The Dream That Started It All

It was a long narrow room, like three rooms attached to each other-the center open at either end. A long fold-out conference table was the centerpiece. A group of 12 people mingled about, speaking in low pleasant voices; these were the upper echelon of lightworkers, the top brass. Herbalists, Healers of all stripes, these were the Ascended Masters, but I was not yet aware of the magnitude of their influence and authority. It would not be long before I became educated.

My best friend and business partner John was not far from my left side when I caught the eye of one member of this great committee, but I could not identify his/her gender. “So,” I said rather brazenly, “How do I sign up to be on the board?”

I wasn’t expecting an answer, because as soon I said it, I felt embarrassed at my arrogance. Nonetheless, a response came. “Do you think you’re ready?” He/She asked. I mustered up every drop of my self worth, and with my bravest voice replied, “Yes, I am.” At that moment, it became imperative that we evacuate the meeting hall, a big storm was coming.

As we emerged from the building, it was evident that this was no ordinary storm. Deep bulging clouds the color of wet slate seemed to boil as they skimmed the treetops getting ever closer. Ominous rumblings of thunder registered with such a low vibration that I felt it in my bones and under my feet. Directly to my left I noticed a tiny greenhouse made entirely of clear glass, including the floor. “What an ideal place to watch the storm,” I thought; “I’ll be entirely safe while I observe the storm from this perfect vantage point! Nothing could hurt me in there!!” (Cue the doom music)

The group of Masters was walking away from me, John with them. I called out to him to watch the storm with me from the glass house, but he couldn’t hear me. Along the tarmac, the procession was striding past my old elementary school toward a distant mountain that bore a striking resemblance to Mt. Shasta. I shouted louder for John, thinking he would be as excited as I was about the discovery of this observation platform, but he was even farther away and the storm was getting louder. Fat drops began to fall and with one last glance toward the departing assembly, I ducked into the shelter of the translucent conservatory.

Everything was constructed of sheer glass, including the floor. “It’s very slippery!” I heard in my head. The voice was loud and booming with an odd quality, as though it were being announced over the radio. “It’s very slippery!” the voice repeated. I grew concerned for the people outside of my refuge. “I hope those people are driving carefully,” I worried inwardly, “it’s very slippery out there.”

That’s when the floor tipped up under my feet and like Alice in Wonderland, I went sliding out of the back of the hothouse and landed at the bottom of a steep river embankment. I stood on the narrow sandy strip of earth and noticed the swollen river beside me; its rage was reflecting the brutality of the storm directly above. I turned to the riverbank towering 30 feet above me and attempted to scale the slightly broken left side of the wet, sandy wall.

After much effort I scrabbled up a few feet and oozed right back down. I turned to the right and made a second attempt but could find no purchase on the damp sand and slid down once again. The sheer sandy face in front of me would be futile to attempt, there was no place to even get a handhold. It’s was useless to keep trying to scramble up this impossible bank. I was down at the bottom and there was only one way out. Giving in to surrender, I pushed off the embankment and thrust myself backward into the rushing torrent.

The force of the violent flood immediately swept me downstream and I turned to see where I was being carried. There it was. In the middle of the maelstrom was an enormous boulder that metaphorically had my name on it. “Oh, it’s you,” was barely formed in my mind as a complete void overtook me. I was alone. Lost. Emptied. Poured out. Too vacant to even resonate with grief, yet the emotion was there, detached as though I were observing someone else’s experience. This is the culmination of emotion I experienced in a flash as I watched the rock grow larger and the surge of white water crashing over it. I was heaving right for it; my catalyst.

I am back in the board room; John is at my left elbow and the Masters have formed a semi-circle around me. In my hands is a round metal box they have presented me with. The lid has a clear plastic window and I see that the squat canister is fluffed with cotton supporting several brightly colored bits of metal bejeweled with rhinestones and glitter. It appears that I am cradling a box of dime-store bindis. “These are your tools,” I am told. “It’s a complete set.”

The grief and emptiness take hold of me and I begin to sob. All I have left is this: my tools. I was being prepared for the journey I had agreed to, and I had all the tools I needed to get through it. I woke myself up with the sound of my own soft weeping.

This was one week before my world changed. I was grateful for the forewarning and when the time came, I knew that what I needed to do was surrender, surrender and surrender some more. This I know: the grief I felt in the premonition was no match for the waves of devastation I would experience in the world we call reality for weeks and weeks to come. I have been watching in stunned fascination as I lose everything I love and yet am strongly compelled to simply let it go and surrender to the tide.

One must be emptied in order to be filled.