"Once Zhuangzi dreamt he was a butterfly,
a butterfly flitting and fluttering around,
happy with himself and doing as he pleased.
He didn't know he was Zhuangzi.
Suddenly he woke up and there he was,
solid and unmistakable Zhuangzi.
But he didn't know if he was
Zhuangzi who had dreamt he was a butterfly,
or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi."
(Chuang Tzu)
The 20th anniversary of my mother's death came and went last weekend. I did not write because I did not feel compelled to. Indeed, it was only a passing, recurring thought that day. I went about my day with much normalcy. I did not take the time to sit and dwell on it, to reflect and to express. Why? Because I didn't feel like it. It was that simple. I pushed the thought aside and did what I would usually do on a Saturday. I've had a lot of "not-normal" of late. I wanted more "normal" that day.
But I knew in time I would eventually write. One can only push a thought away for some time. Truth is like an unstoppable flame that can only be contained for so long. It will see the light of day. I knew I would write. The question was "what?"
I'm typing, and yet I'm still not sure.
On Sunday night I had the dream. It was about Dad, not Mom. I'd half-expected for weeks that I would have the dream but after so long I thought perhaps it was not coming. After Mom died I had it many times, but my mother's death was a much bigger shock to the system. I wasn't sure I'd have it at all with my father's passing. If I was to have it, I'd have expected it to come on a Saturday night. Falling asleep on Saturday nights and waking up on Sundays is when I miss my father. I typically relax on Saturday and put off errands, housework, and so on until Sundays. So usually, falling asleep each Saturday night and waking each Sunday morning I would be formulating a list of all the things I should do on Sunday, and deciding the best timings and order for them.
"Visit Dad".
"Visit Dad" has popped into my head as I drifted to sleep every Saturday night and woken every Sunday morning for a long time. Now it's been replaced with "Visit Dad.... can't visit Dad. Dad's dead." It may be a little while before I've broken myself of the habit. I am a creature of habit.
I think I have described the dream before, but just in case I haven't:
After a loved one dies, and in your grief your mind is struggling to make sense of it, you may experience the dream. You have a dream in which everything seems normal and grounded in your modern life. There are no zombies or flying cars or topless biker-babes (unless topless biker-babes are a part of your normal life). Everything seems... mundane, typical, normal. Everything feels very real. The dream may become lucid. You bump into your loved one. You are surprised to find them alive, but they provide you with an explanation which, while it would defy all waking-logic, is somehow not just acceptable but welcome in this context, and you are joyfully re-united for a time.
And then you wake.
This mental house of cards your subconscious has created cannot withstand the waking-logic your opening eyes let in, and the weight of grief you'd somehow set aside in your stupor comes crashing back, suddenly, undeniably.
The first few times I experienced the dream after Mom died, it was soul-crushing. On waking to realize she was still dead it felt like she'd died all over again. For a time, I went to sleep each night fearing the dream, hoping with all my heart that it would not find me.
But after a time, when the pain of her passing had lessened, I came to welcome the opportunity. It was, in a strange way, a chance to visit with her once more, to talk to her, to experience her presence. In my waking mind my memory of her was clouded and felt distant, but there, in the midst of a lucid dream, she was larger-than-life, vivid, and it felt so very real.
When I woke from the dream on Monday I was not crushed. The dream was lucid and I'd immediately recognized it for what it was, eschewing false explanation in favor of enjoying the moment, however brief. He was as I remember him best: middle-aged, pot-bellied, face bright with devilish expression and full of mischief. He was happy. How welcome was his laughter. He was happy. If anything, my only disappointment was that it was too short. Waking came quickly after the realization that I was dreaming. I'd have liked to stay a little longer.
I can say with confidence that I cannot believe in life-after-death (in the most common sense, a 'heaven' or 'hell'), because I know nothing will ever make it sound more appealing to me than the thought of my parents re-united and happy, and yet as alluring as that is, it does not compel me.
I've given a lot of thought lately to what Dad's reality must have been like, how it differed from my own. He experienced the world in a very different way than I, and than most. I'm reminded a little of the movie Memento. It'd not have been like that, but perhaps a little closer to that than to my own experience. It'd be something very different.
And who is to say that my experience of the world is more "real" than his, or than any's? I trust in my own, because it's the only one I can.
But then, maybe I'm just a butterfly.
Someday, I'd like to visit with them both at once, in one of the few afterlives my experience does contain. I'd like to hear them talk and interact. I'd like to hear her laugh at his crazy antics. It would be a laughter I've not heard in more than 20 years. Some day, maybe...
A guy can dream, can't he?
"We are not humans beings on a spiritual
journey;
we are spiritual beings on a human
journey."
(Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)
