The New Dalai Lama
Dreamed 2011/9/9 by Wayan
Night. A public garden between four neoclassical halls and pavilions. I'm alone at first, but people in midnight-blue robes trickle in slowly till it's quite a crowd. They're followers of the new Dalai Lama. Quiet and expectant.
Then a big squad of plainclothed but armed guys marches in, announces "We're the Secret Service! Disperse at once!" Since the crowd was peaceful and quiet, I suspect the Secret Service has a hidden agenda--to suppress Buddhists, or to keep them from meeting their new leader?
Later that night I run into the new Dalai Lama, on her way to meet her followers. I like her instantly. A small, neat, middle-aged white woman with a clean strong aura. We're on a balcony high above the city. A sea of light below. Mention my suspicions that the Secret Service is plotting against her.
Shyly I ask her a selfish question too: "All my life I've had a vague sense of past lives at the borders of my memory, but with details blocked. I haven't pushed hard to retrieve them, felt it was my job to be effective here and now. But my dreams say I need to recall some things to heal. Is there a tradition that such efforts lead to trouble, or that at a certain point it's okay for a student to challenge the memory censors?"
She says "If your dreams are prompting it, go ahead. Just don't lose yourself in the maze of the past--some minds need broadening beyond the here and now, but that's sure not your problem! So remember your practical goal is healing, and only explore memories needed for that. Focus on action." We both grin at the irony of a mystic advising a worldly focus. But it makes sense for me.
Then alarm enters her eyes. I sense it too--a soul in need nearby. Well, lots of those, this is a big city, after all--but this one wants advice and might just follow it! That's rare and precious! Her point of greatest effectiveness just shifted from me to that open soul.
The Dalai Lama steps to the edge of the balcony... and steps off! She flies into the city night. I take a deep breath and follow, not hesitating--in her clarifying presence, I know I can fly too.
Why follow her? Part curiosity--want to learn how she does what she does--and part instinctive attraction to that luminous soul, like a moth to a light.
We soar like superheroes over red and white carstreams, green signs, sulfurous car-park lights. But soon she zooms down toward ground level. Found her next soul! Suddenly I change my mind, think "Soul-work needs privacy," and wave to her, yell "Bye! And thanks!"...
...and soar away.
NOTES IN THE MORNING
I go see a San Francisco Fringe Festival play, Another Picnic At The Asylum by Angela Neff. Powerful. But I have trouble seeing the show as it is because I have a growing sense of déjà vu.
Then I really do predict a couple of key elements, and realize why. Years ago at the Marsh Theater I saw Angela try out a brief early draft of Picnic.
But my shock returns double at the end--this full version climaxes not with her crazy dad's death, as I expect/recall, but years later, with her visit to the Hyatt in Phoenix where he jumped. She envisions her dad leading her off a high balcony into a night flight over the glittering city... exactly as I was led at the climax of my dream.
Magical at the time. Spooky now.
But don't go pestering Angela about it. Soul-work needs privacy.
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