THE ALCHEMY OF DREAMS
Man is a genius when be is dreaming.
—AKIRA KUROSAWA
At different moments in my life, I am a psychiatrist, a lover, a friend, and a daughter, but at the core of my being I am most of all a dreamer. Whatever I'm doing, I hear my dreams echoing in a distant chamber, attuned to the rhythms of my body and the very substance of the earth. Dreams are my compass and my truth; they guide me and link me to the divine. They call out to me in an intimate whisper, always knowing how to find me. They speak my real name.
When my mother was five months pregnant with me, she required emergency surgery. Gigantic fibroid tumors had grown on the outside of her uterus, pressing inward, threatening to harm me. Something had to be done, and fast. But surgery could be complicated: The physical trauma of the procedure might result in bleeding or infection, or cause my mother to abort. Since my life was at stake, however, she had to risk it. She was put under general anesthesia and they operated.
Many years later, during a hypnotic regression session, I recalled this experience. So vivid was the interminable banging, the sound of metal grating against metal, the tearing of my mother's skin, that my ears buzzed from the intensity. This was my first awareness of being alive. I was awakened prematurely in a dark, claustrophobic space, with warm, salty fluid swishing past a strange form that felt like it was me—yet I didn't recognize myself. I struggled to escape from this alien place and return home, but I couldn't even begin to picture where that was. I was unable to break free; the deafening noise grew louder. I panicked and fell into a dream:
I'm standing in front of a small clapboard farmhouse surrounded by green rolling hills. A robust blond woman with long braided hair, about thirty, cheerfully greets me. There is something strikingly familiar about her—the white organdy apron, her soothing voice and touch. I'm relieved to see her, certain I know her from somewhere else. I respond just as strongly to her husband and two teenage sons. These people feel like my real family; this is my home. We all talk and laugh for hours, easing the tension of my predicament.
In my prenatal dreams, this loving family continued to keep me company until I was born. Although I never learned who they were or where they came from, their presence was always sustaining. I ached to remain with them, but they advised that for the time being it was best I stay where I was. Reassuring me that I would be all right and that they loved me, these dear people, particularly the woman, talked me through the remainder of my often disturbing stay in the womb.
For me, these dreams are absolutely real; they are not metaphors, symbolic representations, or wish fulfillments. Currently, in fact, scientific evidence suggests that memory, dreaming, and REM sleep exist in utero. Also, research indicates that sensation can be remembered in a primitive form, and that the senses can function before they are completely matured anatomically. Brain life is thought to begin between twenty-eight and thirty-two weeks of gestation, but the hormone connected with memory traces is in operation by the forty-ninth day after conception, and the very first cells of the central nervous system appear at twenty-two days. Furthermore, at six weeks the internal ear has begun to develop; at eight weeks, the external ear has formed. Thus some scientists now argue that fetuses have the equipment to register the earliest intrauterine experiences, and that the memory of embryonic days can later be recovered. Though perhaps they would concede that I dreamed in the womb, they would surely have difficulties accepting that as a fetus I received visitations from another realm. Here, it comes down to a matter of belief. I can only tell you what I psychically know to be true.
My before-birth dreams didn't stay with me throughout my childhood. In fact, it wasn't until I was an adult that I was able to recall them at all. I had to backtrack and retrieve my memories, to remind myself what happened at that time. If I hadn't done this, a huge piece of my personal history would have been erased—the family who cared for me, and the love and encouragement I received would have been blanked out. But reclaiming this information, I could now better understand my beginnings, chronicle the onset of my psychic life, and appreciate the roots of my prescience. It all began, I realized, with my earliest dreams, when in the womb I was so abruptly awakened.
By tracing your own dreams, no matter how far in the past, you can fill in missing gaps in your life. This should come as no surprise to us: We spend about ninety minutes a night dreaming, and that is some five years in the course of a lifetime. Dreams are characteristic of our species; nearly every mammal has them. Though often fleeting, dreams hold compelling information—about your childhood, the present, the future, or even about other realms, which are easier to contact in this state. The great challenge, I believe, is to recover forgotten knowledge. By illuminating hidden memories you can find once again what you have lost.
For years I've been fascinated with why the deeper memory of who we are should be so elusive. Many afternoons, hiking in the canyons, I've watched red-tailed hawks gliding over the drylands and have sensed that at one time I could fly. Although reason tells me that here and now I can't, flying in fact seems more natural to me than walking. Images in dreams spark that certainty, bridge the chasm between who we're told we are and who we can be.
Perhaps there is some protective function to remembering slowly. If everything were to come back to us at once maybe it would be too much. I once saw an intriguing Chinese film about reincarnation in which a woman refuses to drink the “serum, of forgetfulness” before she is about to be reborn. Overwhelmed by the recollection of her former lives, she commits suicide.
It may be that we must recover our wisdom gracefully, let it emerge in its own time. Dreaming can facilitate this. A pristine state of awareness, it is a direct line to a place where alchemical gold abounds and nothing is devoid of meaning. Here, time and space are nonexistent; anything is possible. Specific guidance for living your life well lies in your dreams. Like a blank canvas, they provide a medium where both the psychic and your unconscious can freely express themselves. You have only to listen.
To me, there is no such thing as a “bad” dream. Even the most terrifying nightmares, the kind where you wake up drenched in sweat, your heart pounding, are meant to be helpful. They point out areas in your psyche that need attention, and there is much to be learned from them. Emotionally intense, illuminating some of your worst fears, this kind of dream can be extremely cathartic. Once you face your demons and purge them, they no longer have the power to tyrannize you.
I once had such a nightmare when I hadn't been in a relationship for a long while and was feeling particularly vulnerable: With apparently deadly intent, two gangster types broke into my home. The man had slicked-back greasy hair; the woman was loud-mouthed and rude, blowing cigarette smoke in my face. They both strode into the living room, where I was sitting, as if they owned the house and me as well. Terrified of being killed, I froze, too intimidated to do anything to defend myself. But instead of physically harming me, in a jeering tone they announced, in unison, “Judith, you will never love or be loved by any man again.” I awoke from the dream in tears.
This is an example of a nightmare that turned out to be of value. It was a reminder that my fears were once again getting the best of me; I knew enough not to take it literally. Instead I saw it as a message that an old, all-too-familiar and painful pattern had resurfaced—one of feeling abandoned, unloved, and alone—that required some of my sympathetic attention. Rather than writing it off as just a “bad dream,” or berating myself for having such feelings, I acknowledged and readdressed my fear. Because I did so, it no longer threatened to surge out of control as fear tends to do when it remains unconscious. My dream apprised me of the obstacle I was facing so I could deal with it and move on.
Not all dreams are psychic, and yet I believe that each one carries a personalized message that we need to hear. In one of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks, he asks, “Why does an eye see a thing more clearly in dreams than the imagination does while awake?” The answer lies in the purity of the medium in which dreams express themselves. They speak truths that are unpolluted by the incessant rambling of our minds. With that interference gone, dreams provide a natural conduit for the psychic. With all channels open, we can receive information that was previously obscured.
Throughout the years, I've been a collector of dreams. I'll jump at any opportunity to hear one. I've recorded hundreds of my own dreams and heard many more from patients, family, and friends. There is a wise economy to the way dreams are constructed; not a single detail is wasted or too extravagant to include. To me, dreams are our truest signature: I can usually learn more about someone from a single dream than from an entire hour of talking.
Once I went out with a man, an accountant, who appeared extremely conservative and uptight. It was our first date, and I was sure we weren't going to get along. Trying to make conversation, I told him I worked a lot with dreams in my practice. His face lit up and he asked, “Can I tell you a recurring dream that I've had?” “Sure,” I said smugly, certain it would validate my assumptions about him. I couldn't have been more wrong. In his dream, he told me, he was always faced with the same dilemma: His apartment was flooded and he didn't know what to do. Yet the solution he came up with impressed me. Putting on scuba gear, he learned to navigate underwater with such facility and ease that he was more comfortable than ever before.
As I understood it, the dream was a shining comment on his flexibility, the skill he had at solving problems, and his ability to acclimate to unexpected situations, all stellar qualities. After hearing the dream, I was curious to get to know him better. Although we never entered into a romantic relationship, he has become a trusted friend.
During my practice, I have come to see dreams as falling into two major categories: psychological and psychic. Most dreams, in my experience, are the former, with themes aimed at identifying and sorting through unclear emotions. Psychic dreams occur less frequently and are distinct in a variety of ways. Many times, for instance, you might experience psychic dreams that have nothing to do with you at all. Or if they do reflect your inner conflicts, even if they're emotionally charged there is a neutral, matter-of-fact segment that stands out, imparting a message. Unlike psychological dreams, those that are psychic can be oddly impersonal, marked by their remarkable crispness and clarity. Often I'm left feeling that I have been a witness, as if in a theater watching a movie.
Some psychic dreams can offer guidance—you observe an event that reveals pertinent information; a person or simply a voice counsels you; the solution to a problem you've been struggling with suddenly becomes evident. Perhaps you may not even remember the details, but you wake up resolved about a previously confusing personal issue. Then there are also precognitive dreams, foreseeing the future. In these, the knowledge I'm receiving or the scenes I observe may be familiar or completely foreign to me. I typically stand apart from these events, detached, seemingly taking dictation from some outside force. Finally, yet another kind of psychic dream is expressly meant to heal physically (while emotional healing can occur in all dreams). I may have conversations with people I've never met before who offer healing instructions about my patients, family, or me. Sometimes an actual physical healing takes place.
Differentiating these kinds of dreams, I'm still mapping the geography of an often confusing terrain, a geography that's ever changing, constantly revealing more to me. In reality, the different types overlap; their elements are interwoven. I'm always an explorer in this realm. What remains universally true is that the integrity of what dreams have to communicate is flawless: We can trust them.
PSYCHOLOGICAL DREAMS
James badly wanted to have a psychic dream. Every night, after he organized the following day's work and responded to any unanswered phone calls, he would set a blank notebook strategically by his bed. Everything had to be just right for this sweet-natured businessman but true workaholic who approached his dreams with the same compulsiveness he did the rest of his life. Dropping off to sleep, he was determined that a psychic dream would come, but each morning he would get up disappointed. Instead, about once a month he would have a recurring dream that wasn't psychic at all.
It always took place in Atlantic City, on the beach near his childhood summer home. He is walking barefoot in the sand when the weather changes abruptly and a ferocious storm moves in. The landscape turns from golden to an ominous gray. Gusts of wind whip over the water as the waves grow larger and larger. Fighting against the wind, the water sucking him backward, James is about to drown. Each time the dream ends at this moment, and he wakes up, panicked and exhausted.
This same dream had been returning since he was a child, but recently it had become more frequent. James had never dealt with it before. “After all,” he reasoned, “it's only a dream. Thank goodness it isn't real.” A tough-minded financier, he prided himself on being self-sufficient, solving the critical problems at hand, and living in the present. Psychotherapy or dream analysis wasn't for him; he had come to me to learn how to become psychic to help him with business decisions.
I'm always amazed to hear dreams with the power of the one James told, especially when the dreamer has little appreciation of its significance. Unknowingly, James laid himself bare and revealed his terror of an unidentified but haunting influence. Such fear is never without meaning. Encountering it for the first time can be one of the most exciting and transformative junctures in psychotherapy, through which enormous change may occur. But it is only a beginning.
James was naive. He expected the psychic to be handed to him in a neatly wrapped package that he could simply open without looking any further into himself. But, as is true for many people, to become psychic often requires that you do some searching introspection. When you have more pressing emotional issues to address, the psychic may become obscured. This dream was imploring James to confront the source of the fear that had been overwhelming him for so long.
“Be careful not to jump ahead of yourself,” I said. “Deal with the dream you've been given and see where it takes you.”
James was skeptical. “I don't really believe in dreams,” he said. “What good will it do me?”
“Well,” I explained, “most of all, dreams send you messages. They can alert you to a part of yourself that may be shut off. Over the years, important memories can be forgotten, some of them traumatic. They tend to bind up energy so that it's not available for other things. Once you address these memories, energy can be freed. Of course, you'll feel much better in general, but there is also more room for the psychic to come in.”
James appeared to be absorbing my words slowly. Though not entirely convinced, he agreed to take a look at his dream.
“Dreams are like mirrors,” I continued. “They can reflect some aspect of who you are now or else may focus on your past. The more emotion you have about them, the better. Even if you're frightened, stay with it. The strength of your feelings can lead us to the answer.”
“Is there something I should do?” he asked. “How should we start?”
“First,” I told him, “I'd like you to relive the entire dream while you're with me. Report every single detail. Take me right there with you. And stay aware of your impressions or feelings, no matter how unusual they seem. Try to relax and find a comfortable position to sit in. Then close your eyes and take a few deep, slow breaths.”
I paused. Realizing that this was going to be new for James, I was prepared to let him ease into it at his own pace. That leap from ordinary consciousness into a dream state can feel awkward to a beginner, and especially to someone who is experiencing this transition for the first time. When you straddle two very different realities at once, the secret is to stay aware of both. You ate totally immersed in your dream, yet simultaneously you witness and report what takes place—a balancing act you can refine with practice. Despite his skepticism and inexperience, James was a natural. In no time he was back on that same beach again, in the midst of the storm. As if the dream had just been waiting for him, he was compelled to plunge straight into his fear. This isn't always the right move, however: If emotions like fear are faced prematurely, some people get so overwhelmed they shut down. But I trusted his instincts and my own sense that he was ready, and I didn't intervene. Nervously clutching both hands together, James described his feelings.
“I'm so heavy. I want to get away but I can't. It's hard to move.”
“Good,” I encouraged him. “You're getting close to something. I know it's difficult, but stay in the dream. You've never taken it farther than this. Let's see what happens.”
“The waves are crashing all around me. I'm scared. The current is pulling me under. Water's coming into my mouth and nose. I'm choking.” James's voice suddenly sounded small, desperate, like a young child's. That was the clue I had been waiting for. I followed it, a bridge back into time that could lead us to the origin of his fear.
“James, how old do you feel now?”
He winced. “It's strange,” he said. “About eight, maybe even younger.”
“All right. Now, try to make a shift. Let your image of the ocean go, and remember what it was like when you were eight. What happened then? Does anything stand out that upsets you?” A few moments passed, and the same child's voice returned.
“Oh God,” he said, suddenly looking very pale. “I haven't thought about this for over twenty years. That was when my father was drinking. It was such an awful time. He'd sometimes punish me for no reason and then lock me in my room for hours. I would cry and cry but no one was there.”
“Where was your mother? Wasn't she around?”
James let out a deep sigh. “I'm just not sure. When my father got mad, she'd disappear. I guess she was pretty afraid of him, too.”
“Did he ever hurt you physically?”
“You mean did he ever break my bones?” James asked. “No…I don't think so. But he used to make me bend over and strap my buttocks and ankles with a thick leather belt. It would hurt so much. Sometimes I was black and blue for days. But it never got any worse than that. And he was like this for only about two years. When I was ten, he quit drinking for good. I remember that clearly because he and my mom would always argue about his drinking. It was a big deal for him to stop. Afterward, everything changed. He didn't hit me anymore. My father was nice again, back to his old self.”
Placed in this context, much of James's behavior now made better sense. Workaholism was the perfect front for him to hide behind. Frantically busy all the time, rarely taking vacations, staying so numb that he didn't have to feel or delve into the past, he had the typical profile of an abused child. James's dream, however, provided the trigger for his recall. The terrifying waves symbolized the danger and helplessness he felt about his father. Only by articulating the circumstances of his abuse and then dealing with his feelings could James begin to heal.
It took many months to sort this all through. Our initial session was just the first step. The experience of child abuse needs to be approached delicately: Such memories can be devastating, and require time to sink in. But once James was willing to retrace his steps, to face the reality of his father's actions and the impact they'd had on him, his recurring dream eventually stopped. Not surprisingly, he had his first psychic dream soon afterward. James was being led to the psychic even though it didn't come as directly as he had expected.
What fascinates me about psychological dreams is that many of them are common to us all. No matter how different we may appear to be, our inner struggles and needs are fundamentally similar. And so are the symbols our unconscious often uses to express itself—at times the format or themes in our dreams are identical to those of many other people.
For instance, whether you are male or female, you may have dreamed either that you have given birth or watched someone give birth at a point when something in your life has been fulfilled: a project is completed, you start a new job, or come into your own in some way. Whatever the circumstances, a birth dream is an affirmation of your growth and achievements.
Or perhaps in a dream you triumph over impossible odds. There is a flood, landslide, or storm and you survive. You get the courage to leave an unhealthy relationship. You rebuild your home after it has been leveled. You beat your opponent in a strenuous game of sports. These dreams are a reflection of your inner strength, a message of encouragement to believe in yourself, an assurance that no matter how trying the situation you can make it through.
Then there are those classic dreams—almost all of us have had them—in which your fears, anxieties, and insecurities surface. Do you recall the nerve-wracking scenario where you show up for an exam without anything to write with, or you arrive late and are locked out? The test is unbelievably difficult, yet you think you know the answers but can't even get in the door. Or how about the time you are chased by some horrifying pursuer? He's so close you can almost feel him breathing down your neck. But no matter how fast you run you can't seem to get away. Or the panic situation of driving your car down a steep grade and suddenly realizing that your brakes don't work? Frantically pumping them has no effect. The car's careening out of control but there's nothing you can do.
Recently, I had an anxiety dream at a point when I was feeling completely blocked in my writing, unsure about what new direction to take. In the dream, I'm shopping around for a new computer. Browsing in one of those chain stores that sell electronic equipment, I place my old computer down nearby on the floor. It holds all the material I've ever written on its hard drive, and I've foolishly made no backup disks. Absorbed in the new computers, I temporarily forget my old one. In that brief lapse, an unkempt, wild-eyed vagrant grabs it and goes tearing out of the store. Watching him, I'm so shocked that my heart practically stops. Years of hard work down the drain! I rush after him but it's too late. The man is gone.
This dream embodied some of my root anxieties: that I would never be able to write again, let alone in a fresh way, and that all the material I had written thus far would get lost. I strongly identified with the writer who was held hostage by his maniacal tormentor, brilliantly played by Kathy Bates, in the film Misery. Page by page, in front of his very eyes, she burns up the only copy of the novel he had been working on for the past several years. A comparable anguish for a writer I could not conceive.
I realized that this wasn't a psychic dream because it too perfectly depicted my own inner dynamics (although the next day I did double check to see if I'd backed up all my material—which I had). Rather, it was a message to have faith in my creativity, not to allow it to fall prey to my insecurities (represented by the thief), nor out of neglect (the drifting of my attention) to sacrifice what I had already attained in my writing in the search to try something new. Reflexively, I tend to resist the unfamiliar, though it may be for the better. The known, even if outmoded, just feels more comfortable to me. But this dream suggested the advantages of change (my interest in the new computers), as long as I honored and kept track of all my work.
The beauty of psychological dreams is that they help you recognize certain of your personality traits, some more productive than others, so you can take action and not become seduced by those that no longer serve you. Such dreams provide the ideal arena to uncover your hidden emotions. Fear, rage, and trauma can build up like toxins, often taking precedence over the psychic. Until you get the message and take compassionate stock of yourself, they will endlessly play out in your dreams.
The patterning of our unconscious is perfect. It has infinite patience and knows exactly what we need, even if our rational minds don't agree. It also knows how to prioritize. As you discard the old, as you clean house, your psychic instincts have more space to thrive. Of course it is possible to be psychic and never do this. But for scrupulous development, and to use the psychic for the highest good, you must strive for transparency. An impeccably tuned instrument is so much more precious than a neglected one, but it requires diligence and care. And you deserve the same. Although psychological dreams may not seem as glamorous as those that are psychic, they help you to stay conscious of your motivations so that you have the most to offer. The soulfulness of being psychic, for me, its greatest joy, is the giving of the gift in the most meticulous manner possible.
GUIDANCE DREAMS
Fire is raging behind me. I'm in a fertile field, running as fast as I can. Flames are devouring the land. I must get away before they devour me. Now the fire is about to overtake me; the heat is climbing up my back. The stench of the smoke is nauseating and I can hardly breathe. Suddenly I hear an authoritative but oddly removed, genderless voice whisper, “Stop running. The fire can't hurt you if you face it.” Out of sheer exhaustion, I decide to take this advice. The moment I turn around and look straight into the fire, the flames disappear.
This dream came to me at a time when I was very angry with a colleague of mine. We had once been close, but when we started running a clinic together our ideas clashed; tension was building between us. Instead of addressing the problem, we were each making heroic efforts to get along, but deep down I was seething. Then came this dream.
The message was direct: Unless I confronted my anger—which had grown so fierce that I had to use every ounce of self-control not to explode when I was with him—the fertile field, representing our once-thriving friendship and the success of the clinic, would be ruined. But there was pride on both our parts. We had taken some firm positions about certain policies, and we each felt justified.
The dream, which graphically portrayed the intensity and potential destructiveness of my anger, was telling me that it was both safe and essential to deal with this feeling, that the fire couldn't hurt me once I did. I rarely get this furious with anyone. But at those times, my rage often seems all-encompassing. I either bottle it up or try to smooth it over (even though I know better), afraid that it will consume me. The instructive voice I heard, whose detached but forceful tone was a tip-off that the dream was psychic, reminded me that this was a needless worry. I was being snagged by an old, unhealthy pattern, my tendency to stubbornly hold on to anger for too long when I think I'm right. Pointing out the futility of my position, the dream also depicted the mayhem it could reap.
This was a delicate situation. I knew how important it was to air our differences. But instead of waiting for him to make the first move, I decided to take the initiative. Tempted to resolve this whole mess right away, that morning I almost made an emergency call to his beeper. But something stopped me. Luckily, on an instinct, I first phoned my close friend Berenice, who studied meditation with me.
“It's amazing that you called,” she said, cackling with laughter on the other end of the line. “Last night I had the clearest dream about you. We were both sitting in a room with our teacher, but he never spoke a word to you. Instead, he looked over at me and said, ‘Tell Judith not to do anything now. She should let some time pass and allow everything to sink in.' I didn't have the faintest idea what he meant. Now it makes perfect sense.”
The directness of Berenice's dream stunned me: I couldn't have asked for a more definite response to my dilemma. So despite my impatience to set things straight, I took a few days to cool off. This gave me a chance to vent my anger privately, so that when my colleague and I met I wouldn't inadvertently dump everything on him. Once I had strategized, and come up with some new solutions and defined areas where I was willing to be flexible, I invited him out to lunch.
“I realize that I've been stubborn lately,” I admitted, “I want us to make a new beginning.” My colleague's face, tense moments before, now relaxed.
“You know, you're right,” he said. “You've been pretty hard to get along with…but so have I. Let's talk things through.”
The impeccable timing and elegant interaction between my dream of the fire and my friend's dream of my teacher reaffirmed for me the strength and diversity of the guidance available to us all. You can actively seek it out. Whether you appeal to a beneficent force outside yourself or to an inherent inner wisdom, dreams can respond directly or through others to help you.
There is a profound mystery to dreams, a power that can work wonders in your life if you let it. You begin to expand your options by recognizing the refined interplay between the guidance received in dreams and your waking awareness. Just because you've reached a dead end intellectually doesn't mean the answer isn't there. Your mind has limits you need to respect. By looking to your dreams, possibilities can appear that you may not have considered.
You can do this in any situation. When my mother was dying, it was the guidance of dreams that gave me the strength and wisdom to get through. Just know that if you are having a difficult time, your dreams can give you wise advice. This is also true of less severe circumstances. Maybe you have reached a turning point; you want to make a change but aren't sure what to do. Or maybe you are thinking of switching jobs, entering a new relationship, making a geographical move. Dreams can clarify your choices.
Whenever I'm confused about something in my life and need direction, especially when I'm too emotionally involved with a situation to do a clear psychic reading myself, I write a specific request on a piece of paper and then place it on a table beside my bed. This formalizes the process. In the morning, I record my dreams and look to them for the answer. If it doesn't come right away, I repeat my request each night until I'm satisfied. I recommend the same approach to my patients, and you can do it, too.
Ellen felt lost. A successful child psychologist who had recently turned fifty, she'd been in private practice for over twenty years and had grown dissatisfied with her work. After reviewing possible alternatives, she found nothing that appealed to her. Ellen came to me as a patient, following a year of soul searching, afraid that it was too late to make a change, feeling trapped and depressed. Since she had always been an avid dreamer, I suggested that she turn to her dreams for guidance.
Though Ellen was familiar with analyzing her dreams, she had never actually asked them for advice, or thought of herself as psychic. If dreams offered help, she gladly listened. But this happened infrequently; for her they weren't a consistently dependable source. Now, every evening before she went to sleep, she began jotting down one simple request: Please help me find a meaningful direction in my career. For a few weeks we went over her dreams. It seemed that she was getting no answers. Nonetheless, a strange pattern started to unfold. Apparently unrelated, tagged onto each dream, would be an unusual phrase, whimsical language such as “the pink brontosaurus,” “an upside-down sky” or “a gleaming strand of purple pearls.”
These phrases had a luminous quality that popped right out at me, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My reaction told me that we were on to something. But I still didn't quite know what it meant. “Keep a list of these phrases,” I said. “We'll take a look at it together and see what we come up with.” The result was over five pages of expressions that sounded as if they came out of Dr. Seuss.
“Does this have any significance for you?” I asked.
“Only that I've always been fascinated by unusual words,” Ellen said. “When I was a teenager I used to collect them, pin them up on my refrigerator door, and repeat certain ones aloud just to make myself laugh.” A wave of goose flesh rippled up my arms. I suddenly understood. The dreams were instructing Ellen to write.
Looking brighter than I'd ever seen her, she loved the idea. That same afternoon, she rushed home, picked up a pen, and started putting her thoughts down on paper. Quirky, offbeat expressions such as those in her dreams flooded onto the page. She couldn't get them down fast enough. Combining her skill as a child psychologist and her flair for words, she began to weave together stories, which later became a delightful children's book. This was a perfect creative outlet. Ellen's guidance dreams uncovered an untapped talent that brought her great joy. Rejuvenated by her writing, her clinical work also took on a new life. It wasn't necessary for Ellen to change her profession, she just needed a counterpoint to complement it.
Ellen was proof that you don't have to have any previous psychic experience to receive guidance dreams. Although their messages aren't always spelled out, if you stay aware of what they are trying to communicate the clues are always there. As with Ellen's dream, the answers may be enormously creative. The more attuned you become to deciphering them, the easier it gets.
When you're analyzing guidance dreams, there are some specific intuitive clues to look for. Certain material zings with energy and grabs your attention. It may be only a single word or image, or perhaps an entire segment. Thoroughly search your dream for such sections. Then write them down to see how they are related to your original question. Always stay aware of your body's responses—a sudden wave of goose bumps, a chill, the hair on your neck standing up, a flushing of your face, sweating or a quickening of heartbeat or breath. This is your body's way of telling you that you're on the right track. Sometimes when the answer is more obvious, you can experience an immediate “Ah-ha!” feeling, as though a bright light has suddenly been flipped on in a room. (Of course, these varied responses can help you pick out essential segments in all types of dreams.) But no matter how distinct the message, it's up to you to listen.
I have a friend who wanted to open up a small coffeehouse and bookstore in Venice Beach, but he wasn't sure the timing was right. “Why don't you ask for guidance in a dream?” I said. He thought that was a terrific suggestion and proceeded to write down his dreams for the next several nights. He couldn't recall exact details, but each morning he was left with the sinking feeling that entering a business now would be a big mistake.
Though extremely intuitive, this friend could also be bullheaded, and he went ahead with his plans anyway. Every stage of the process, beginning with getting a loan, turned out to be painful and frustrating. Ultimately, he had to close his store after only eight months because he wasn't making it financially.
Like my friend, I also learned the hard way to take my intuitions seriously. Years before, when I hadn't heeded my premonition about my patient Christine's suicide attempt, there were almost tragic results after she overdosed on the pills I'd prescribed. During the several weeks of her coma, I had much time to think about what happened. That was the turning point, reawakening me to the importance of the psychic and the price I would pay for disregarding it. Now if I'm stuck and don't know what direction to take with a patient, I head straight to my dreams—the strongest psychic connection I have—or they come to me spontaneously.
The advice I receive from dreams doesn't have to be earth shattering to be valuable. For instance, the other night I dreamed that a schizophrenic woman I was especially fond of, whom I'd been treating since I first opened my practice, abruptly went off her medications. In the past, whenever she had done this on her own, the results had always been disastrous. About once a year I'd receive a phone call from some emergency room in the middle of the night, saying that she was blatantly psychotic and needed to be hospitalized. I didn't want this painful and demoralizing pattern to repeat itself. Although I had no other reason to believe that anything was wrong, I still called her the next day to check it out. My dream, unfortunately, had been accurate. Once again she had run out of her medication and failed to renew the prescription. Luckily I succeeded in convincing her to go to the pharmacy and resume treatment. Spurred on by my dream, I was able to intervene immediately and spare her psychiatric hospitalization.
Just as I was alerted to contact my patient, your guidance dreams also can often be red flags warning you of danger. Even if you haven't formally developed your psychic abilities, at certain times of need an internal alarm system goes off to protect you. Guidance dreams can specifically tell you how and when to avoid being harmed.
A few years ago, my friend Lisa was traveling with several friends in an old VW van from Taos, New Mexico, back to California. At midnight, fatigued from driving twelve hours, they pulled over somewhere in the northern Arizona desert and set up camp. The sky was crystal clear, the moon full, the air crisp and cool. They each crawled into their sleeping bags on the desert floor.
As soon as Lisa fell asleep, she dreamed she saw a pair of bright headlights coming toward her down a winding desert trail. A four-wheel-drive jeep pulled up next to her and a ranger in full government uniform got out. In a serious tone, he advised, “You and your friends had better get back into your van. A huge dust storm is about to come through this area. It isn't safe to stay outdoors.” Lisa didn't see anything unusual about his visit and thanked him for the tip. He said good-bye, climbed back into his jeep, and drove away.
When Lisa woke up, the night was perfectly still and there was no sign of a storm approaching. But she had always been interested in dreams and knew enough to pay attention to them. She immediately woke her friends and, despite their grumbling, managed to gather them into the van. A few hours later the van began to rock back and forth in winds of over fifty miles an hour, and spiral currents of dust and sand whipped through the desert until dawn. The flying debris was so thickly caked on the windshield that it was impossible for them to see out, but thanks to Lisa's dream they were all safe.
Guidance dreams such as these aren't unique to our culture. The Aboriginals of Australia have considered them sacred for over fifty thousand years. In their vision of life, time has two dimensions: our everyday reality and a spiritual plane known as the Dreamtime. When tribal members are ill or in trouble, selected persons may send healing messages or warnings through their dreams. In other instances, Dreamtime ceremonies are performed by shamans and through them ancient teachings are relayed. The Aboriginals view such guidance as so completely natural that they use it to determine tribal law.
In the Australian film The Last Wave, a lawyer takes on the defense of a group of tribal Aboriginals accused of murder. Although they are unwilling to reveal to him the circumstances surrounding the crime, the lawyer begins to receive the needed information in his dreams. The problem is that he doesn't know how to decipher them. Frustrated at his clients' silence, he turns to one of the men and asks, “Don't you know how much trouble you're in?” Coolly, the tribal member looks back at him with shining black eyes and responds, “No, man. You're the one who's in trouble. You've forgotten the meaning of your dreams.”
Native Americans also honor their dreams. Their vision-quest ritual, a solitary or group journey into nature, is an appeal for a revelatory dream or vision for the purpose of healing, solving a problem, finding a guide, or facilitating a rite of passage, such as a boy passing from puberty to manhood. Vision quests are intentionally rugged and often involve fasting for many days or sleeping on the ground unprotected, sometimes naked, even during rainstorms or freezing weather. Exposed to the elements, the body quickly becomes exhausted. In this weakened state, however, the mind is less chaotic and thus more susceptible to dreams. Only after the vision has made itself known is the quest considered successful.
In our culture, dreaming has become a lost art that needs to be revived. By listening to your dreams, you can receive instructions on how best to maneuver through life's obstacles. They are a deep, instinctual response to your innermost conflicts and needs. Over the years, I have trained myself to pay close attention to dreams, and so can you. They aren't distributed only to a gifted few. The secret lies in your own belief. Once you take the first step and allow for that possibility, guidance will be waiting for you.
PRECOGNITIVE DREAMS
In some dreams you can receive specific guidance about the future, though the message may be presented to you in various forms. To recognize such precognitive dreams, there are a number of clues. Often the imagery is startlingly vivid: You watch an event unfold that might be totally unrelated to you, or you're given information about your own future, or you wake up knowing details about events that haven't yet occurred. You may be given information clarifying times, dates, places, or the direction your life is going to take. More than a simple road map, precognitive dreams can be a precursor of blessings to come or offer underlying meaning about more difficult times. Though you may be given a preview of a totally unfamiliar situation involving unknown persons, most likely you will have precognitive dreams about yourself or those you love. This is especially true of mothers and their children.
In the fall of 1989, I witnessed such a psychic bond between a mother, her son, and a dolphin named Bee. At the time, I was having severe neck pain from a bulging cervical disc. My friend Stephan Schwartz of Mobius told me about a pilot program in the Florida Keys that was proving quite successful. Patients with a variety of illnesses swam with the dolphins in an open marine park. As a result of this contact, their symptoms improved. Since I had gotten very little relief from traditional medical treatments and had always been fascinated by dolphins, I leaped at the opportunity. Late in October, I boarded a plane to the Florida Keys, heading for a week-long workshop at the Dolphin Research Center (DRC).
During my stay, I met participants in some of the other programs being conducted there. Among them was a dental hygienist, Cathy, from Enid, Oklahoma. She had brought her three-year-old son, Deane-Paul, who was born with Down's syndrome, a form of mental retardation. Even so, he was active and strong. He ran around with tremendous energy, and exuded a wonderful life force. Cathy had heard about psychologist David Nathanson's work enlisting dolphins to teach language skills to handicapped and emotionally disabled children.
One afternoon, while Cathy, Deane-Paul, and I ate lunch, she told me about a dream she'd had a month before becoming pregnant. In the dream, she was on a beach in the Caribbean, standing at the shoreline. Suddenly she spotted a pod of nine sleek, blue-gray wild dolphins swimming between a pair of enormous monoliths, heading toward her. As they came close, one of the larger females offered its baby to Cathy, saying, “Please take care of it for me.” As Cathy held the tiny dolphin in her arms, she watched the pod dive back into the sparkling turquoise water and disappear.
The dream confused her. She had been to the ocean only once since she was a little girl, and although she always appreciated the beauty of dolphins, she had never spent arty time with them. Despite the vividness and matter-of-fact, almost predestined, quality of the dream, the dolphin's message seemed so unlikely that Cathy didn't give it much credence. Already the mother of two young girls, she hadn't planned to have any more children.
A month later, despite using birth control, she unexpectedly became pregnant with Deane-Paul. From the beginning, he was lovingly welcomed into her home. Despite Cathy's efforts to teach him to speak, however, he didn't utter a single word the first three years of his life. Then one day, Cathy took her kids on an outing to the zoo. When they stopped at the dolphin pool, Deane-Paul's face instantly lit up: At the very sight of them, he became more animated than she'd ever seen him, as if they had woken him up. Not long afterward she heard about the dolphin program at the DRC. Inspired by the dream, she decided to enroll her son.
As I spent time with the dolphins, I found that there was something therapeutic about being close to them, about touching the baby-soft texture of their skin and hearing their extraterrestrial sounds. They radiated a joy and goodness that flowed generously from their bodies into mine. The pain in my neck began easing up almost immediately. By the end of the week, I no longer needed to wear my cervical collar for support.
In between my own swims, I would see Deane-Paul, a tiny blond-haired boy with a huge orange life preserver around his waist, frolicking and taking lessons in the pool with a dolphin named Bee. She was a friend to him, an untiring companion who carried story-boards in her mouth week after week, with large words printed on them. David Nathanson, an enormously loving teddy bear of a man with a marvelous sense of humor, would pronounce the words aloud and Deane-Paul would repeat them as his vocabulary grew. Watching, I realized he was not only learning to communicate verbally—I saw that his spirit was coming alive too.
Deane-Paul and his mother shared a bedroom in an apartment located close to the DRC. One night he woke up, and Cathy couldn't quiet him down; she had never seen him so distraught. He kept crying, “Oh my Bee, oh my Bee,” and tried to run out of the house. Eventually he sat curled up beside the front door, calling out to her until dawn. The next morning they received the news: Bee had died during the night.
The love between Deane-Paul and Bee had allowed him to intuit her death psychically in a dream. At first, he fell into a depression, grieving. But his work didn't stop after her death. The relationships he had established with other dolphins helped to sustain him through a very difficult period, although his rapport with them was never as strong as with Bee. And the fact that Bee often came to him in his dreams, where they swam through the clouds together, eased the transition. Deane-Paul's initially intense bonding with Bee had begun his metamorphosis from a mute, withdrawn child into an active little boy who shortly afterward attended kindergarten at a public school and has a vocabulary that is steadily improving.
Cathy's life has also changed. She has learned that prescience is a precious instinct that can be relied upon. It forewarned her of the birth of her son and outlined the direction of his healing. In her dream, she took responsibility for a child; in her life she has helped him to flourish. Cathy hopes to set up a program similar to the DRC that benefits other learning disabled children.
As with Cathy, precognitive dreams can set you on a particular path, serve as a beacon of light on a darkened highway. But glimpsing the future doesn't mean that you don't play an active part in it. Or that you can just sit back and think, Oh well, it's going to happen anyway, I don't have to do a thing. Your dreams are not excuses to become lazy or negligent. Rather, they provide general guidelines for you to follow.
Although some precognitive dreams will become reality regardless of what you do, many merely present possibilities. The ultimate responsibility for your future is yours. At twenty, when I was directed in a dream to become a psychiatrist, I had to go through medical school and a residency program to realize it. If I hadn't done my part, there would have been no impetus for the vision to materialize. As always, you play the largest part in determining what happens in your life; each choice can effect a different outcome. Dreams involving your future don't do the work for you. In the final analysis, you're in partnership with your dreams, and must take the necessary action to bring them to fruition.
Although there are certain messages that we read as metaphors, some dreams can caution us about danger, and it would behoove us to take them literally. They appear out of the blue, tend to be quite specific, and are often unrelated to our feelings or expectations. When we follow their instructions, we are given an edge, an added protection. By sensing danger we often have the power to avoid it.
This was the case with my friend Dennis, who was leaving one morning for a business meeting in New York. Dennis wasn't afraid of flying, so when he dreamed his plane was going to crash he was alarmed. At the airport, while buying his ticket, his anxiety kept building. By the time he was in line to board, his fear was so great that he couldn't get on the plane. It took off without him and later experienced mechanical difficulties. Although there was no crash, the pilot had to make an emergency landing in the Midwest and several passengers were injured.
Sometimes, however, a dream can warn you of danger but you are unable to avert it. On a number of occasions, right before an earthquake hit Los Angeles, I've dreamed about it. I can distinctly feel the earth trembling, hear my sliding glass doors rattling violently in their frames, get physically thrown off balance. I realize at the time that an earthquake is taking place, yet I still remain cool, unaffected, as if I'm a witness to the event, not an active participant—an indication that the dream is psychic rather than a sign that I'm feeling unsteady about some aspect of my life. The difficulty is that my dream can occur from one to ten days before the actual event. Not can I always tell the severity of the quake. So although I know it's coming, short of leaving the city for the entire period, there is nothing much I can do other than making sure that my food and water supplies are well stocked.
Similarly, a psychiatrist friend of mine had a dream in which Ronald Reagan, then president, got shot. In it she witnessed the entire scene: the face of the gunman, the location where the shooting took place, and that Reagan survived. “The dream was so real,” my friend later told me, “as if I were really there.” Shortly afterward, the assassination attempt on Reagan's life actually occurred. Ultimately, my friend was powerless to affect the outcome of the shooting she foresaw.
You don't necessarily play an active role in every precognitive dream, nor are they always directed to you personally. As you become more psychically astute, certain information just automatically comes through. You are simply a receiver, able to pick up what is about to happen on a collective level as well as in your own life. Such precognitive dreams provide a quick news flash, forewarning you of a future event. There is no need to feel guilty or responsible if you can't prevent what is about to take place. It may not be within your power to act on this knowledge, although in certain circumstances it may help you to become better prepared. Nonetheless, I consider all precognitive dreams a blessing, evidence of the depth of connection we can have with ourselves and the world around us.
In my practice, I have often been guided by them. Shortly after I began working as a psychic at Mobius in 1984, I had my first precognitive dream involving a future patient. It was about a man named Al whom I'd met at a Christmas party a few days before. In it, a voice announced, in the same genderless calm voice present in many of my psychic dreams, “Al is going to contact you for an appointment.” This surprised me because we had only chatted briefly that night; I had no idea that he was even looking for a therapist. I was both amazed and delighted when within a week Al called.
Over the years, I have had identical dreams about other patients, many of whom I have never met or even heard of before. The format and message of the dream is consistent, only the name changing, and I am always excited when I have one. Without exception, these relationships have a meant-to-be quality and turn out particularly well. There is a special chemistry between us from the start, a compatibility and trust that allows therapy to take off. Dreams such as these are signs to me that I am supposed to work with somebody, for just a few months or for many years. Whatever the length of time, the result is consistently positive, healing for us both. No matter how booked up my schedule is, I always make room to see patients whom I intuitively learn of in this way.
I tend to have precognitive dreams about the patients I feel closest to or have known for a long time. Familiar with their rhythms, I can sense when something is off, dream about them when they're in need. Once, while on a meditation retreat in the Smoky Mountains with my teacher, I went back to my room to take an afternoon nap. Dead tired from our demanding schedule, I fell into a deep sleep and dreamed that I saw a patient, a recovering alcoholic I had been working with for over two years, huddled in a chair, weeping. A detached observer, I watched her sinking farther into despair as the image held strong, even after I woke up. Although I had another psychiatrist coveting for me, I felt compelled to give this woman a call. Something important was up that couldn't wait—I had to act. I was glad that I did. It turned out that her boyfriend had just stormed out of the house after they'd had a heated fight. Distraught, she was about to sacrifice five years of hard-earned sobriety and take a drink. But thankfully, she talked her feelings out with me. As a result of my dream, I was able to intervene at a critical moment and point her in a healthier direction.
Precognitive dreams can reflect and enhance the intimacy of all relationships, including those in psychotherapy. My work with a patient isn't limited to the hour or two that I spend with them in my office each week. A viable inner connection is established, a channel opened between us, an overall psychic tie.
Not long ago I had a dream in which an exceptionally healthy patient of mine took me aside and nonchalantly announced, “I want you to know that I have cancer.” As if this wasn't unusual, I politely replied, “Thank you for telling me.” My emotional neutrality, however, so typical of psychic dreams, vanished the moment I awoke. I was shocked by this news and I didn't want to believe it. After all, this man was a nonsmoker, jogged ten miles a day, ate a low-fat diet and had energy to burn. Hoping I was wrong, I filed the dream and waited. To my dismay, at our next appointment he told me that during a routine physical exam a suspicious spot on his X ray had been discovered and it had turned out to be malignant.
The strength of our bond allowed me to learn beforehand about his cancer. It's interesting that, at the time, this man didn't realize he had lung cancer, yet in the dream he was the one who notified me. I believe that some part of him actually did know and wanted to communicate it. And so he did, because of our psychic rapport. This dream wasn't about reversing his cancer. It was more a tribute to the trust we had established.
When you care about someone, it's natural to have precognitive dreams about them. Implicit in psychic relationships is that you become intuitively privy to very personal things, some of them quite painful. This is both an honor and a responsibility. As a therapist, I want to know the whole story. It helps me to stay alert to what my patients are going through so that I can be there for them in a complete way.
You don't have to be a swami with a turban on your head to dream of the future. Everyone can do it. But first you may have to redefine some of your ideas about the world. One is that from a psychic standpoint, time is relative. In precognitive dreams, as well as other intuitive states, past, present, and future blur together in a continuum. Time is not arranged in distinct, orderly segments as it appears to be from the perspective of our waking minds. A comment that Albert Einstein once made about time leaves a strong impression on me: “For us believing physicists the distinction between past, present, and future is only an illusion, even if a stubborn one.” When I focus psychically or have a precognitive dream, it feels as though I'm tuning in to a collective bank in which all information, regardless of its time frame, is stored. Once I got used to this, accessing the future no longer seemed so unusual.
The greater reward that precognitive dreams offer is to allow us to stay in greater harmony with our own lives. It's as if the volume is turned up on an exquisite symphony playing just below our conscious level of awareness. For a moment we can begin to appreciate what Walt Whitman speaks about in “Song of Myself”: “I and this mystery here we stand.…Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am.” Precognitive dreams reveal elements of our future, and sing our own songs back to us. By listening, we can again begin to dance in rhythm as we were meant to, moving in step with the sacred.
HEALING DREAMS
I hate being sick, though I'm one of those lucky people who only occasionally have to see a doctor. But for over six months I had been having recurring severe sinus infections. Each trip to the ear, nose, and throat specialist would end up with me having my sinuses drained, a ten-day course of antibiotics, a few weeks of feeling better, and then my symptoms would return. Since I wasn't responding to the therapy, my doctor suggested a series of complicated nasal X rays and an MRI scan to see if there was a blockage requiring surgery. Not wanting the expense or trauma of the tests, I kept putting them off, but I got tired of being sick so much and finally gave in.
The night before the scheduled X rays, I had a dream:
I'm lying in a medical office on a flat wooden table, my body covered by only a white cotton sheet. I feel totally at peace, almost euphoric. I don't think of questioning where I am or what is happening. There are a number of thin silver needles inserted about an eighth of an inch into my skin, over various parts of my head and sinuses. In the next room I can see my mother smiling, looking youthful and healthy, giving me a go-ahead signal with her hands. Relieved by her presence, I know I'm in the right place. An acupuncturist stands beside me, assuring me that these treatments will make me feel better.
This dream specifically told me what to do. Although I had considered acupuncture before and sensed that it would help, my life was already so busy it seemed like too large a time commitment to take on. Hoping that antibiotics would be a quick fix, I waited. In fact, I knew of a wonderful acupuncturist whom a friend of mine had been raving about for years. Now, on the advice of the dream, and especially because I had gotten my mother's okay, I canceled the medical tests and set up an appointment. Over the next three months I went in for acupuncture twice a week, and my recurrent sinus infections stopped. This simple solution enabled me to avoid possible surgery, ultimately saved time and expense, and eliminated a great deal of unnecessary annoyance.
This was a dream that facilitated my healing. Prompted by my extreme dislike of the tests, it showed me a way out. I was grateful for how succinct it was, leaving little room in my mind for interpretation. I was also convinced by my feeling of total relaxation, verging on bliss, as if I were wrapped in a warm cocoon. It was identical to those heavenly experiences I've had when someone gifted works on me energetically with their hands. These feelings of well-being are easily recognizable signs of healing that we can look for in our dreams. I believe that my recovery began in this dream; the acupuncturist I later sought out simply took over.
There is a healing instinct within us that can manifest itself in our dreams. Though this can occur on an emotional level, my focus here is on the physical, which I haven't emphasized before. When you are asleep you open yourself up to healing forces. I am not saying that you have two sets of powers—one when you're asleep and another when you're awake. But in dreams, your resistances and inhibitions fall away; things can happen that you don't ordinarily give yourself permission to experience.
Whether you believe that healing dreams come directly from the divine, or view them as an expression of your higher self (I no longer make a distinction), just know that if you become ill, your dreams can be with you every step of the process—from the initial diagnostic phase and all through treatment. They may even enable you to find a cure. In the same way that you can actively solicit guidance in other dreams, you can also request direction about healing. Or, as in my case, it may simply be offered to you.
Dreams give you instructions about how to heal and may at times also be greatly reassuring. This is particularly true if you have a life-threatening illness, when many questions and uncertainties arise. Periods between checkups are often the most difficult. Fears crop up that can devastate you if you let them. Healing dreams monitor the pulse of your recovery by relaying to you psychic information that feels so genuinely authentic it has the power to quell such fears.
Robert had been diagnosed with colon cancer two years before he started psychotherapy with me. He had undergone a partial large bowel resection, but had not required a colostomy. His surgeon, a sensitive woman and well respected in her field, reassured Robert that the malignancy had been completely removed. Although his prognosis was excellent, he still worried. He abhorred hospitals and never wanted to see the inside of another one again. The follow-up battery of X rays and body scans he had to go through every six months terrified him. Each time it was the same: The week before each checkup was the worst. Now, with another meeting with his oncologist only days away, he had come to my office riddled with fear. Nothing I tried—meditation, guided imagery, or hypnosis—worked. I felt powerless to console him.
A few nights before this appointment, however, Robert had a dream in which he was undergoing surgery at UCLA Hospital, where he had originally been operated on. Perfectly alert and unafraid, he watched his surgeon make a painless incision with a scalpel down the center of his abdomen. Next, she removed Robert's entire colon and ran her fingers over it to show him that it was healthy and tumor-free. Then she passed it to him to hold as he marveled at the vibrant, glistening pink colon tissue. An extraordinary event that surely would have shocked him had he been awake, in the psychic dream state none of this seemed unusual.
“You mean I'm really okay?” he asked his surgeon in the dream.
“See for yourself,” she responded. “The tumor is gone.”
Robert, a soft-spoken computer analyst at Caltech, had never had a dream like this before, didn't believe in the metaphysical. Respecting his views, I didn't push it. But intuition, he felt, was different. This he could relate to: Feminine intuition was a common thing; he and other people he knew had hunches and often acted on them. But the psychic? No, according to Robert; that was just too far out. Possessing a sharp analytical mind, he could have easily dismissed the dream since it had no rational basis. But when he awoke, it had been so dazzlingly lifelike that he could have sworn it actually happened. Nor could he argue with his own sense of relief.
Uptight to begin with, Robert had become almost phobic about his cancer returning. This dream changed that, instilled a new faith that he had finally overcome his illness. When he told me what he had seen, I knew that it wasn't just wishful thinking. There are times when you want something so badly that your dreams respond and fulfill those desires. Merely fantasies designed by your subconscious, these dreams aren't psychic, nor are they based on fact. Robert's dream, however, was different. The clarity with which he described the surgery, the acuteness of each detail, his extreme sense of well-being throughout, and the authenticity his experience had for him all rang true to me.
After Robert's next checkup, all his tests came back normal, and he was given a clean bill of health. For the first time since he had been diagnosed, he stopped worrying. His dream comforted him far more than any kind of therapeutic intervention I had been able to make. Robert was still anxious about his life. But he was no longer obsessed about his illness recurring, and our work deepened. Over the past four years, Robert has remained cancer free.
It's easy to be consoled by dreams that bring you good news, but what about those that show you things you don't want to see? You may be tempted to downplay unsettling information, to write it off by saying, “Don't worry, it's only a dream.” Although some premonitions can be painful to accept, they're actually special gifts. If you detect an illness in the early stages or seek treatment soon enough to prevent its spread or complications, you may avoid undue suffering. In some cases, these healing dreams could even save your life.
A close colleague of mine once recounted such a dream, told to him by a retired army colonel. In it, the colonel is being shown a home by a real estate broker. The upstairs is sparkling clean and beautifully decorated, but the downstairs is a mess, with the stench of urine emanating from all the rooms. Apologetically the broker tells him, “I'm afraid I can't sell you this house. It will have to be condemned unless the first floor is fixed.” Disappointed, he agrees.
The colonel knew enough to discuss the dream with my colleague, an expert in dream analysis, and together they realized that this could be a warning—the colonel might have a problem in his urinary tract. They came to this both from their sense of the dream as a foreshadowing and from the imagery: the overwhelming disarray in the downstairs of his house representing the lower part of his body, coupled with the unmistakable odor of urine. The colonel decided to go see his physician to check it out. Skeptical, his doctor humored him and performed a routine urinalysis, and was surprised to find minute traces of blood present, which were later determined to be caused by a bladder tumor that required surgery.
A few weeks after the tumor was removed, the colonel had a second dream, and in it he returns to the same house. This time both floors are sweet-smelling, immaculate. The broker happily notes the improvement and announces, “Now this house is ready to be put back on the market!” The colonel considered this a message that his bladder had healed; later he received confirmation that the cancer was gone, and he has had no further urinary difficulties.
Unfortunately, you may often miss such healing dreams because they are metaphorical and require proper interpretation. In conventional analytic terms you could attribute them to your attempt to resolve unconscious conflicts rather than as a call for you to heal physically. In part this is true; dreams have many layers. But from a psychic perspective, analysis alone doesn't tell you the whole story. Sometimes you have a dream in which you foresee your finger is hurt. And it might be just that simple, no hidden psychological meaning. Your finger is going to need care. The dream could be a straightforward message, not a metaphor, that requires no further interpretation. It is important, therefore, to view dreams at their various levels.
In ancient Greece, during the period of the Temple of Aesculapius, healing dreams were highly valued. Typically, if you were ill, you'd be brought to the temple and put up in a dormitory with other patients until you had a dream. This was a sign that you were ready. At that point, you'd meet with the healers, known as “therapeuti,” and treatment for your illness would be developed on the basis of your dream.
For Native Americans the dream state is more real than the physical world, and contains leads for solving problems. When tribal members fall ill, they look to the shaman for help. A spiritual healer and dreamer of the tribe, he's able to traverse both the seen and unseen realms. Through the use of medicinal plants, prayers, drumming, ritual, and dreams, the shaman becomes a transparent channel for receiving and implementing healing knowledge. Considered an authentic voice of spirit, these instructions are then precisely followed.
As significant as dreams are that guide you to healing, there are those that themselves have the power to do the healing. Sometimes the change may be subtle: A kink in your neck is gone, a headache relieved, or maybe a dark mood has lifted. You might not even remember the dream, but the next day you indisputably feel better. Then there are those rare, dramatic examples such as the one my dear friend Linda told me.
When Linda was a freshman psychology student at the University of Humanistic Studies in San Diego, she enrolled in an introductory class on dreams. All students were asked to bring in a few current examples of their own dreams for analysis. Linda had always been an avid dreamer, but under the pressure of the assignment she couldn't remember a single one, and was afraid she might fail the class.
At about the same time, she developed a lipoma, a benign fatty tumor, at the base of her spine. In one month it had enlarged almost to the size of a billiard ball, causing her considerable pain. She worked as an assistant to her physician, and he recommended that she have the tumor surgically removed right away. But Linda kept putting it off, hoping to avoid both the stress of the operation and the toxic side effects of general anesthesia.
The lipoma worsened, causing her so much agony that during class she had to support her back with an inflatable beach chair while sitting propped up on a pillow. Still she resisted surgery. One night, while struggling to complete a term paper, Linda began to cry. Then she prayed. “I can't concentrate or do my work. I'm in too much pain. Please help me.” Exhausted, she stopped writing and fell asleep.
That night, she dreamed she was alone, lying flat on her back in bed. Through closed eyes, she saw a distinct image of a three-foot hypodermic syringe beside her. Seemingly on its own, the tip of the needle punctured the right side of her neck and penetrated the entire length of her spinal cord, down to where the lipoma was lodged. Though enduring excruciating pain, she was unable to move, not having voluntary control of her body. Only after the syringe began sucking out a pale white, watery liquid from the lipoma did her discomfort cease. Completely aware of what had taken place, yet witnessing it psychically as an observer, Linda remained asleep until morning.
When she awoke, she recalled everything and rushed straight to a full-length mirror. Standing directly in front of it, examining her back from every conceivable angle, she could see no sign of the lipoma. With her fingertips she poked and probed her spine for any remnants of the bulging lump. It had completely vanished.
This happened at a time when Linda had just begun to meditate and study the Hindu tradition. She had heard accounts of dramatic cures, but her teacher had warned her not to get distracted by such things. Although amazed by her experience, she followed his advice. Rather than blowing her dream out of proportion, she gratefully accepted the healing but didn't give it undue focus. She was able to consider the incident as a direct confirmation that other dimensions could be tapped into that could bring about actual physical change.
Linda was lucky that her university was nontraditional. Because she was studying transpersonal psychology, a discipline that acknowledges the spiritual realities, her professor explained that she'd had a healing dream. He didn't overanalyze it or impose any contrived interpretation. Nor did he ascribe to Linda any superhuman qualities. But fully realizing how rare and precious these dreams are, he was able to recognize it as an act of grace.
A few days later, Linda returned to her doctor, wanting her back reexamined to make sure that everything was all right. Seeing no evidence of the lipoma, he raised his eyebrows and shot Linda a befuddled look. “Isn't this interesting,” he remarked. “I guess you don't need surgery after all.” That was all he said. As if nothing odd had happened, he then scribbled a note on her chart, instructed her to get dressed, and went on, business as usual.
Instinctively, she knew not to mention the dream to him, afraid that he might be threatened or put her down. Not wanting to jeopardize their working relationship, she felt the dream was much better left alone. Linda's spiritual beliefs were so new; she needed support, not criticism, until she became more self-assured. She viewed this dream as a reminder that a vital and active transcendent influence exists. It reinforced her faith to move forward and signaled her readiness to pursue a career as a therapist and, eventually, a healer.
All of us are capable of dreams that heal the body. But will we make use of them? There are many people who are completely closed to the possibility. Then there's another group—most of us—who will experience more subtle, common versions of healing dreams once we begin to trust that such physical change can occur. Perhaps someone simply touches you lovingly in a dream and the next day you wake rejuvenated, your minor ailments gone. Or you drift off to sleep and find yourself lying on a white sand beach basking in the sun, and are relieved in the morning to see that your cold has disappeared. Finally, there are those people like Linda, whose experiences show us the possibility of the seemingly miraculous. Don't be disappointed if you never undergo such radical cures. Linda is an extremely gifted, clairvoyant healer; she has made the spiritual her whole life's work. But also don't decide that this kind of healing through dreams is impossible and give up on your potential. Allow yourself to believe—even though in this case, as in so many others where the psychic is involved, old ideas die hard. Attend to your dreams. Give yourself a chance to learn from them.
Despite the tremendous advances of medical science, there is much that it still can't explain. While sleep can help the physical body, dreams can rejuvenate the spirit. When deprived of dreams, people have been shown to become emotionally unstable, confused, even psychotic. Our dreams recharge us. I believe they contain mystical properties: Unencumbered by your body, you are freer, lighter in substance, can even fly if you wish. When you dream, you're more receptive and sensitive than at any other time in your life. You merge with a benevolent intelligence that touches you, and in some special circumstances it even heals. With your ordinary defenses down, your armor cracks apart so you can open to the larger voices calling out to be heard.
DREAM JOURNALS
The real art of dreaming is in remembering our dreams. Once we record the details in a journal they can no longer slip away. I can't count how many times I have been lying in bed half-asleep in the middle of the night, certain I'll never forget this extraordinary dream I just had—but the next day it's totally gone. Dreams are by nature ephemeral. By keeping a journal, we can bear witness to the intangible, commit our dreams to concrete form. When we do this, we are serving as holy scribes and translators, just as Thomas Moore says in Care of the Soul: “Our notebooks are our private gospels and sutras, our holy books.” Dream journals allow us to honor our inner lives, are a living testament to our personal odysseys.
I still have piles of my old dream journals, with worn bindings and faded pages dating back to the early sixties, stacked high on my closet shelves. Reviewing them, I can recall exactly what was going on in my life at the time of each dream. Keeping a regular diary has never appealed to me because what happens in dreams is usually much more fascinating to me than even my most compelling daytime activities.
While I sleep, I'm no longer weighted down by the physical and am free to explore different realms. This is when I am at my most vulnerable, so it's vital that my surroundings be quiet and safe. Because being awakened abruptly from a dream feels wrenching—as if I've been yanked out of a room in the middle of a conversation with someone—I do everything in my power to prevent it. I have a strong nesting instinct and like to create a snug environment for my dreaming. This is why when I travel, adjusting to a strange hotel room, no matter how luxurious, is often difficult for me. My dreams, as a result, tend to be erratic and sketchy, harder to recall. The familiarity of my bedroom, the softness of my pillow, the warmth of my down comforter, make it easier for me to settle into a peaceful sleep.
Every morning, whether I'm traveling or at home, I spend at least a few minutes retrieving my dreams from the previous night and writing them down. Before I'm fully alert, I lie still, with my eyes closed, collecting my dream images. This is such an automatic part of my morning routine that I rarely even think about it. The tricky part is recording a dream that surfaces in the middle of the night. If I get up long enough to turn on the bedside lamp and enter the dream into my journal, I can have trouble falling back to sleep. I have tried to program myself to hold on to the dream until the next day by fixing its details in my mind, but this doesn't always work. Sometimes I compromise by scribbling down a key word or phrase, using a small penlight to see, hoping I'll be able to make sense of it in the morning. But since for me dreams are too important to miss, on these occasions—they occur only every few weeks—I usually decide to wake up completely and, if necessary, sacrifice the sleep.
If you also have trouble going back to sleep you might try a voice-activated tape recorder. I have friends who find this method less disruptive than having to write something down. Keep the machine close so without even opening your eyes or turning on a light you can tape your dreams. Then simply transcribe them in the morning. Recorders aren't an ideal substitute for a journal, though. For you to refer easily to your dreams they need to be organized chronologically and written down.
Some nights I remember as many as five vivid dreams; on others I retrieve none. Each of us has his or her own unique pattern. There are cycles to out dreams, a natural ebb and flow. During winter, a time of dormancy and the coldest, darkest season of the year, I'm less physically astute and my dreams are more difficult to recall. I can often sense them hovering in the distance, beyond an invisible boundary. The harder I try to grasp on to them, however, the more elusive they become. Since dreams ate so important to me, I feel at a loss without them, as if I've gone partially blind. But even when I'm in a dormant part of my cycle or have no awareness of my dreams, there are effective ways of stimulating these memories.
Mark couldn't remember his dreams. A talented literary agent who worshiped creativity, he thought that he was missing out on something and came to me to find it. Every morning his wife would launch into a detailed account of her dreams of the night before, which sounded like a Steven Spielberg adventure movie. When Mark woke up, his mind was completely blank. I suggested that he start a dream journal.
“How can I keep a journal when I don't even dream?” he asked.
“The point of starting a journal,” I told him, “is to honor your intentions, to give yourself permission to dream. It doesn't matter how much you remember. Just date it and write it down. A line, a color, a shape, a few key words, a fragment. Any clues that give you something to work with. Don't worry about how unimportant they might seem. Just record them immediately, before you do anything else, so they don't get lost.”
“But how do I begin?” Mark needed a concrete plan.
“Before you go to sleep, shut your eyes and ask for a dream. Something inside of you will hear it and respond.”
“What if nothing happens and I don't dream at all?”
“Don't give up,” I encouraged him. “It might take a while. Just keep at it and you will.”
Mark took this as a challenge. He was eager to start. Rather than randomly writing on loose scraps of paper or including his dream images in already used notebooks, at my suggestion he bought a hardbound journal. It's important to have a special designated place to log them. This journal was off limits to his wife, and she respected that. It became his confidential diary, exclusively devoted to recording his dreams, a forum for them to speak.
Each night, Mark would make his request and then drift off, hoping for the best. For the first week, he couldn't recall a single thing; the journal remained empty. Puzzled, I asked him about his sleep habits. He told me he was one of those people who put their heads on the pillow, go right to sleep, and in the morning jump straight out of bed like a bullet. By six Mark would be glued to the phone, making his early New York calls.
“You're getting up so fast you're losing your dreams,” I said. “Rest there for a while with your eyes shut. See what comes. The secret is to prolong what's known as the hypnogogic state, the period between sleep and waking. It's a magical time when you're consciously aware of your dream images but are still not quite alert.”
“Is there anything I should specifically do?”
“Simply lie relaxed and still,” I said. “Images will form. Gently focus on them and watch where they take you. You don't have to force anything. Try to remain a detached observer. The images will pull you along. At first they may seem disconnected or fleeting. But eventually a scenario will emerge. It's like watching the replay of a movie. You can actually see your dreams enacted all over again. The difference is that now you're actively witnessing them and can choose at any point to open your eyes and write them down.”
Fighting his instincts, Mark didn't leap out of bed anymore. He was doing everything right but still got no results. Finally, after a few weeks, he became aware of some snapshot-like dream images. One day he was surprised to see a face flash before him—his favorite grandmother, who had died when he was nine. Excited, he didn't wait for what came next and noted it in his journal. Another time, he saw an image of himself as a young boy holding a small cocker spaniel, his beloved childhood dog. Watching it closely, it led him into a dream in which he and the dog were lost in some strange town far away from home. At first these images and dreams seemed disjointed, but he persisted, diligently recording each entry. Over the next few months, the isolated pictures began to connect and reveal the loneliness and loss Mark suffered as a child after his grandmother died. Recalling this, he was now able to express the grief he never allowed himself to feel before.
Mark didn't dream in epic proportions as his wife did, but he had found his own natural style, analogous to the simple elegance of a Japanese haiku poem. Some people's dreams are like seventy-millimeter Technicolor movies. Others recall only fragments or single scenes. The form, dramatic quality, or length is not where the value lies. The act of recovering the information and your ability to utilize it are what determine the worth of the images.
From a purely psychological perspective dream journals are a priceless archive. With your dreams down on paper you can unearth important events in your life that you'd forgotten about, as Mark did. Or you can piece together unconscious negative patterns in yourself so you can take the necessary action to change. You are able to monitor your own growth in dreams, gauging the progress you make in your journal, acknowledging the healing that occurs.
For years a patient of mine kept dreaming that she was back in college at Berkeley in the sixties, wandering through the campus desperately trying to locate something she'd lost. No matter how hard she searched, she never found it. Now in her late forties, a divorced high-school math teacher who led a fairly quiet life, she yearned for the freedom and sense of adventure she once had in school. These dreams were telling her that she had left a cherished part of herself behind and needed to reclaim it. Once she actively took steps to create that same freedom in her present life—becoming more politically active, taking vocal stands on social issues, and expanding her circle of friends—the dream became less frequent and finally stopped. It was last mentioned in her journal over a year ago.
In keeping a dream journal, we not only chronicle the patterns of our unconscious, we can also begin to pinpoint and make use of our psychic dreams. Our journals play a dynamic role. They house the psychic guidance we request to live our lives well so the knowledge we gain can't be lost, misinterpreted, or forgotten. They're a living testament to the healing we receive in dreams, so that we can remember and make full use of this healing. Containing concrete evidence of our future predictions, our journals enable us to correlate our dreams with an actual event when it takes place. By logging our dreams, we can often tell at once which are accurate and practically apply this newly identified psychic material.
Several years ago, my boyfriend left me for another woman. I was crushed. I would have done anything to make the relationship succeed. I kept thinking to myself, I wish we'd get back together again, as if repeating it like a mantra would make it come true. I was working myself into a frenzy, but he wasn't interested in coming back. I knew that it was best to be apart because I wanted a committed relationship and he didn't, but I was obsessed. One evening I asked for a dream to show me a way out of this mess.
At three o'clock one morning, in the midst of a huge thunderstorm, I awoke with a seven-digit West Hollywood phone number rolling around in my head. I was dead tired, but since I rarely picked up numbers psychically in my dreams, I knew I needed to jot this one down. I switched on the overhead light, reached for my journal, and noted it.
The following morning I dialed the number with no idea what I would do if someone answered. After two rings, a woman picked up the phone and said, “Together Again Productions. Can I help you?”
I thought this was some kind of a joke. “Excuse me,” I asked, “can you tell me what your company does?”
In a perfunctory tone, she replied, “We're a television production company. We make ‘Movies of the Week.' “
Barely able to keep from laughing, I said, “Sorry, I must have the wrong number,” and hung up the phone.
Although my boyfriend and I never did get back together again, the dream interjected a touch of cosmic humor. Having received an unexpected response to my request, I took it as a personal message to lighten up, to stop taking everything so seriously. This was the gentle nudge I needed to remind me to go on with my life. If I hadn't made the effort to transcribe the phone number, I would have missed out.
Once we document our dreams, it may be obvious which are actually psychic, or it may take weeks, months, or even years to confirm. For instance, in the early eighties I had a dream that I was director of a medical clinic. The building, which I could see vividly, was actually one I had often passed on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica, a one-story faded pink stucco structure built in the fifties, at that time leased to an acupuncture college. The dream was so clear that it felt psychic to me, but there was nothing to suggest my connection to the building. I noted the specifics in my journal, dated the entry, and labeled it with a special star, as I do with all dreams that I suspect are psychic. You may also do this to organize your journal better and save time trying to locate a dream. In this instance, it was seven years later that, to my great surprise, I found myself about to start running a substance-abuse recovery clinic in the very same building.
A journal is an ideal way to keep track of your psychic dreams. Although you may have a hunch that a dream is psychic, if it isn't validated right away, there's a tendency for you to forget about it. This is less likely if you write it down. Then when the incident you dreamed of later takes place, you can review your notes and determine which elements were “on” or “off.” Your dream journals provide you with reinforcing feedback, so essential to the cultivation of the psychic, giving you confidence to develop and grow.
To start your own dream journal, I suggest that you go out to your favorite bookstore and browse through the journal section. There are many kinds that you can purchase: leather, linen, colorful cotton prints, some with pictures of dolphins, foxes, or bears on the cover, others decorated with star maps or pressed flowers or gorgeous nature scenes. Pick out the one that most appeals and inspires you to write down your dreams. Place it right beside your bed with a pen attached so that you can conveniently reach it when you wake up. Keep with it a small penlight or voice-activated tape player if you have to record a dream during the night. This is your private notebook, which no one else should touch. You need to feel safe to record every uncensored nuance of your dreams—even the most embarrassing, awkward, and revealing segments. It would be pointless to omit these portions out of fear that you'll offend or shock someone else. This journal is just for you. No one should read it unless you explicitly give permission. Also, cherish the time you spend retrieving your dreams. Those few moments in the morning, while you lie suspended between sleep and waking, are sacred. Protect them from interruptions. In this state, you are in direct communication with both the seen and unseen realms.
Remembering dreams is unearthing that which is underground, giving it breath and life. When our dreams and the everyday world merge, there's a seamless continuity of experience, dissolving the illusions of division and separateness. Once this is achieved, we begin to speak a new language that translates into many aspects of our lives. We feel an ease, a communion with the psychic that allows it to settle, to make a nest for itself. No longer an occasional guest, the psychic has taken its rightful place in our homes.