in my dream, we are walking and talking in a strange place then we are riding a train, and talking, waiting for a meal at a large table.
Who are WE?
I am with some people I know well, though I cannot name them. I think Don and Alison may have been there. Maybe some more of you here. We are talking about spiritual things. We are pointing out the clouds in the sky next to a bridge over water to each other and saying clever and deep things.
Suddenly, there seems to be a crash and much discomfort and death. I am talking with someone, though I am in terrible pain. I say, my eyeball is half ripped out, and I cannot breath. I am gasping and my lungs and vocal cords are making a terrible, desperate noise. I say, no words about spirit or beauty mean a thing unless they are helpful when you cannot breath and the body is in ruins. I say, all spirit talk is only good if it can help me leave this body – help me die – when there is no grace to be had, but only pain. How do I learn to stop breathing? Stopping the breath is bloody hard – it is a struggle – it is drowning. Are we ready to drown? We should talk about that instead of the pretty clouds – and then I woke with an urgency for this. I have an urgency to practice dying upon waking that has not left, though soon, I know, I will go back to being transfixed on bird songs, flowers and clouds. :0
Life as Improv 