Dreams, Visions & Ordinary

I’m not looking back, she thought. All he wants me for is to cook his dinner and wash his clothes. I’ve had it. I need something more. With the keys clenched in her fist, Sally pushed ahead in her thoughts and with her feet. Step one: I’m packed, get through the door. What will I do? No, one step at a time. Leave first. Twenty years of married life. I’m dying slowly, or did it happen to me already? I’m walking through the door, past all those bittersweet, yesterday's memories. When the children were young, it was better. I felt alive then. No, she thought, I was alive then but it was not better. It hurt then. It hurt a lot. I was too busy taking care of everybody to notice that I needed some care, too. I’m walking. I’m leaving now.

In the early morning, Mary awoke sweaty and uncomfortable. A strong, empowering mood was possessing her whole being. What did I dream? I feel as if I had found my very best friend, but I can’t recall her face. Who is she? Fragments of the dream flashed through Mary’s interior screen—the window to the complex machinery known as her mind. As she threw off her covers, the details of the dream challenged her to feel their impact. Yes, it’s becoming clearer, more focused now. The dream! God! I never had a dream like that before. It was so clear, so strong. I felt so clear, so strong. In a rush of excited intent, Mary leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled on her night table drawer to open. Great, she thought, I have a pen and, yeah, there’s the scratch pad. On the left hand corner of the pad, Mary tried to pace her writing with the torrent of dream images spewing forth. The dream:

July 14th.

I was wandering in dark woods. I was fearful and dazed, perhaps lost. My legs burned and the blood on them was dried and caked. They hurt and I was worried about walking because of the pain. I knew I had to escape those eerie, dark woods. I heard the crunching sounds of heavy footsteps marching on the dried leaves and twigs of the forest floor. Men were chasing after me. I heard them laugh—a laugh of hideous desire. I ran . . . to where? Where could I be safe? The forest became darker and the path more obscure with briar bushes. I was trapped. Within seconds, the men would come upon me. The fear and the pain of my scratches overwhelmed me. I felt trapped like an animal with no device or weapon for means of a hopeful escape. I cried. My tears were the dejected expression of a surrendering victim. A light broke through the gaps of the intermingling tree branches. A beam of clear, iridescent white light glided and arrived, settling its warmth on my forehead. A voice, in feminine tones, called to me, “Mary, it’s only a dream. Follow the beam of light back to me.”

“How do I do that?”

“Just see yourself doing it and it will be done,” was the voice’s reply.

A woman’s hand reached out and gently pulled me. I saw no scenery, only a field of clear light and the woman who had called out to me. Both of us were just particles of light with superimposed human forms.

“Mary,” she called my name again. “Look back. What do you see?”

I saw the faces of the men. They were angry, cursing my escape. One of the men resembled my brother. What did these men want with me? Why were they so intent on capturing me?

“Mary!” the voice called again. “The men wanted your power! It’s time to begin the journey of remembering who you are.”

“Who are you?” Mary questioned.

“I am your Heart, sister. It is time to awaken from your nightmares. Look for me. I always stand above the dreams . . . "

Mary put down her pen and pad. She threw off her nightgown and prepared herself for the dream of the day. She smiled and wondered, who am I? Who or what is my Heart sister?

The winds were pushing hard for several days. A dry, cutting wind was stripping the ground cover of all traces of moisture. Hot and getting hotter. No one noticed the thoughts clothed within those winds. The birds did not fly. They sat silently observing in their nests. These winds brought a danger they could not understand. Hummingbirds circled and gazed through my faces. The thoughts in the winds passed through me. I observed and absorbed their danger. My name is hidden to those who can’t listen. I remain hidden like the thoughts in the wind that are sensed and only felt by my other-than-“human" friends.

Three months had passed since Sally had left her old ties—her bondage. She had traveled to the Cape and was enjoying the tourist town of Hyannis. She decided to settle there. Having no marketable job skills, she was left with what she already knew: raising children, cooking, and cleaning. She got a part-time job as cook and nanny for the wealthy Madison family.

“Well, at least I have my own room, with my own bed,” she sighed. The job wasn’t too demanding, often the children spent weekends with their cousins, aunts and uncles. She couldn't decide what she wanted to do with her new life. She felt she was stuck in the birth canal with the pulsing of life pushing her to a destiny she had no preparation for. The birth was a long ordeal, forty years of fertile resting. The birthing signalled to her the unlearning of an old, unfruitful way of life through the emergence of an impluse to chance and change. Being born is difficult, but being deadened is a hopeless alternative, she felt.

Sally liked to spend her days off walking by the seashore. It was always very windy by the ocean front and Sally had grown to love the wind. In its stirrings, it whispered a name to her—a name she had spoken long ago in a dream of yearning. Sometimes she would call out to the wind, “I hear your name. You are calling me. Please, speak your name loud and clear. Why do you remain hidden?" I must be crazy to listen to the wind and to call to it. It’s pulling me to remember. Remember what? Sally asked herself.

She looked into the sun as she sauntered along the beach. A seagull flew overhead casting its shadow on her face. A stone fell from its beak and landed by her foot. Sally picked it up and noticed its markings. The stone was well worn by the ocean batterings of salt, water and sun. It was shiny and greyish-blue in color. It fit perfectly into the palm of her hand. Sally felt compelled to tap the stone while placing it on her forehead. Images pulsated and flashed in hues of brilliant colors. Sally shrieked, “What the hell, what’s happening to me? This is madness!”

She felt an attraction and repulsion to her hallucinogenic experience. Her repulsion, which was based on her timidness and fear, won out and she removed the stone from her forehead, bending forward on one foot to toss the stone into the ocean. A roaring, persistent wind pushed hard against her small body. The tenacity of the wind urged her to reconsider and she buried the rock in her pants pocket. Exhausted, she had returned home and fell into a deep sleep. Dreams of birth occupied her awareness. She dreamed of a woman who was stretching her arms to the newly born infant. The stone remained nestled within the pocket of herself.

Sara was expecting a visit from her niece today. Her niece was the only person with whom she had remained in continual contact since her self-imposed seclusion on the Cape.

It has been four months since I first found this wind-worn two bedroom cottage, she wrote into her most prized possession—her journal. Her journal: it was filled with pages and pages of her thoughts, feelings and descriptions of day and night dreaming. Sara wondered where her writing would lead her to. She wrote: my mind is like an endless stream winding through jungles of impressions. Will it finally pour into the ocean of tranquility?

She wedged her pen between her journal's pages. Her thoughts returned to her niece, Mary. Sara rechecked her watch. Mary was already half an hour late. Anxious to get a move on, Sara placed her camping gear by the door. I can’t believe I’m going on a camping trip. God, I haven’t been camping since I was a Girl Scout some zillion years ago. If I remember correctly, I didn’t like it much then. Sara laughed to herself, remembering Mary’s proposal of sleeping and dreaming in the natural elements of earth, woods and sky. And those strange dreams she has been having! Dreams of a dream teacher teaching her the ways of power and light. What is Mary into these days? Dreams of teachers of light and camping—what’s next?

There was a knock, a loud rap on his door. Who can that be at 1:00 a.m. in the morning? Ray asked himself. Maybe they will go away, could be the wrong apartment. The knock increased in sound and urgency. Ray flicked off his VCR by using the remote control device. He called out, “Who is it?”

The knock continued, mixed with a muffled cry. Ray didn’t know what to do. His safe world of work at the computer store, then home to beer and movies every night was being intruded upon. Over the last couple of years he had cultivated his loneliness and avoided anyone who might break into his safe world.

The cries at the door became louder and the knock was barely audible. Finally, Ray hesitantly walked to the door and peered through the peephole. The hallway appeared to be shrouded in a golden mist. A crumpled form, crouched by the wall, was moaning.

“It looks like trouble,” he muttered to himself. The crumpled form stirred. The woman was still crying. Definitely, trouble! Ray was about to head back to safety—to another beer and the late movie, but feelings of compassion, concern and curiosity propelled him to open the door.

Standing in the doorway, Ray called out, “Are you all right?”

The woman looked up, tears glistened on her face like dewdrops clinging to succulent plants in the early morning. Ray felt a familiar pull, a recognition of kinship and yet he was positive he had never met the woman before.

“Will you help me? I don’t know where to go,” the woman asked in a sincere, softly spoken manner.

Ray fidgeted and stroked his large, graying moustache. The woman was in her late thirties or early forties. Her eyes and hair were dark. The expression on her face read pain and mystery. Ray sighed, Here I go. What kind of trouble will I be getting into?

“Yes, I will help you,” Ray stammered, offering his hand to the woman. The woman held Ray’s hand for support but she was so weak that she knuckled under and fainted.

Ray awkwardly scooped her up and carried her into his apartment. She is very light, he thought as he placed her gently on the couch. When she opened her eyes, Ray was already back with a cup of water from the tap. He watched her sip the water slowly. She looked at Ray pensively. Ray couldn’t decide whether or not she was speaking to him or someone else of her own imagination.

“I’ve found you,” she spoke.

Ray stuffed his hands into his pockets. His mind was rambling at a frantic pace, busied with the task of rejecting or accepting this woman and his feelings toward her. He shuffled his left foot and said what everyone says to a person in a crisis, “Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright.”

Sally wondered, How did I get here, to this small, zen-like apartment? She felt very drained and tired. A man was speaking to her with such a reassuring voice. What is he saying? His name is Ray? The rock! Where is it? She reached in to its cold, glossy surface. “I’ve found you,” she said out loud to the rock.

How did I get here? Memories came forward to her mind’s eye. Oh yeah, I remember. I had put the rock on my forehead. I had become dizzy, my mind was whirling and I saw images of past, ancient warriors sitting in a circle. They appeared to be in a trance. That’s strange, the warriors were all women! They had determined yet serene expressions on their faces. What was it, what were they doing? I remember, they were throwing feathers into a large bonfire. From the fire hologram-like images blazed and rose upward. The women were singing, calling to the four winds, calling out to freedom. What happened to me? Was it a dream, a vision or a slip into insanity?

Sally sipped the glass of water that she had received. Ray introduced himself. Composing herself and focusing on the present situation, Sally smiled at Ray.

“Ray, I’m okay. I just need to rest. Can I sleep on the couch for awhile?”

Ray was relieved that the woman, Sally, was coherent. “Yes, you can stay. Are you sure that you are all right? Do you want a doctor?” he asked.

Sally smiled. “Ray, I’m fine, really I am. I just need to rest for awhile. Thanks for your kindness.”

Ray had many questions to ask her, obviously now wasn’t going to be the correct time. Sally was fast asleep.

Mary was being driven on the backroads of the Berkshires in western Massachusetts by her aunt. I feel exhilarated and ready for anything, she laughed to herself. She looked towards her Aunt Sara. She knew Sara could feel it, too. An excitement was in the air, an adventure was about to open a hidden doorway.

Sara, Mary thought, how I admire you and love you. Mary felt that if any woman was a role model for her, surely it was her aunt. Fortunately for me, Mary reflected, she is my aunt and good friend too. I feel like we are comrades, dreamers of a design, of a new order.

My dreams, the ones of the Heart sister have changed. I can’t remember all the details. They have been fuzzy to my mind recall. I know she is still teaching me, but what is she teaching me about? I can never remember her face clearly except for her dancing brown eyes. I can feel that those dreams are helping me. She has given me wings to explore new and unusual, uncharted territory. What is it all about? Mary interrupted her thoughts and asked Sara, “What do you write about in your journal?”

Sara cleared her throat, mildly surprised at Mary’s personal question. “I’m not sure. I feel this compulsion to write down any thoughts, feelings, images, or whatever, that I may have. I feel I am following a thread of sorts. Sometimes I feel like I am a kitten playing with the thread of a very large, even endless spool of yarn. I often ask myself, 'Will I ever get to the end? If I do, what will I find?'”

Mary said jokingly, “Maybe you will find the end of your thoughts!” Mary thought, the Heart sister stands above the dream. Somehow that connects with Sara’s endless writing of thoughts, but how?

The sign that indicated the campground was in view. Sara drove the car to the left, following the gravel round until it came to an abrupt end. Twilight was upon everything.

“Let’s pitch our tent right away,” Mary suggested.

Sara helped Mary unpack the gear. She felt uneasy, afraid. A queasy feeling that someone or something was watching them broke into her usual confident persona. Three crows flew overhead cawing loudly and persistently. It’s only a couple of crows, she told herself. Camping, ugh! Mary, what did you drag me into?

Jake plunked down onto the soft, velour couch. He untied his shoelaces and took his shoes off. He also unbuckled his belt and rolled up his shirt sleeves. I’m tired, really beat, he thought. I’m too tired to get dinner. Jake rubbed his eyes, they were itchy and dry. He turned on the TV to watch the daily national news. Jake felt himself becoming more and more numbed as he dozed off. It would be several hours before he awakened and, as usual, he would remember nothing of his dream adventures.

Marku was cruising the dream streets of the Earth plane. He was the elected representation for the organization. The organization was obsessed with power. He searched for women; women who still had some juice left. Marku’s job was to find these women and set up a stalk. Often, he did this by promising incredible sexual pleasure, which satisfied most of the women. On occasion, he had come across a few women that wanted more than sexual ecstasy. These women were ambitious and wanted positions of power in the male-dominated culture of Earth. They weren’t so easily fooled by sexual pleasure. Sometimes, he would actually have to arrange that these ambitious women got what they wanted. Marku smiled to himself and thought, Yes, I have to deliver a little more, but those strong women were a great source of power for him and the organization.

The organization, how it worshipped power! It loved the power to control and dominate. It luxuriated in the fear and hopelessness of people who were without love and vision.

Ah, Marku laughed. The women of Earth are starved for self-esteem. How easily they fall prey to my promises of power. Marku prided himself on his skill to stalk a woman and use her weaknesses for his personal gain, and for the gain of the organization.

Marku loved power, too. He loved cruising the dream streets of Earth. What a set up, he thought. The organization was growing stronger and he was well paid for his services. “Fear is Fun” was the motto of the organization. The greatest payoffs they received were through keeping people in a state of false, complacent security. Insurance policies were one of their biggest scams. Imagine a culture so afraid of dying, or so afraid of what might happen to them that they will give their money away to protect themselves from that possibility. Well, babies, there ain’t no insurance from death! Just imagine what these people will do because they’re so afraid of their own humanness, their own mortality!

Ah, here's Jake. Unaware that he’s on the dream streets, and on these streets, babies, you gotta be aware! Jake, what a poor slob! Does everything I tell him. Hey! Jake, ready for your next assignment? Jake, good ol' Jake, as lethargic in dreams as he is in physical life. What an infantile personality. He never got over the fact that his parents didn’t love him. He’s still a two-year-old in a forty-five-year-old body, thought Marku. Jake is my obedient slave and I never have to deliver any payment. All I have to do with that sucker is to pretend that I am his father and promise him my love if he does everything I say. Yeah, good ‘ole Jake. How many other personalities are like that on the dream streets of Earth? Probably millions and millions, mused Marku.

Mary and Sara were in their sleeping bags, staring into the darkness. It was pitch dark in the tent. Both women were awake and unsettled by a restless night that was due to a change in sleeping environments. Neither woman knew the other was awake.

Sara felt her bladder. It was bloated and full. God, I have to get up and pee, she thought. Reluctantly, she unzipped her sleeping bag and fumbled around for the flashlight.

“Sara, is everything okay?” called out Mary.

“Yes, I have to pee, that’s all.”

Mary giggled and said, “So do I. I think the flashlight is by the tent front flap.”

Both women got up, maneuvered themselves through the tiny opening of the tent flap and attended to nature’s call. Afterwards, they sat on a pine log. Sara was trying to recall a dream and Mary was trying to find the Little Dipper in the starry, night sky.

Yes, I remember now, thought Sara. Her vigil of journal writing; the endless descriptions of thoughts, images, and feelings had proven to be a discipline that aided her in increasing her dream recall. She wasn’t sure why this was so. What was the underlying connection between her writing and her dreams? She reasoned that her writing was enabling her to follow a steady stream of thoughts that penetrated hidden pockets of herself, like her dreaming self. I’m not sure how my writing enables me to follow into deeper parts of myself. What is the point of it all, anyway? I wanted to write a novel, thought Sara.

The dream! Yeah, it was a dream I’ve dreamt many times before, except there is a slight variation each time it reoccurs. Jake, my ex-husband, is in it. In many of the dreams, Sara realized, it’s as if we’re still married. We do many of our old activities together in exactly the same way as when we were still married, including sex. This time, this dream, I dreamt I was playing again the charade of our married life together. I was going through the motions. I was intuiting that I needed to get away from Jake’s dreams of me, but I was still weaved into the patterns of our marriage together. Do I still love him? Why do these dreams keep reoccurring? Sara asked herself.

Mary could barely make out Sara’s form in the darkness. A flash of recognition crossed her mind as she remembered her own dream.

“Wow! I’ve just remembered a fantastic dream. You were in it, Sara.”

“What was it about?” Sara asked.

Mary thought deeply for a moment and began the telling of the dream story:

“I am sitting around a large bonfire. I am part of a ceremony of a group of about fifty women. Each one of us is throwing feathers into the fire. I know they represent my attachments to people and my personal desires and fears. All the women are chanting. Their voices resonate like a gathering of internal rhythmic forces. They chant over and over, ‘Freedom is the way. Happiness is our play.’ The fire crackles and bursts with radiating flames of heat. Feathers rain down on us. We gather these feathers and throw them into the fire chanting over and over again, ‘Freedom is the way. Happiness is our play’. As soon as these feathers burn, it rains more feathers. The task appears endless, but we are all committed to this task and to the way of freedom we are preparing for other women.”

“Sara, I notice you standing outside the circle. You are writing furiously in your journal. You look into the fire and we both notice that feathers are sprouting from your stomach. You try to pull them out but are unable to do so. Uncle Jake appears and takes your hand. I look into his eyes and sense the presence of a force that is both horrifying and seductive. Then I woke up.”

Sara shivered, waves of cold heat passed through her body. She tried to breathe deeply to calm her nervous stomach but was unable to. Her teeth chattered. Sara moved closer to her niece and hugged her briefly.

“What an odd dream, Mary. I have been dreaming about Jake quite frequently in these last few months. What does it mean? Do I still love him? Should I go back to him?”

Mary knew she couldn’t answer these questions for Sara. Don’t go back! she exclaimed to herself. A deeper, ancient voice spoke within her, ‘Join our circle. Let’s learn the way of freedom. To us now, it’s only a dream but there is a way, I can feel it, Sara!’ Mary held Sara’s hand in her own. She hoped in the touching of their flesh, Sara could feel and hear her heart’s message.

The alarm buzzed Ray into a groggy wakefulness. Sleep, I love it—just a few more minutes, thought Ray. Then, he remembered Sally. I wonder if she is still asleep on the couch? His curiosity shook off the last clinging vapors of sleep. Ray took a hurried shower and got dressed. He made a lot of noise, hoping it would wake Sally up so he could talk to her before he went to work. Ray was unusually obstinate about his job attendance. He had never taken a day off and wasn’t about to even though there was a mysterious, perhaps dangerous, woman sleeping on his couch. While tying his shoelaces, Ray projected ahead, going over the details of the day ahead of him. Meeting with Mr. Adler, low on beer, pick up a six-pack, any good movies on TV tonight? he wondered. I hope that woman is gone, thought Ray. Sally would only interfere with his boring, safe schedule.

Oh, God, she’s still asleep where I left her last night, on the couch. Should I wake her up now or after I make breakfast? Well, if I wake her up now she can take a shower, have breakfast and vamoos, Ray projected.

“Sally?" Ray called. She didn’t move. Ray began to get panicky. What if she is dead?

“Sally!” Ray called to her while he pushed her shoulders lightly. Beads of sweat covered her forehead.

Sally stirred. Her eyes were closed and rolled up in their sockets pushed to another view of life. She struggled back to conscious, bodily life.

Ray watched worriedly. “Sally, are you alright?” he asked.

Sally nodded her head up and down. “Yes,” she replied. Ray sighed in relief.

“Do you want to eat breakfast?” he asked.

“I’m not hungry. Can I take a shower?”

Ray picked two of his best towels from the closet and handed them to Sally. He pointed to the door on the right of the hallway indicating it was the way to the bathroom.

While the bacon was sizzling in the frying pan, Ray considered Sally’s predicament. What’s wrong with her? She seems to be in a daze. I wonder if she is in any trouble with drugs. Something familiar about her, I can’t quite place it. Pouring the bacon grease into the old coffee can required his full attention. Thoughts of Sally’s dilemma slipped into a chorus of his favorite Beatles song. When the chorus was over, he was surprised to hear a voice coming from the shower. It was Sally singing at full force. He laughed at the congruous synchronicity of the song. He sang out loud, harmonizing with Sally’s voice, “The long and winding road that leads me to your door . . . ”

Sally looked out of the bathroom window as she dried herself off with a large, soft, green towel. She noticed the ocean was across the field, a brief jog away. “I know where I am now,” she said. This is the weathered-looking, two-story, apartment complex. I have often walked by here on my way to the more deserted sections of the beach. Funny that I ended up here, she thought. I often visualized getting an apartment here when I finally get my life together.

Sally wasn’t sure how she made it to Ray’s door or what the circumstances were, but she felt a logical explanation was probably forthcoming due to the familiarity of the beach, the apartment building and Ray’s face. That shower really helped, I feel a little more grounded, not so woozy.

Ray glanced up from the newspaper when he heard Sally enter the room. She seemed more composed, more normal looking. Good, he thought, now I can go off to work and she can find her way back to wherever she came from.

Sally braved a cheery hello to Ray. She poured herself some orange juice from the pitcher Ray had obviously left on the table for her thirsty benefit.

“Ray? I would like to thank you for your hospitality. I’m fine now, really.”

Ray smiled and asked politely, “Would you like to talk about what happened to you? I’m a good listener.”

Sally thought about Ray’s offer. She paused for a long sigh and then asked, “Can I stay here for the rest of the day? I want to relax and make sure I have my bearings, perhaps wander the beach. Is it alright with you?”

Ray’s thoughts and feelings were tumbling around, bouncing into each other. Who is this woman? Should I let her stay? He wanted to be rid of her. I shouldn’t throw her out if she still needs help. Darn, there is something so familiar about her, a warmth.

“Yeah, you can stay. If you need any help, call me at the store. I’ll leave you the number.”

“Thanks, Ray. You’ve been so kind. Let me fix dinner for you tonight. I want to thank you in some way for your kindness.”

To Ray’s own surprise, his distrusting, conservative nature decided to abandon him and he said, “No, Sally. Let me take you out to dinner tonight. Do you like Italian food?”

“Yes, Ray,” Sally was mildly surprised. He is sooooo kind and there is a familiarity about him, thought Sally.

Ray looked at his watch. “Well, I got to go, if I’m going to make it on time for work. By the way, there is a spare key near the hanging pot holders. Have a good day.”

“You too, and thanks again, Ray.”

Ray closed the door, humming in playful, sporadic, bursts his old favorite, “The long and winding road . . . ”

Marku reflected on his recent dream cruising. I have to get Sara back, back to Jake where she can easily be controlled. I can feel it, she’s getting help from someone besides her niece, Mary. That young squirt, she can’t have that much personal power.

The organization has been on my back for several weeks, pressing me to get Sara back to the revised TV series. It seems that her character was developing too much integrity. Can’t have that, might give the women of America too many uppity ideas, not to mention a real role model besides a sex kitten or a bitch. Nope, can’t let that happen. Nope. Television is a powerful medium and it must be controlled, watched very closely. Marku laughed at his pun.

If the organization can get control over one woman who is as strong as Sara, it could use her to control thousands of other women, thought Marku. I’ve got to find out more about Mary, to see if she has any real influence over Sara. Maybe it’s time to test that young squirt. She might be useful to me.

Marku sent out waves of hypnotic, invisible threads. The waves were composed of compressed emotions: fear, anticipation, forbidden excitement and promises of power. These waves were spread and clothed in the hot dry winds. He possessed the crows and flies and flew as one of them. The eye of the raven was his hidden viewpoint, from which he stalked Mary.

Another presence was watchful and aware of Marku’s stalk. This presence also wandered through the winds, hoping to find an opening to reach the hearts of many but finding only a few such doorways. This presence yearned to plant the seeds of new possibilities, of hopeful dreams that could sprout into higher impulses of freedom and joy. This presence lived everywhere as well as in the winds and dream streets of every Earth. It was a very real force that paradoxically wandered the dream fields yet always remained above the dreams. It was the Real Force of the impulse to true freedom. A few women had responded to the seed and they were slowly developing. It was a beginning—a most yearned for opening for the shift to love and freedom to be lived. This group of women was getting stronger but Freea knew the dark forces would soon test them. The testing would be severe. There is a great danger in these times-Freea knew that very well. The magical and mysterious, creative expressions of human life were so repressed that mankind and womankind had turned to the unconscious, manipulative use of the magical arts. This perversion of the spiritual arts had been used for centuries to keep women brainwashed into roles of submission and victimization. The feminine principle was dying and the earthly mother had been given a hysterectomy that had left the Earth scarred and barren.

Freea was this Presence given to name and form. She was alive and awake in all dreams, even the dream of a human woman. The awareness that she was, couldn’t be owned or controlled by any man or system. Her purity was an irritation to those that lived and breathed to steal power by keeping others in fear and pain. Freea observed the perversion of power and knew of its terrible consequences. She continued to search through the winds and dreams of others to plant the seeds of freedom.

Marku felt that irritation, but did not know how to find its source. He dismissed it from his mind as unimportant. Yes, his stalk of Mary proved to be very informative. That squirt, he thought, it will be easy to get her under my power and then on to Sara . . .

Sally had stayed on with Ray, one day at a time. The days clumped into weeks. Sally resisted “duty” feelings that commanded her to return to her job at the Madison’s. She wanted to let go completely of that part of her life. I’m through with serving, leaving myself empty. I’m sure I’m easily replaced. The Madisons will find someone else just as capable.

The shock of her birth had pushed her through a corridor that exposed her to selves that were crying for nourishment. The corridor had opened up with the magic of a plain earthly stone and had led her to Ray’s door and heart. Her need for healing and nourishment provided a doorway for Ray to open his heart again.

Ray found himself responding to Sally like a young man full of life, ready and enthusiastic about the coming challenges. How dry my life had become for so many years, thought Ray. How safe I was, like a hibernating animal in the winter. “Springtime is here, come on out old Ray,” he teased himself. His apprehensiveness of Sally’s sanity and her unpredictable intrusion into his complacent life became inconsequential as Ray nourished Sally. He allowed her to do what she needed to do and provided her with the “space” to think and physical sustenance.

Sally wandered the beaches during the day. When evening came, she and Ray engaged in hours of conversation. They talked about their pain, frustrations, anger and disappointments, why they had both settled for so little, so soon, when they had dreams of realizing so much more. The inspirations and convictions of youth were buried due to the lack of real direction and power to resist falling into the stressful pressure of societal conformity.

Sally enjoyed these long conversations. It was the first time in her life anyone had ever encouraged her or even recognized that her feelings and dreams were blueprints that needed to be followed so her real Self could come forth. No one had given me this simple nourishment, thought Sally. No one but Ray. I really trust him with my deeper thoughts and feelings.

Sally remembered the rock and her unusual visionary experience. She was afraid to use it again, afraid of its strange, disorientating power over her. She had hidden the stone in the basket of rocks and shells Ray had stationed by the fireplace. The stone lay in the basket, hidden by the sameness of apparent duplicate rocks. Sally feared the rock’s potential, so the rock rested unnoticed. Its magical dreams or visions remained a secret.

Should I tell Ray about my adventures with the stone? The images of the women throwing the feathers into the bonfire were vivid to her mind’s recall. Perhaps, one day when I’m stronger, less afraid of its magic, I will tell him of the stone. I don’t know if he will understand. It’s all so weird.

“Tonight at eight, I’ll pick you up,” called Lea to Mary as they packed their brushes, paints, and paintings and made their departure from the classroom.

Mary wondered, what will take place tonight? Lea, a woman friend she had met in one of her graduate classes in art had invited her, saying, “It will be most unusual.” Although Lea was an acquaintance of only a month or so, she had provided Mary with a flood of New Age information. Lea had investigated and attended seminars on everything, including psychic healing, tarot card reading, sex therapy, shamanism, and the hidden teachings of Jesus.

“I’ll be ready, see you then,” Mary responded. Brrr, I’m cold, she was shuddering as she packed her art supplies into her car. A raven called to her, "Caw, caw!" It continued to shout at her. When it swooped close to her head, Mary saw its black, shiny eyes gaze into hers. Another shudder went through her body, a flash of recognition hit her solar plexus. Fearful, and with a rush of adrenalin, she drove away.

Marku gleamed. Tonight’s the night, Mary. The actors know their parts and I’m sure you’ll play out your role perfectly.

Marku had transmitted his plan to the organization and they had set him up with more than his average quota of raw force. Owls, crows, hawks, and cats were available for his transmission.

I still don’t understand where that protecting force is emanating from, but it doesn’t matter, thought Marku. It will be too hard for Mary to resist my plan. I have all the information I need on her from my stalk. I know exactly what will push her buttons. Any power that she does have will be fed to me and the organization.

Marku gathered the threads of all the dreams of all those he had managed to hypnotize and control through the dream streets of Earth. I’ll need their crummy thoughts to saturate Mary and confuse her so she won’t be able to distinguish her own feelings and thoughts. Then I can easily manipulate her. It will be easy sailing from there. I can use Mary for my own designs. Sara will be free from her influence, and the organization can direct Sara from then on. I know the organization has big plans for Sara, plans that will further contribute to keeping women in the dream of fear and powerlessness. “Fear is Power." That’s our motto, laughed Marku.

Lea opened the car door for Mary. “How are you tonight?”

Mary smiled fine, and asked of Lea, “What is the meeting about tonight? You mentioned a channeler. Who or what is that?”

Lea, in her typical, fast-talking manner, barely pausing for breaths, chatted to Mary that a being called the Enlightened One channels through a woman named Marsha. She further described how Marsha, an ordinary housewife from New Jersey, gradually became a channel for the entity who calls itself the Enlightened One. Tonight at the meeting Marsha would offer her services as a channel, once again. It was inferred that tonight’s meeting would be a special one because the Enlightened One was going to answer personal questions. Lea had several personal questions that she would like to have the answers to. I hope I have a chance to ask them, she thought.

Mary was quiet and reflective as she listened to Lea’s description of the meeting that would take place in ten minutes. Her thoughts wandered and returned to an experience which had occurred to her earlier in the day. She could still see and feel that crow’s gaze on her. She shivered at the thought, and a wave of new goosebumps popped out on her arms. I can’t shake this coldness, she thought. Mary felt uneasy and drained. I wish I was home taking a hot bath and relaxing.

“This is it," said Lea, "596 Pleasant Street. Oh, great! There’s a parking spot.”

Mary studied the features and structure of the three-story house. She noticed five, over-sized cats resting and stretching on the front porch. A beautiful, stained glass window portraying an owl in flight with a mouse dangling from its beak, hung from the huge picture window in the front.

“The meeting will start in five minutes. Let’s hurry,” Lea urged.

Mary heard excited chatter coming from the living room. A stout, fiftyish, graying-haired woman hugged Lea and said, “Glad you could make it. You and your friend, grab a seat. The meeting is about to begin.”

Mary noticed that the room designated for the meeting was a fairly large living room emptied of the normalcy of the family couch, TV, and overstuffed easy chair. Instead, the room was lined with folding chairs, reminding her of a meeting hall. Most of the seats were already taken and people were chattering nervously. Mary studied the expressions of a group of young women sitting in the front rows. Their faces read sadness and a hopefulness that the meeting would provide them with solutions to their disease of unhappiness. A group of professional-looking couples were giving each other shoulder massages and talking quietly among themselves.

“Mary, find us a couple of seats. I have to go to the bathroom, again. I always have to go to the bathroom," Lea laughed. "I have a weak bladder.”

Mary found two empty seats stationed in the middle of the room and excused herself several times trying to get to them. She placed her denim purse on the vacant seat next to her to save the seat for Lea. She closed her eyes for a brief second. They felt dry. Her contact lenses were irritating them. Mary heard a man’s voice calling, requiring her attention.

“Hello, have you ever been to a meeting of the Enlightened One before? This is my second time. It's absolutely fascinating. My name is Matt, what’s yours?”

“Mary. No, this is my first time.”

Matt held Mary’s hand firmly in his, shook it and said, “Happy to meet you, Mary.”

Mary met Matt’s searching stare. His eyes were a brilliant blue. Those eyes, she thought, they’re so beautiful, so magnetic. I feel so attracted to him.

“Mary, there you are.” Lea stumbled past Matt and sat down on the empty seat next to Mary. “Who’s that older man sitting next to you Mary? He's a hunk.”

Mary had no chance to answer, the meeting was under way. A heavy-set woman, probably Marsha, made her way to a paisley print couch that was placed underneath the stained glass window of the owl, in front of the room. The audience hushed itself.

Marsha was dressed in a silk pant suit that was baby blue in color. She did not speak a word for herself. The voice and mannerisms of the Enlightened One spoke through her immediately.

Mary listened intently. The Enlightened One spoke of the new age of spirituality and of how the Earth was involved and evolving through many important changes. These changes would promote a new spiritualism that would attract the masses into the ways of the Spirit.

Mary tried to suppress several yawns. Hmm. I’m so tired tonight. She kept fighting a compelling desire to fall asleep. I’m so groggy. I can’t hold my eyes open for a second longer. With a long sigh, Mary gave in to her desire for sleep and drifted into dreaming and the dream streets.

The cats that she had seen previously on the front porch were awake on the dream streets. They snarled at her and jumped onto her neck. Despite her frantic attempts to throw them off, they clung there. An owl, repeatedly hooting over and over, dropped mice at her feet. The mice chewed on her shoes.

“I have to get out of here!” she cried. I must not be afraid, it’s only a dream, a part of her echoed. Her terror increased anyway. Collapsing from exhaustive running, Mary rested herself on a bigger than king-sized bed. When she opened her eyes, she saw a man bending over her. It was Matt! He was smiling and laughing in a beckoning, seductive manner. He snapped his fingers and all the creatures of the attack disappeared. Mary relaxed her fear and looked into Matt’s eyes. She felt a sexual longing that was like a powerful current running through an electrical transmission.

“Mary,” Matt called, “I can give you sexual pleasure you never dreamed was even possible. I can give you anything you desire.”

Mary felt the shivers of orgasm. She was shocked back to bodily consciousness. Still groggy, she felt someone nudging her arm and the dream sensations faded away.

“What did you think?” asked Lea.

“Is it over?”

Lea looked at Mary puzzledly, and replied, “No, it’s break time. The question and answer session will be coming up shortly. We’re breaking for snacks and a chance at the watering hole. Hungry?”

Mary nodded yes. “I could go for a snack.”

“There are some delectable snacks in the kitchen. I’ve got to make another run for the bathroom.”

Mary headed into the kitchen, looking for something to satisfy her hunger and clear away her spinning, hungover feeling. She scooped up a few of the chocolate chip cookies.

“Mary, I couldn’t resist the temptation of these chocolate chip cookies either,” Matt laughed as he munched on one. “What do you think of the meeting so far?”

Mary confessed that she had fallen asleep. “I’ve had a long day and I must be tired.”

Matt popped the last bite of cookie into his mouth, rubbed his hands together and placed them on Mary’s shoulders. “Maybe this will help.” He massaged her neck and shoulders with strong movements, pulling and kneading the muscles. “You are so tense. Relax, Mary.”

Mary relaxed and felt a sexual pulling. Her vagina was pulsating. This massage is turning me on more than it’s putting me to sleep, she thought. How nice Matt is. I hope I see him again.

Matt smiled to himself. She’s ready. A ripe berry—ready for the picking!

Marku observed the proceedings. Oh, Enlightened One! . . . What a gig. It’s the best scam I’ve come up with thus far. Feed them some hopeful, smaltzy, psychic lingo and infuse their egos with trash about this so-called New Age and they’re eating out of my hands. Hah! Hah! With mass media and the ability to obtain information on everyone and everyplace, how can they pretend corruption only exists in someone else’s backyard? This ain’t no New Age!, laughed Marku. It’s the same old age of a few power-hungry men controlling the masses!

“What’s new pussycat?", Marku sang. Nope, this isn’t any new age, you silly people. It’s the age of supreme darkness. Why else would the organization be doing so well? Our success is phenomenal! Earth people, your feelings are suppressed and your minds are programmed. That’s why the dream streets are so wild. It’s easy to control people who are so out of touch with their feelings. Earth people pride themselves on their individuality, but they’re all just carbon copies of TV personalities, unable to feel or think their own feelings or thoughts.

Marku looked through Matt’s eyes and saw Matt had completed his assignment. Mary was putty in their hands. How eagerly Matt had agreed to the assignment, thought Marku. He was so greedy for that job offer to go through, the vice president position in New York City. We’ll see if it works out, Matt ‘ole boy. As my apprentice, you still have a long way to go. Keep in touch, Matt. The homework for your next assignment will be due shortly.

Sara put down the phone. Mary had called to cancel another planned weekend together. “I haven’t seen her in over a month. I miss her,” Sara thought out loud. I wonder what is going on with her?

Mary’s excuse for cancelling was that a close friend was moving to New York City. She had wanted to spend some time with him before he moved. What was his name? Oh yeah, it was Matt. I wonder what’s going on between those two?

Sara picked up the letter lying next to the phone. It was from the network, asking her to reconsider coming back. The letter affirmed that she would have the final say with her character.

It seems I have no real impulse to write a book, Sara thought. Maybe I should go back to work, to the show. Sara put down the letter and chose her journal.

“I’ve done lots of writing in you, old friend, she said to her journal, but it’s not a book with plot and characters.” She flipped through the pages of her journal and asked herself, “What did I get out of all this writing? Thoughts, dreams, descriptions of myself. I suppose a story of my own is unfolding but I haven’t been able to decipher any of it, yet. It’s too confusing to myself, let alone be interesting to anyone else.”

Sara’s thoughts turned to Jake, her ex-husband. He had called earlier that morning expressing his concern for her. He had pointed out that it had been five months since her self-imposed exile on the Cape, and asked her out for dinner on her birthday next Friday. Sara had put him off saying she needed time to decide, and that she would call him in a day or two. I could use the relief from myself; maybe I’ll go.

Mary had offered a hope, a possible alternative for awhile. But where is Mary now? Where are my friends? They have all drifted away, one by one, distracted by the events in their own lives . . . and I haven’t actively pursued their contact. I remember the first camping trip with Mary, the strange powerful dreams we had that night. Mary’s dream of the women burning feathers in the bonfire, chanting, “Freedom is the Way." What is freedom, real freedom? wondered Sara. Surely, I am free. I am a successful actress. I have plenty of money and good friends. Surely, that’s enough, that’s freedom. What more could I want?

Sara continued to flip through the pages in her journal. She fell asleep amidst the pages of her thoughts. She dreamed of Jake singing happy birthday to her. He was holding her hands, smiling and singing. A wind blew through, extinguishing the candles on the cake.

“Tonight, I’m going to pop the question!” exclaimed Ray. He had brought home a dozen red roses and a bottle of French champagne.

“Sally," he called out, "I’m home.”

Where is she? Ray searched throughout the small apartment. Her absence disappointed him. She was usually home at this time. Where is she? he wondered. Ray reasoned that Sally’s absence could easily be explained. She had started computer classes a few months ago at his urging. He had noticed how fascinated Sally had been with the computers at the store. He had shown her some basics with his personal computer and Sally had spent many evenings playing with it. Ray suggested classes and offered her the money to go. Sally took Ray up on his offer and decided computers could be the new career she had been looking for.

She's usually home by now, even if she stays after class for awhile. Ray stacked the champagne in a corner of the fridge and put the flowers in a vase on the dresser in the bedroom. To further distract himself from his concern about Sally’s whereabouts, he started to prepare dinner. I’ll make something fancy and surprise her. Oh, do I have a surprise for her!

I can’t believe it! My God, at my age? Sally asked herself, “What will Ray think? I thought I was through with that part of my life. Sally checked her watch—7:49, it blinked. She drove home completely lost in feeling, oblivious to the passing scenery. She drove on automatic pilot. Pregnant at forty-two. Why has this happened to me, now? What should I do? Should I tell Ray? All these questions and their possible answers occupied her.

Dinner was waiting when she arrived. “An exceptionally tasty dinner, Ray. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you liked it. I’ve also bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate a very special occasion. Sal, are you okay? Your face looks white."

“How does he know?” she asked herself.

“This is for you.” Ray slipped a small box wrapped in a card into her lap.

“What’s this?” Sally disentangled the card from the box. Examining the front of the card, Sally saw two swans; a male and a female flying through the clouds. Opening it, she read Ray’s neat, bold handwriting: "WILL YOU MARRY ME?"

Sally was so shocked, tears rolled down and flooded her face. Ray wiped her tears with his dinner napkin. “Open it, Sal,” he said.

Sally’s trembling hands opened the box. Inside was a diamond ring. Holding the ring in her hand, she impulsively slid it on her finger.

Ray smiled. “Sal, does this mean yes?”

“Ray, I love you. I want to be with you.” Flashes of memories from her first marriage and her three fully grown children circled her. She felt dizzy and ran to the bathroom, managing to make it to the toilet just in time to vomit.

Sitting on the toilet, regaining some of her composure, Sally reflected on her situation. This is a fine mess I’m in. The pain of my first marriage; the drudgery; always providing nourishment for others but receiving little for myself; all this came to her conscious notice.

“Are you all right Sally?" Ray asked, standing at the bathroom door. He turned the door knob and entered the bathroom. “Sal, was it too much of a shock for you?” He looked very concerned and hugged her.

Sally stalled for a time by running some tap water and splashing her face with it. Should I tell him? Drying her face hurriedly, she looked directly into Ray’s eyes and said bluntly, “I’m pregnant. I found out today.”

Ray smiled and held Sally in his arms. He whispered into her ear two words, repeating them twice. “I knew, I knew.”

Sally looked into Ray’s eyes with a puzzled expression that asked, how did you know?

In his open palm, Ray held out the stone, the stone of visions, the rock that Sally had hidden amidst the many ordinary rocks in Ray’s basket by the fireplace.

Lea had been working on a painting for the last couple of days, non-stop. Well, it only feels like non-stop because I've been eating, drinking and sleeping this painting, Lea thought. She pushed her long, curly blonde hair from her eyes with the tip of her brush. I’ve never been so excited about a painting, it’s absorbing every fiber of my being.

She stood a few feet back from her easel. Her eyes relaxed and she continued to rest them by gazing at the painted figure. “That woman, I know her somehow,” probed Lea. The painting depicted a woman, a woman who radiated a quality of light, of gentle fierceness, of unexplainable mystery and love.

I’m almost finished, a few more touches. She had painted the picture in a flurry of inspiration. Never before had she painted with such deliberate confidence in her ability, or so quickly. Each stroke was a final one, and the painting emerged into its wholeness. With the completion of the five-pointed white star painted on the woman’s forehead, the painting was finished—its story coming alive in a performance.

Lea balanced herself on the rickety stool and smiled at her work. The eyes of the painted woman sparkled, and Lea was surprised that such a quality of radiance could emerge from a mixture of her paints.

Again, she repeated out loud as a remembering came to the surface, “I know that woman somehow!” Tears of joy, unreasonable happiness, filled her and released her into delight.

Exhausted by the intense effort and emotion, Lea fell asleep among the clutter of her paints and brushes. Her body rested but her mind was active. Her dreaming body felt an electric force pushing to stretch her beyond its borders. The intensification of the force felt dangerous and exhilarating. Brilliant lights engulfed her and her form was pushed through a tunnel of blue light. The tunnel swerved into a curve that opened to a fiery white light. She was on fire with light. The light took the appearance of a five-pointed star which resembled the star she had painted on the forehead of her painted woman. Everything in Lea’s being was stretching to greet and pass into the star.

Suddenly, the stretching, the fiery propulsion of herself into the star subsided. She was face to face with a woman, the woman of her painting. “It’s you! Who are you?,” she cried.

“In this age, I am the woman of freedom. My name is Freea.” Freea's form lost its delineation. She was just light. The light engulfed Lea and its rays warmed and healed her.

“Lea, this is your free form, also. There is only light. Come! Awaken from the world, the dreams of assumed identification with thought. Remember who you are.”

Lea opened her eyes. She felt a clarity she had never even suspected existed before. The world was not solid. It flowed like a river on its final course into the ocean. The bubble of awareness she had called herself, had been temporarily broken. Lea had tasted a freedom so undefinable and complete that she could never be satisfied with conventional views of freedom again. The intense longing to return to the ocean of awareness, to follow the stream back to the Source, was an opening to Lea’s Heart.

Awakening from the dream, (or is this life really a dream?), Lea hugged herself. She looked at her painting exclaiming boldly, "Freea! You are ALIVE! You are the presence of this painting." Lea felt inspired to begin another painting, to capture with a mixture of colors her awakening experience of meeting the Woman of Freedom . . . FREEA . . .

Mary had ditched a whole week of classes. She had wanted to spend all her time with Matt before he moved to New York City to take up his new position as vice president of the Banner Corporation.

I want to be with Matt more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. This must be love, she thought. I think about him all the time. I hope he asks me to move with him, to live with him.

Mary’s previous life, the life she had lived before she met Matt, faded and blew away like a mist disappearing on a hot, dry summer day. She was riding a wave that was building and building. The ecstasy was thrilling and continuous. Her passion for art was drenched, extinguished in the wave of passion she felt for Matt.

Mary’s dreams changed drastically during this time. She no longer visited the circle of women warriors. Her dreams were now filled with sexual escapades with Matt. Her dream sisters tried to call out to her, but their messages were blocked by her strong attraction to the magical allurement of sexual power. The dream connection to her warrior sisters was weakened and cut—that connectiveness had helped her to develop her personal power and strength. She now lived in an isolated world, a world that she thought she was sharing with Matt. In actuality, it was a dream in which she was very much alone.

It wasn’t that Matt didn’t care for Mary. He thought he loved her, but the so-called love was not a real force in his life. It was a decoration, a prop. He was really in love with power. He loved to control and manipulate people. The more people he was able to control, the more he thirsted for power. Under Marku’s apprenticeship, Matt had learned much about power, including the ability to cruise the dream streets and acquire a harem of women willing to do his psychic dirty work. He promised these women sexual fulfillment, but only delivered misinformation and more promises. They helped him to further exploit and control other people for his personal gain on the real/dream streets of Earth. What Matt failed to realize was that, just as he exploited and controlled these women, he, himself, was also being exploited and controlled. The women were hypnotized by a more powerful force: Marku and the organization. It was a vicious circle in which the primary benefactor was always hidden and never revealed or comprehended. Matt was only a puppet, hypnotized by the grand illusion of power.

Matt sensed a power coming from Mary and it was that power which had originally attracted him to her. But, Mary was fast becoming only a reflection of herself and Matt was already growing tired of her. He tried to convince himself that he loved her, that he could love. The arrangements are made, Mary will be moving in with me next week, Matt reasonably projected.

A sea of loneliness engulfed Sara in a self-reflected mood. It was 5:30 a.m. and she was wide awake. Jake was beside her, asleep and snoring gently. Last night, my birthday party . . . what expensive presents Jake gave me. Is that why I spent the night with him? Sara asked herself.

It was pleasant, spending time with Jake again-like putting on an old pair of slippers after a long day of wearing high heels. Here I am, back with Jake and back to the television series. Back to California. Jake had offered her a bedroom in their old house with no strings attached (of course) until she could find her own house or apartment.

What was wrong with the marriage? Why did we break up? Sara re-considered the answers to these questions. Was it because everything had become too dry and boring—old habits of safe, predictable gestures? It was so stifling for me. Making love with Jake again was the same too; predictable and polite like two long-time acquaintances shaking hands. “Am I being selfish to want something more?" Sara asked herself.

She slipped the covers off gently and quietly, tip-toed into the living room, and retrieved her journal from her over-stacked purse. Out of habit and need, she began writing. First she wrote about her surroundings: the impressionistic paintings hanging on the walls, the many hanging plants, and all the colors and smells of the room. Her mind and hand grew tired of the task and her writing danced into funny shapes and forms. The doodle resembled an eye with arrows breaking through the pupil and tears flowing from its lid. Sara wrote by the doodle: I am only crying tears of my own aloneness. Where is the family of my heart? What does that mean? Sara had startled herself with her own cryptic questions. Feeling weary, she rested her head on her arms and drifted into sleep. For a brief moment she saw a man’s face, a face that possessed the most brilliant blue eyes she had ever beheld. Beyond those eyes, she heard laughter and felt afraid.

Lea was in her favorite coffee shop munching on a danish and sipping a cup of coffee. With her notepad in one hand, and the danish in the other, Lea thought of the supplies she needed: another tube of burnt sienna, and all of the primary colors. I’ll need a larger canvas, too, she thought. She hadn’t felt so inspired and excited about painting since her first encounter with it when she was fourteen. "I can’t wait to start my next painting!" Lea exclaimed to herself.

Her thoughts turned to Mary. I’ll invite her over tonight to see my painting. I have a hunch it will mean something to her. Yeah, I’ll call her this evening. I wonder where she has been lately, she hasn’t been in class all week. Maybe she caught the flu that’s going around.

The waiter signaled to her from across the room. He was holding a freshly brewed pot of coffee and was inquiring if she needed a refill. Lea shook her head yes. The waiter nodded and headed towards her table. Looking past him, Lea caught a glimpse of a woman putting her purse down. She was being seated at a small oval table which was close to the waiters’ station.

“Oh, my God!” Lea said out loud. Her heart turned flip flops and her body broke into a heavy sweat. It’s the woman of my painting! Lea sat glued to her chair—her entire body shaking. She tried to breathe deeply to relax herself. She tried not to stare at the woman, but couldn’t draw her attention away. “She’s real, she’s alive!”

The woman, dressed in jeans, a brightly colored T-shirt and leather vest, had noticed Lea right away. She was also excited and happy. “It’s her," she spoke out loud, "My dreaming painter and my friend."

Both women stared at each other from across the room in a moment of wonderous recognition. The dark-haired woman smiled and waved at Lea. Lea gathered her purse and list, making her way to the woman’s table in a slow deliberate manner. Her body just wouldn’t move any faster.

“Lea, my name is Freea. We finally meet.” Freea reached out her hand to meet Lea’s. Lea felt Freea’s firm grasp and managed to stutter, “Hello.”

Then she asked Freea what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of questions. Freea explained in a calm, clear manner.

“Lea, we have been meeting in dream time for many months. Your conscious mind has finally dropped its guard and that allowed you to remember me through the help of directing your dreaming focus by painting the portrait of me. The concentrated effort drew out your memories. The intensity of your emotional experience with the painting and the dream of the true form, made a doorway so we could finally meet today,” Freea explained.

Freea held Lea’s hand. She looked into her eyes and said, “I’m so happy to meet you again, Lea. Today is the beginning of a journey you have been longing for, before your appearance into this body. Are you interested in learning about real freedom? Are you willing to live the life of a woman warrior of Light?"

Lea’s emotions were a whirlwind of contradictions. She didn’t know what to say. Could there be such a way, such a journey for me? Is it real?

“Lea, you won’t know the answers to your questions in a day. We have met today and our friendship will provide us with the adventures and ordeals that one must encounter on the way to becoming real and free.”

Freea could see that Lea was becoming disoriented by the shocking event of their meeting. To pull Lea into a more familiar mode-a mode of conventional gestures-she said, “How about splitting a hot fudge sundae with me? I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

Lea laughed and relaxed. “I would love to, Freea.”

After a lengthy discussion about the rock, Sally and Ray decided to leave it resting among the other rocks and shells in the basket that was kept by the fireplace.

How did the rock work? What was its practical use and function? Sally and Ray were of a conservative nature. The rock frightened them. It represented a risk of intrusion of the unknown into the knowable—their everyday lives. The rock was a contact with the hidden dream currents of life. Should the unknown, the hidden dreams of their hidden selves be allowed to come to the surface? Sally and Ray were both happy that the rock (the unknown) had brought them together. Could its further use propel them into possibilities which were beyond their ability to handle?

Sally loved her new life: being married to Ray, learning about computers, and being pregnant with their child. The rock might only complicate matters. Ray agreed.

From that time on, the rock rested in the basket, its magic camouflaged by the ordinariness of its surroundings. Did its magic exist without the touch of those whose lives it could affect?

Lea dialed Mary’s number. She waited nervously. The phone rang several times. Come on, Mary, answer the phone, Lea thought. I have so much to tell you. Hearing a click and a cessation of the ringing, Lea blurted out, “Hi, Mary!”

“Sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

“What?! What happened to Mary?”

Sara took slow sips from her cup of coffee. Too hot, I hate it when the coffee is boiling hot. Sara placed her mug on the counter and opened her purse. She found her pocket-size scratch pad and felt-tipped pen. She drew doodles of the television set and wrote big bold letters inside the TV cartoon that read: WHAT DO I FEEL ABOUT BEING BACK AT WORK? She wrote about her feelings and doodled facial expressions by the words. She enjoyed the play of giving her feelings to cartoon characters. Turning the pad over, Sara closed her eyes and rested briefly. A weariness settled into her and she drifted into sleep.

Why, that’s me sleeping! Sara exclaimed as she saw herself with her head on the table, relaxed and apparently very much asleep. The experience of being asleep and yet awake, didn’t frighten her. She asked herself, who is this person who is asleep? Who am I now that I’m not the person resting her head on the table? She produced a dream pad and pen and wrote down those questions for further investigative thinking.

What should I do now? she asked herself. Sara visualized Mary’s face and took to flight. She flew above the tree tops, feeling light and free. She burst through the walls of a contemporary apartment. She recognized Mary’s clothes lying on the back of an off-white sofa. Mary was asleep in the arms of an older, very attractive man. That has to be Matt, she thought.

“Yes, it must be Matt!,” a voice called to her. He laughed and asked, “Having a good dream, Aunty Sara?”

Matt was suddenly upon her. He wrapped his arms around her in a forced embrace. He pinned her down on a king sized dream bed. Sara looked into Matt’s eyes. They were glossy, almost vacant. He looks like he is possessed, thought Sara. Possessed by what?

Matt ripped her clothes off and pushed his weight into her. Sara felt his penis pummel the muscles of her vaginal opening. She struggled to push him off her.

“Mary! Mary! Help me!” screamed Sara. Matt covered her mouth with his hand and said, “Mary’s mine. She is under my control, Aunty Sara.” He laughed a long, hideous cackle.

Sara made an abrupt shift in her perception. She was awake. What a dream! Terrible! I was raped by Matt! What a hideous monster. Sara tried to calm herself by telling herself it was only a dream.

Dream or not, she thought, it felt very real. Disgusting! Is Matt really like this?

Sara grabbed her pen and pad. A word was written above her cartoon characters. Odd, I don’t remember writing that. The word cried out to her simply saying: Help!

Mary, Mary, are you all right?

The many threads of control had been broken and Marku had to work double time to reconnect them.

I can’t understand it. What is going on? thought Marku. Someone must be tampering with my dream lines. Who? Where's the leak?

The organization was displeased with the break in control and was pressing him to set up more stalks. The stalk of Mary had proven successful, and now Sara would soon be totally under control. It got her back at the job and she’s living at Jake’s house. It’s just a matter of time and she, too, will be powerless and easily controlled. The organization will have the power to brainwash countless women through the newly-revised TV series, thought Marku. Where is the leak?

Freea watched Marku’s thoughts. “Oh, Marku, don’t you know that you are only a pawn, a victim of the organization? As you control, you are controlled. Marku, there is another way.” Freea’s words echoed through Marku’s dreams. He didn’t notice the subtle Presence that permeated his dreams and his dream scheming. He couldn’t understand that this clear, but undefinable Presence was what he really wanted and sought. It was this Presence that was the Source of all power. He foolishly tried to control the unknown—the Presence—as if it were a known entity susceptible to his manipulations. Marku’s dreams were more important to him than the Source from which they had sprung. Because of his misalignment with the Source of all power, Marku would always be left with an insatiable craving for more and more power.

Freea watched the vicious circles of Marku’s dreamings. She would be the instrument to break his dream circles.

“Marku, we will meet soon," Freea called in a windy whisper, "in a dream time, in a dream place.”