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Course of the River

The dream folded itself around me; a sort of psychic blanket. It seemed I had known this dream for centuries, though certainly, time is simultaneous. It had a feminine character, whereas mine is masculine. Though certainly, gender matters not at all. It (she) liked me, and I liked her. This morning, I recall the dark brown touch of her hair on my cheek.

We had rhythm. I made her laugh. Later, I broke her heart.

This dream assumed the role of boss, and I worked under her. I had the mindset strong like steel, not to fall for her. I had done so twice before, as my control had been rather weak then. This time, I was determined.

But oh, she had steel of her own. The body she wore was short, same as mine; graceful, and to me, elegant; her hands especially lovely. Long, slender fingers. This dream had impeccable taste in clothes, and a fine sense of humor. We shared this, and I soon found I could easily make her smile, even laugh out loud. She had a smile like a small sun.

This place was where other dream-bodies would come to buy the stuff needed to keep their bodies going. Also, as always, to teach and be taught; ultimately to awaken.

My role, though a grown man, was basically a child's job of putting things in bags; maybe I needed to learn humility. Often, though not every day, I would "sack" for her. I'd been nervous early on, for her energy was powerful, and I am very sensitive to psychic energy. But soon, we found our rhythm.

There is a sort of dance, and when the rhythm is right, the dance generates its own energy. There had been some with whom I had very good rhythm; others, no rhythm at all. But this one, oh! The swift and confident motion of her hands, together with mine (being careful not to touch her, for as I said, I was determined) a ballet of fingers.

But even as great as it was, that was not the true rhythm. There is a constant underlying communication between all things, dream or no dream. I had used it many times before: If I had a certain amount of items in a bag but it was not yet full, and there was one more of its kind across the turntable, I would glance at it. If the rhythm was right, the one with whom I was working would pass it to me. If the rhythm was not there, I would just reach across and take it myself. No gesturing or speaking involved, only this subconscious communication. And at this, she was an artist.

Our rhythm was poetic. Ordinarily, when I would glance at an item I needed, there would be a small pause before my co-worker would pass it to me. But with her, there was no pause. It might seem a small thing, but it speaks to the core of Self.

Sometimes, since she tended to feel things deeply, we would pass one another nearly all day without speaking, or even a glance. Often, when she would have a difficult day I would determine to make her laugh. I always succeeded.

Three years, and the place was to be closed down and sold. All that time, even with my intuition, I never was sure who she was. Every dream has walls, or else I guess it would not be a dream. The walls must always be respected. I had the greatest respect and regard for her.

She was close with a few others, those she had known longer than me. At the end of each day, as she would walk (glide?) across the front, she would hug these friends. I would watch and think, "Where's my hug?" But she had her own distance to keep.

Yesterday was my last day. Tomorrow the doors will close for the last time. But yesterday, after a few days where she seemed to open up with me a bit more, we had chances to talk and to laugh. She told me she would miss me, and I felt a wall move. "We have the same sense of humor...you slay me!" I could only reply, "Likewise." Odd how we can put a thousand words into one, and pray the other knows those thousand.

The dream looked especially lovely yesterday, and we did work together once, but the rhythm was muted. As usual, I kept my distance, but I found I was more drawn to her as the day wore on. And she became more restless. We spoke very little, though I did make her laugh once. It was a joy. Dear God, it was indeed.

We who dream learn by giving, and by giving, we receive, for they are the same. And we learn peace by teaching it. We had a mutual friend in whom I always sensed a sort of peace. We stood together, only moments left (thank God time isn't real). We talked, we cried. Then I felt the energy shift and grow, as "she" seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Oh, I didn't want to do this"...I do not recall the exact words, but by then it no longer mattered. "It's been a joy!" And she put her arms around me. I felt the soft breath of her hair on my cheek, her scent subtle, but her embrace strong, as was mine. Certainly I'm mistaken, but it seemed we stood that way for an eternity. I'd written her a haiku only moments before, and when we stood apart, I handed it to her:

Rhythm takes its time

not unlike a river's course

I'm glad I met you.

She took it, but did she read it then? Why can I not remember? She turned, no longer speaking, and walked upstairs. My peaceful friend told me, "I only know of two people who've made her cry. She's crying, now."

A few minutes later, I walked out the door, and I saw her car pulling away. I think she saw me, but it was a bit of a distance (thank God space isn't real).