Now, more than ever, I found myself caught between two worlds, comfortable in neither. Despite the occasional highs of spiritual breakthrough, the dominant themes in my life remained loss, pain, and lack of completeness. I still loved Scott with a passionate intensity, but now found myself restless with a host of unanswered questions as to the nature of his present reality, if indeed there were one, and of mine. In a literal sense, it felt as if I too had died at the moment of Scott’s passing, and fallen into a deep dream just as he awakened from his dream of life. He might have shed his body and returned to his true home, but I had suddenly become a ghost haunting a realm now strange to me.
And so I moved through life as I tentatively began to regain my footing, troubled by huge unanswerable questions only now relevant. If Scott’s consciousness remained intact, what form did it take? And why? How did he now perceive reality, and what did he do with his time? Where was he? What was mine for me to know? Was he trying to reach me for some uncertain spiritual purpose? If his consciousness had indeed survived the death of his body, should I be trying to let it go rather than cling to it? Might I be somehow holding him back with the chains of my attachment, possibly interfering with his spiritual mission? How might my actions here affect him, and vice versa?
My head spun, adrift with numberless questions and few answers. In some ways, I thought, it would be easier to believe that consciousness simply ceases with the death of the body. Life and death would be so much simpler then, if more brutal, and the survivor left with only one option: packing up and moving on. But my heart had insisted otherwise from the very beginning, and I had now begun to receive information purporting to be messages from the other side. I had no way of knowing where this strange path might lead, but knew that I had no choice but to follow it.
Many cultures wiser than our own have paid careful (and even reverent) attention to the language of dreams, and the messages held there for us. Angels depicted in the Bible and elsewhere almost invariably serve the role of messengers for the divine, after all, and dreams can be seen as serving a similar sacred purpose. Since these visions are uniquely our own, and flow from the deepest part of us, they offer a richness of information and guidance for those willing to take the time to look. Their wisdom may be frequently presented mysteriously, and appear cloaked in a foreign tongue, true, but that is no good reason to cast them aside. For better or worse, that seems the way the spirit often moves in presenting its greatest truths.
From the very beginnings of the partnership of the soul that appeared to be emerging, dreams played a vital role as a portal of the spirit. On a level deeper than the conscious, I found myself coming to terms with a miraculous reality. My thirst for communion knew no bounds, and in those early days it seemed that only during my sleep could I find that sacred meeting ground that my heart so craved. My first two dreams of Scott came in the last week of the month of his passing, within the space of a few days. Despite their proximity in time, the contrast between the two pointed out to me that healing was indeed taking place deep within me.
The first was a dream steeped in stress and fear, its entire tone grainy, grim, and dark, reminiscent of the stormy Kansas in the movie Wizard of Oz. Indeed, a storm was fast approaching (this being South Florida, a hurricane), and anxiety was building. Scott and I had experienced the brutal force of Hurricane Andrew together during our first summer in our new home, and the still, ominous quality of the calm before the storm on that blazing summer day dominated the dream. As it had also been in life, we struggled together mightily as a team to try and secure our home in the desperate last hours before night fell and the hellish winds began to blow.
We had to travel on bicycles to pick up supplies, and I helped Scott carry his heavy burden as we pedaled back. I could see that he was almost panting with the effort of trying to keep up with me, and very tired. At the last minute, when it was too late, I realized with horror that we had forgotten to put up storm shutters on the front porch, and that our home had been left exposed to the storm’s fury. In a state approaching panic I called out for Scott, then awoke and bolted upright. It was 3:30 in the morning, the middle of the dark night, and I was filled with despair. Had I made no progress at all? Did I not yet even realize in my heart that he was dead? In the dream he had been still right there with me, helping me as always through the challenges of life as part of a team. But the dream was a cruel lie. Scott was dead now, and forever gone. Hadn’t I realized that yet? I cried out in pain, and had never felt more helpless or alone.
A few nights later, the second dream came as a sweet and entirely different revelation. I awoke gently at 4:44 in the morning, my body alive with the delicate tingle I have since come to recognize as spiritual confirmation, knowing that a rare miracle of healing had taken place. In that dream, I was sitting in the library of our home as Scott lay on the sofa, obviously very ill and receiving an infusion. His brother Bruce, whom he loved dearly, sat on the opposite side of the sofa. Overcome with love and emotion as I sat with Scott, I tried to speak but couldn’t. Realizing with some disgust that my mouth was full of wadded-up tissue paper I began to pull it out, telling Bruce once I could speak that “I’ve got something in my mouth.” In reply, he said “I know; I’ve been seeing it every time you open your mouth.”
Then, free at last of the obstruction, I turned to my sweet Scott as he looked me in the eye. Knowing that he was near death, once again savoring his precious company and full of emotion, I spoke the following words with some difficulty. “Honey, you know that I really, really like having you here. But if you need to go, that’s O.K.”
Having spoken the words, I awoke feeling amazed and richly blessed. In some way beyond my understanding, I knew that the dream signified a quantum leap forward in the mysterious road toward healing.. Our cat, Priscilla, was for some reason not sleeping at her usual place at the foot of the bed, but right by my head, atop Scott’s pillow on his side of the bed. How could it be, I marveled, that my soul has the grace to let his soul go, when my conscious mind can do nothing but cling? I had spoken the beautiful words to him in the dream, and meant them, but how? Conscious understanding eluded me, but I felt flush with the pure power and beauty of the experience. Feeling Scott’s presence strongly, I gave thanks to God for this unexpected gift of the spirit and scribbled down the dream on an envelope. Minutes later, still tingling with delight, I passed back into a deep and restful sleep.
In a later conversation with Daviea, I struggled with a new question. The message of the dream, on one level, was clear. I was making progress in my healing, and beginning to open up to the idea of letting go. My soul was finding freedom in the process of coming to terms with Scott’s passing. Though that interpretation resonated within me as true, I knew that there was still more to the story. My instincts left me no doubt that a greater mystery was here at play, gently calling out for exploration and resolution, and that I’d have to keep seeking until I put my finger on it. Daviea immediately answered my question, with a response I instantly recognized as truth. “The dream wasn’t just for you, Paul,” she said. “It was Scott’s soul that needed to be set free.” I didn’t fully understand what had happened, the exact nature of the gifts exchanged between us, but I knew she was right. It was now working both ways. Scott and I were bestowing upon one another gifts of the spirit as our journey together continued.
To Chapter 10
Stumble It!