Each one we remember offers a reflection of our inner workings—and perhaps a glimpse of what it means to be human.

A Life Steeped in Dreams

We all dream, whether we recall it or not. Many who do remember have no framework for interpretation, and so their dreams are casually dismissed as noise. But some of us build a lifelong practice of attention around our dream life, developing a language for it and treating it as a genuine channel of communication.

I found a note I had written while “asleep” in 2007, tucked inside a dream journal rediscovered in 2019. Since then, I’ve had numerous experiences touching the psychic and occult dimensions of human life. My dreams have long served as messages from the many facets of my Self—a window into the subconscious and a channel for healing. They have illuminated hidden emotions, offered guidance, and facilitated genuine transformation. On more than one occasion, I have felt a deep and inexplicable connection with the spirit of a deceased friend or family member within a dream. Others have seemed to reveal fragments of past-life experience—so vivid and emotionally charged that they compelled me to seek their meaning, as though I were catching a glimpse of a previous incarnation, or perhaps the life of someone I never knew.

I am not a religious person, though I stand alongside theologians who believe dreams are one of the primary ways the Divine—God, the Universe, Spirit, Grandfather Great Spirit, the One, whatever name feels right—gets our attention. In truth, there is little difference between what we experience while dreaming and what we call waking reality; internally, we respond to both as though they carry equal weight. So could Truth be trying to reach us while we sleep? What follows is a catalog of the dream types I’ve come to recognize as spiritually significant, followed by the personal chronicle that revealed their meaning to me.

Key Takeaways:

• Dreams possess transformative power, offering avenues for healing and self-discovery.
• Dreams can open windows into past lives, offering lessons for our present existence.
• Dreams can channel spirit connections, providing profound ties to the beyond.
• Personal interpretation of these experiences fuels ongoing spiritual growth.

A Catalog of Spiritually Significant Dreams

1. Visitation Dreams. It’s common to have a visitation dream after a loved one passes. The deceased often appear healthy and luminous, delivering a simple but powerful message: “I’m okay,” or “There is nothing to fear about death.”

2. Prophetic Dreams. Our brains carry built-in predictive machinery, so it’s no surprise that we sometimes “prophesy,” whether awake or asleep. Our minds may draw on past experience to sketch a probable future, sharpening our waking choices—even though the future itself remains fluid, shifting with every decision made in the present.

3. Warning Dreams. Sometimes the body—or something beyond it—speaks through dreams to warn of imminent danger, especially concerning our health. We may dream of a specific body part, or even hear a verbal warning outright. In a 2015 study of women diagnosed with breast cancer, 83 percent reported dreams more vivid than usual, and 44 percent recalled hearing specific words like “breast cancer” or “tumor.”

4. Healing Dreams. These are the internal creations that carry us from imbalance into harmony, often through a mystical encounter.

5. Heavenly Dreams. A 1989 study found that more than half of healthy young adults who dreamed of death spent significant time, within the dream, in heaven—often traveling down a tunnel or pathway toward a heavenly destination, and frequently reuniting with deceased loved ones.

6. Mutual Dreams. A mutual dream occurs when two people, often in separate locations, dream the same thing at the same time. According to a 2017 study, shared dreams are, on average, 80 percent identical, most often occurring between close friends or relatives—though four percent occur between strangers. These dreams point to a profound realization: the collective mind of humanity dreams through individuals, just as individuals dream through the collective mind. We are, in the end, one.

7. Projection and Remote Viewing Dreams. In early occult and spiritualist literature, remote viewing was known as telesthesia or traveling clairvoyance—described by Rosemary Guiley as “seeing remote or hidden objects clairvoyantly with the inner eye, or in alleged out-of-body travel.” These dreams suggest that our sense of self must expand to include the collective consciousness we share as members of the human race—that we may, in dreams, project ourselves into another person’s experience and, for a moment, live their reality.

8. Radical Empathy Dreams. Empathy plays a crucial role in dreaming, offering a window into our subconscious emotions and social bonds. In their most mysterious form, these dreams place us behind another person’s eyes entirely, letting us witness their life as our own—raising unsettling questions about just how porous our individual identities really are.

9. Dreams of Personal Growth and Teaching. Dreams of teaching often reveal a desire to share knowledge, or a sense of responsibility to pass on what we’ve learned. They can highlight leadership qualities, a struggle with communication, or a need to assert ourselves more fully in waking life. Waking from such a dream shaken by the realness of a life fully lived marks a crossing into a higher understanding of the self—wisdom available to saints and skeptics alike. We are far closer to one another than our beliefs allow us to believe.

10. Dreams of Past Lives and Ancestral Spirit. Some dreams seem to reveal fragments of past-life experience or connect us to ancestral spirit rather than personal memory, so vivid and emotionally charged that they demand further exploration.

11. Farewell and Divergence Dreams. Some dreams mark the quiet end of a chapter before waking life catches up, signaling that a relationship or phase of life is coming to a close.

A Personal Dream Chronicle

The categories above are only scaffolding. What gives them life are the dreams themselves—the specific, dated visions that taught me what each of these categories means in practice.

The Priest and the Evil One (1964) — Projection and Teaching

At eight years old, I dreamed I was a priest in a pre-technological village, instructing my people to cast their sacred idols into a lake. Alone in my home, I summoned the darkness that had long terrorized the community. As I exhausted myself fighting this unseen force, a face began to materialize in the fog—my own.

Meaning: This childhood dream was a lesson in psychological projection decades before I had the language for it. The “evil” we perceive in the world is so often a reflection of our own inner shadow. We are all wounded by this process, and until we recognize our role in creating our own demons, we remain trapped by them. We heal together, or we perish alone.

A Message from Bob Fero (1978) — Visitation

Bob and Dorothy Fero were close friends of my parents for as long as I can remember—fellow members of our square-dancing group, camping companions, golf partners. I grew to love and respect Bob deeply. In 1972, driving home from Reno in a fit of rage, Bob crashed head-on into an oncoming car, killing himself and critically injuring Dorothy. My father, too grief-stricken, couldn’t bring himself to attend the funeral. I went in his place. Two nights later, Bob came to me in a dream. He told me not to fear death—that where he was, it was beautiful and peaceful, and death was not the enemy. My father wasn’t consoled, since the dream hadn’t been his to receive, but it planted in me a lasting seed of spiritual understanding.

Meaning: This visitation offered a profound sense of comfort, suggesting that consciousness continues beyond physical death. I’ve had several such dreams since, most recently following the death of a good friend—each one a quiet reassurance.

The Reincarnation of Bobby Clements (1987) — Remote Viewing and Past Lives

A month into my sobriety, I had three consecutive dreams in which my name was Bobby Clements—a teenager enlisting in WWII, then a bomber pilot shot down with the certainty we would all die. Decades later, my sister’s research uncovered the real story of Robert “Bobby” Kelly Clements of Nova Scotia, a bomber pilot whose life—down to hand-picking his five crewmates—matched my dreams with uncanny accuracy.

Meaning: My childhood aspirations to become a pilot, and later an electrician, echoed his life in ways too specific to dismiss as coincidence—suggesting our souls may carry echoes of past experience that shape the present journey.

A Dream of Healing and Self-Love (1988) — Healing and Visitation

I first met Diane “Di Di” McLoud in 1982, and by 1984 we had become lovers, though I sensed our relationship couldn’t survive our shared flaws. She died in 1988, struck by a drunk driver. Shortly after, she appeared in a dream: I was confronted by an aggressive, abusive man and pleaded with a policeman to arrest him. Di Di then took the officer’s place and told me plainly that for love to reappear fully in my life, I first had to “arrest” those same negative qualities within myself and rehabilitate my own passions.

Meaning: This was a direct message from my subconscious—and perhaps from Di Di’s spirit—that healing love always begins with self-rehabilitation.

The Prophecy of the Eight-Jeweled Ring (1988) — Prophetic

I dreamed of searching for a ring with eight jewels but could only find seven; a thought arose that the eighth would be found already mounted to the lost ring itself. At the time, I was engaged to Laurie H., a relationship that ended just weeks later. Decades passed. In 2004, my wife Sharon showed me the ring she’d bought, unprompted and without my involvement, for our second wedding in Las Vegas. It held seven small stones and one larger, distinguishing eighth stone—the ring from my dream, sixteen years earlier. Sharon had never read my journal, nor had I ever mentioned its contents to her.

Meaning: A stunning confirmation of life’s mysterious synchronicities—the future casting light into the present, with the answer waiting patiently to be found at the right moment. Sharon was the eighth jewel.

A Farewell to Randy Olson (1988) — Visitation and Divergence

In a dream, the sky seemed to open and heaven sang a beautiful song about Boston. I found myself flying, without a plane, and received a message that I would be leaving my lifelong friend Randy Olson behind for this phase of my life. Soon after, I traveled to Boston to visit the Mother Church of Christian Science, where I was unexpectedly given access to Mary Baker Eddy’s private study—a privilege I still can’t fully explain. My friendship with Randy grew distant in the years that followed; he continued drinking and smoking long after I’d left that life behind in my own recovery. The last time I saw him, he was loading a twelve-pack into his car, sick and bloated, seemingly avoiding my eyes. Years later, Sharon read his obituary in the newspaper: Randy had died of a heart attack, found in his car after a trip to get a sandwich. His funeral was poorly attended, a quiet end for a man who’d once had thousands of friends.

Meaning: This dream foretold a painful but necessary divergence of paths. I couldn’t carry him to the spiritual places I was called to visit—that willingness was his alone to find. He lives on within me still. You are still loved, my friend.

Grandfather, Great Spirit (1992) — Healing and Transcendence

While living in the Rock Creek area with Sharon, I dreamed I was back in my grandfather’s home, in the very bedroom I slept in as a child, when a fierce, fiery orb of pure light and love hovered above me—formless, yet unmistakably my late grandfather Henry. I understood that joining with it fully would destroy my body, too weak to hold that fire of love and wisdom. I didn’t care; I began to rise toward it anyway. Sharon, hearing my distress, woke me—and I had never felt so disappointed to return to waking life.

Meaning: In shamanic terms, I now recognize this as an encounter with the eighth chakra, the doorway between the immortal soul and the earthbound self. The dream left behind a clear directive: to one day hold that vibration, my body and mind needed to be dramatically strengthened—a conviction that helped carry me toward near-elite athletic fitness by age forty-six.

A Message from June Thomas (2016) — Mutual Dream

June Thomas, a woman I’ve known since 1990 and consider something of a spiritual sister, was visiting her ailing brother Dale in 2016. One night I dreamed I’d fallen in an unfamiliar bathroom and become trapped between the toilet and the wall—vivid enough to shake me upon waking. The next morning, June called to say that in the night, Dale had gone to the bathroom, fallen, and become trapped in that exact position.

Meaning: Coincidence, or evidence that our awareness extends beyond the five senses? I know my own answer; yours may differ.

The Cup and the Map (2017) — Spiritual Teaching

After a Friday evening seminar on mysticism with Matthew Fox, I fell into a deep sleep and had a dream in which I was fully, strangely awake. I opened a door into a well-lit, unfamiliar room, where a man greeted me and offered a cup. I understood that drinking from it would “intoxicate” me in a way still consistent with my sobriety. He led me to a table holding a map divided into two paths: one a solid, unbroken line; the other, several dotted lines that wove and intersected but never crossed the solid path, none with a clear beginning or end. Matthew wouldn’t interpret it for me—he simply told me to let it reveal its own meaning. On the drive home, it did: those who walk the solid line live within the ruts of convention, while those who choose the dotted, uncertain paths embrace the unknown as a constant companion, covering more of life’s scenery in exchange for the risk.

Meaning: This is the path of conscious evolution—curiosity and creativity forging new routes rather than conforming to expectation. As Tolkien wrote: not all who wander are lost.

The Electrician’s Dream for Marty Crouch (2018) — Personal Growth and Healing

I woke at 2:45 a.m. with a profound sense of presence, as though all of us were gathered together, and fell into a dream of a noisy industrial plant where an electrical system needed reconditioning. I understood that a safety lock had to be removed from the panel before the system could be trusted to run again.

Meaning: Healing requires releasing our self-protective controls and trusting the process, even when the noise of the mind and the fear of losing control make that trust feel impossible. Marty carried deep resistance to his own healing, layered over a lifetime; I hoped, through this dream, to show him the beauty and innocence beneath that armor. He maintained his health for only a few more weeks, but I believe the invitation to release control—toward the divine nature we all carry—remained true, whether or not he reached it in this life.

The Foundation Dream at 1440 Multiversity (2018) — Projection and Teaching

During a workshop with Alberto Villoldo, I dreamed of groups of people assembling the foundation of a great new building while Alberto silently observed. Afterward, a voice delivered a monologue on the nature of the “magnetic self,” which I countered eloquently—until, mid-dream, I turned to Sharon and asked, “Do I sound like an idiot?”

Meaning: Even within a dream of expanded consciousness, my oldest wound—self-doubt—found its way in. It remains my life’s work to make peace with that voice.

The Return of Grandfather, Great Spirit (2022) — Ancestral Spirit and Resolution

In 1987, during a transcendent meditation, the Sacred Silence showed me two mysterious “tricksters” embedded in my life energy field. I carried that unresolved image for twenty-nine years, sensing they weren’t there for my good but lacking any narrative to explain them—until, with the encouragement of Sharon, my late friend Marty Crouch, and the writer Sheila Hamilton, I began to understand them as the embedded wounds of trauma. On October 25, 2022, I woke at midnight in acute anxiety after another dream of my grandfather Henry. This time, we were together in a car with two dark, threatening figures. I knew I had to confront and remove them, even at the cost of my own life, to protect him.

Meaning: I am those tricksters when I remain unconscious of them, and I am Grandfather, Great Spirit, when I confront them and refuse the dark paths they point toward. Trauma’s dark forces—intergenerational and personal alike—touch all of us, whether we recognize them or not, and the adaptations we make to survive them often come to define us rather than free us. I grow sick when I stop looking, and I heal—along with anyone inspired by the telling—each time I choose to see.

Closing Reflection

It’s worth remembering that dreams, spirit connections, and past-life impressions are deeply personal. Each person’s journey is unique, and interpretations will vary—what holds profound meaning for one may not resonate with another. Approaching the mystical realm with an open mind and a sense of wonder, rather than certainty, is the only real requirement.

As we navigate this beautifully complex territory of dreams, spirits, and past lives, each vision and each realization becomes another building block in our spiritual journey. The wisdom is already there, waiting in the dotted lines of the map, for anyone willing to wander off the well-worn path. So let us keep exploring, keep learning, and keep growing—unraveling, dream by dream, the extraordinary possibilities that lie within.