I was a lost, confused, anxious freshman in college. I was the star of the baseball team, learning the harsh realities of life as an adult - I had just rented an apartment with one of my drinking buddies - working a night job after school and practice while managing the frustrating relationship with my gal friend.
I was also being pulled in the direction of drugs, music and the life hedonistic and irresponsible. Yes, I was morphing from star athlete to care-free hippie.
Life was hard, my dreams were fading and the Vietnam war was suddenly localized. I found a niche, a cause, somewhere to belong. I wanted to rebel, rally and rant. Looking back it seems natural that music would balance all the angst.
I was also taking a couple of Psychology classes and was fascinated by the scope of the subject matter. That doesn't mean I was a good student, I wasn't, but the basic introductional groundwork was being paved before my very feet.
One of our additional reading assignments was the aforementioned Carlos Castaneda's opus The Teachings of Don Juan.
It literally turned what remaining normality I struggled to keep on its ear. That's it - I'm outta here.
At CC's suggestion, I began to write my dreams in a journal. He said that they were powerful allies in the quest for spiritual understanding. He also stated (with conviction) that all this is a facade, that we are literally being duped by society to adhere to a set of rules other than the real. To be mindless consumers instead of beings of light more less. I bought into that with every hook, line and sinker that my emotional sporting goods store could supply.
Toss some Zen, Carl Jung and Jerry Garcia into that cosmic salad, and it's no wonder that hitting 2-2 sliders to the gap slowly went from thrilling to tiresome.
I went from wearing a college uniform with a giant red number on the back to tie-dye T's and faded jeans almost overnight.
Yes, over the night. I got real good at the art of the dream. A skill at which I continue to hone.
And last night was a zinger. I will summarize in the attempt to decipher.
I am walking on a part of the island that I have never explored. Didn't even know it existed. The asphalt had turned to rock, and then brick and finally an amber sand. We were looking for something. Suddenly I see a vacation resort. An oasis in the middle of nothing. One step is a beach and the next a Vegas/Nawlins/Old Europe type of vacation resort community. There are huge, inviting verandas, sprawling retail with luxurious condos overhead, a pool with splashing children and an open airy Mexican restaurant on the corner. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes and I hear the hiss of salt water.
I ask the person I am walking with what we are looking for.
She smiles and crinkles her face in an 'I'm not sure' manner.
I am not sure either.
We continue to walk through the scene as the sun sets. It is now dark and we are standing in the cobblestoned street looking for a car. A very particular car. It is, or contains, something important. It is the reason we are searching. We find it. It is locked. I B&E. There is a folded piece of paper on the passenger seat. She is straining to see it as I unfold. This is it. Eureka!
Every cell in my body is crackling with electricity. After all this time - an answer. My partner is shaking with anticipation, leaning close to me. This is a beautiful moment.
Playing into the drama of the situation I S-L-O-W-L-Y unfold the paper.
And wake up to the marimba of my iPhone alarm.
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