Our dreams β¨ reveal to us, our deepest unspoken beliefs.
And our beliefs determine our reality.
And when I use the word “beliefs” I’m not referring to “faith” or “religion”, I’m talking about what we believe to be true about who we are and how we are and what we can.
β ποΈ π
This morning π as Zuko and I sip our first cup of deliciously brewed coffee, she asks me: “So, did you dream?”
We have a morning ritual – one which fills my life and starts my days with pristine pleasure: we wake, share a cup of coffee, read together from a book we both love, discuss what we read and then we spend time experiencing our meditation π§practice, together.
To do all of that, we usually wake just after 5 and start facing our day, just before 8, but today is Sunday and sometimes on a Sunday we π€ sleep in a little bit, so this morning it is already after 7 when she asks me the question, while we’re sipping our first black π€ β¨ magic β.
“Did you dream?”
“No”, comes my answer π quickly.
And then, “oh, wait! Yes!” π
And my dreams start flooding back to conscious memory.
“I dreamt of when I was in the Navy.”
I was 18.
It was the days of conscription.
I asked for and got drafted to the Navy.
It was 1990.
In South Africa πΏπ¦π it was a year of immense change.
When I reported for duty I was living in the Old Apartheid South Africa, with FW de Klerk as President.
When I came out of “basics” or “basic training”, Nelson Mandela had been released from prison and a New South Africa πΏπ¦ had started coming into reality.
1990.
33 years ago.
“Why did I dream of that?”, I wonder.
Yesterday was my Dad’s 82nd birthday π₯³.
His first, alone, since my mom passed away, a mere few weeks ago β οΈ β±οΈ.
On Friday he came to visit us at our home π‘ on the outskirts of the city ποΈ.
Late afternoon.
He brought Debonair’s Pizza π and Coca-Cola π₯€ to a family that does not eat any bread π₯ͺπ or gluten π€’ or sugar or sugary foods, who follow a Ketogenic Lifestyle and make great effort to source clean raw food, since 2018.
Since our Zuko had been diagnosed with breast cancer and lead us to a wonderful new way of life, which is healthier β€οΈβπ©Ήπ« and promotes healing.
He does not know us, who we are … or perhaps he knows, but does not understand π€ or maybe he does know, but does not respect or does not know what to make of it?
I’m not quite sure which is the worst or the best.
My son and I say a silent prayer π€² and eat the pizza π with him (Sunday to Tuesday I’ll do a fast and cleanse my system and get back to ketosis), in kindness, we compliment him on his choice and how delicious the pizza π is.
My children πΈπ« are terribly kind.
I learn from them about unconditional love and regardless kindness.
When they were little π―π΄οΈ my parents decided to cut all ties with me and them (my son and daughters, who were 3, 4 and 6 at the time) and for the best part of 17 years (the last 10 of which we were in China) they (my parents) did not have any contact with me and us.
No phone calls π±.
No shared Christmas ππ.
No “how are you doing?” or “what is happening in your life?”
No interest.
As if we and they do not exist.
I can see where it affected and affects my children, the wounds of betrayal, shame and abandonment it left in their be-ing, and when Zuko and I meditate π« and pray π€²π€² π€² and reach for our own wellness π§ π¬οΈ and wholeness, we invite for them (our son and daughters) as well, that wholeness and wellness and healing and health will be.
My children πΈπ« are terribly kind.
Yesterday, Zuko and I took gifts ππ π· to my Dad’s home π’.
I worked π» π§ from 10 to 3, so it was late afternoon when we arrived at the Old Age Home where he and my mom settled, after she had a stroke, in 2016.
We’re his only visitors for the day.
He’s had some calls π but Zuko and I are the only ones who came to his home π’ and brought him some gifts π and shared a cup of coffee β and a slice of π° π₯§ gluten loaded and processed sugar filled pie and milktart, which he optimistically purchased from the nearby home-industry bakery π₯― in the hope and anticipation that someone might come over to celebrate π₯³ and congratulate him.
How terribly sad.
We spend an hour or so with him.
We talk.
He does not know me π the “me” of now, or my Zuko ππ« of now, or my children πΈπ« of now …
So we talk about then ποΈ.
About a “he” and a “me” that existed “before”.
Who was incarnated in 1971 and reincarnated again and again in 1976 and 1981 and 1990.
A “me” who is no more?
“Perhaps this is why I dreamt of my time in the Navy?”, I say to Zuko as she encourages me to tell her my dreams.
“I’m sitting in an office with an officer.”
“I’m 18.”
“I’ve been drafted to go to officer’s school, to become an Ensign βπ’ in the South African Navy.”
“I’ve declined the offer and the officer across from me wants to know why?”
“I give him many reasons, except the real one.”
“I am afraid.”
“Deep inside my be-ing I do not believe that I have the ability to face the physical challenges that I will need to face, in order to complete this training.”
“Then I’m standing in my parents’ home π‘ in Kenton-on-Sea.”
“I’m maybe 15 or 16.”
“I have a sense of being 𧩠puzzled π§.”
“I’m looking at family pictures πΈπΌοΈ up on the wall.”
“I can’t understand why I thought that I was fat and clumsy and physically less capable?”
“The boy in the picture πΈ is beautiful.”
“He is lean.”
“Then we’re on the beach ποΈ somewhere between the blue pool and the Kariega River Mouth, with huge dunes to our left.”
“We’re playing β±οΈ ππmaybe we were playing catch or chasing each other? I’m not sure, but my brothers are there.”
“They’re calling me.”
“Come on Oros Man! Can’t you go faster?”
“Don’t complement him!” shouts the other. “He’s the Michelin Man! Maybe if you roll, you’ll be faster?” And then laughter.
“Our beliefs are created, when we are little, and they influence how we see our place in this world.” I say to Zuko as we’re getting ready to get up and get ready to go see the circus πͺ a little later, with our girls.
“Perhaps our dreams β¨ help us remember?” Zuko speculates.
Mario Martinez, in his book π The Mind Body Code, speaks of cultural-editors: people with whom we share our life, who edits or influences the way we see our self, and what we believe about who we are and what we are worth.
“I am beautiful,” I say.
“I am young and strong and lean and beautiful.”
“I am worthy.”
“Worthy to be known.”
“Worthy to have been known, in all the moments πΌthat brought me to this moment πΌ.”
“I am worthy to be known in this moment.”
“I am worthy to be seen.”
“I am worthy to be heard.”
“I am worthy to be felt and experienced and enjoyed and to learn and be learned from and to enjoy and experience π and reincarnate again, anew, as the most wonderful expression of “me”.”
“I think π€ that’s what my dreams, my subconscious, my incarnation ππ€² is trying to tell me?” I say to Zuko as we make our bed and head to the kitchen to get some breakfast π³.
“That”, Zuko thinks alongside me, “and perhaps that fear is the opposite of love?”
“Fear comes from the lies that were planted in our be-ing.”
“Intentionally, or unintentionally.”
“Through malice, or just from the loss and pain and trauma that our editors carry in themselves, from when they were just incarnated for the very first time.”
“Incarnated”, I say the word and feel its texture in my mouth.
“I was beautifully and wonderfully incarnated.”
“I am.”
“I am beautifully and wonderfully incarnated, reincarnated, now.”
“Here.”
“In this moment.”
“I love me and as I spend my time, I will need to create reminders that I am not what I was told.”
“I am me.”
“And there is no need or place for fear.”
“For fear robs us.”
“Of us.”
“And our beliefs, wether they are filled with fear or love, create our reality.”
And I go to wash my self.
Shave.
And remake my beard with all its beads.
And remind myself of the faith which my little self has always kept: you are worthy
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