Love and Death

What moves on and what continues? We are in a season of finding out.

Leo season can be about what is larger than life, center-stage, and glowing. Love is like that.

I dreamed of mountains and a wide river this morning. Races were being run, heights attained, and I? I chose to paddle, to row, actually. As in many dreams, the logistics made little sense, but there I was, rowing single scull down a river that looked remarkably like the Isis, in Oxfordshire, but was situated high in mountainous territory that reminded me of the Twin Lakes of Mammoth Lakes, California. Funny how what we love shows up in our dreams.

In this dream, I was not a participant in the races or climbs or crowds, but had assisted people in getting there, in arriving at this pristine destination. The next thing I knew, I was rowing down this river, which, conveniently, as is the way of dreams, flowed easily in whatever direction I might choose. No fighting against the current this time! It felt exhilarating to reach and pull and move with the course of the river.

I noticed my large grey suitcase named “Heffalump” sitting in tall grass high on the left side of the riverbank. She looked empty and was only partially zipped up, but had clearly been left where she was for me to see. Impossible to reach from my boat, as the banks were high, I wondered how my friend had gotten there and how I might reach her. We have traveled far, she and I. Un contenedor maravilloso, she was configured exactly as I might have wished, given the opportunity.

Two strokes of my oars, and Heffalump was left behind with psychic notes attached that she was ‘claimed’ and would be retrieved at the appropriate time. Soon after, I reached the end of the river, or of the section that could be navigated in my boat, anyway. I turned around and began the trip back to the launch site. It felt so good to reach and stretch after sitting still for so long. I ended up at my starting point in a completely euphoric state, leaving boat, oars, and gear for someone else to borrow.

It was then that I noticed the boat had changed from a single scull to a blue and white dinghy with smaller oars, similar to one my family owned when I was a child. How could that be? Shaking my head, body and I stepped out of the dream for a quick jaunt to the loo. I did not want to lose any information from that dream, but nature called and I knew from experience that I could re-enter the dream at any point.

Wondering at the shift in boats and circumstances, I recalled that semi-lucid dreaming often contains a mixture of metaphor and memory. A montage of favorite memories of that little dinghy flowed through my dream-state. Was this the next chapter? I know I miss being around water, but what is the little dinghy telling me? I lapsed into memory.

A large, fully-stocked pond graced the front of a childhood home and had been the site of many fishing, swimming, ice skating, and other adventures. In the between state that lies on the borders of physical waking and sleeping, I was shown memories of being a tween, rowing the dinghy out to the floating dock in the middle of the pond so I could sunbathe and dream in private. Then, one particularly mischief-filled summer night of frog-hunting arose.

Friends of the family were in town, one of whose boys was my first-ever love crush. Our families were longtime friends, and the four parentals had gone out for the evening. We, the youngsters, were left to our own devices under the supervision of my friend’s older sister, whose nose was buried in a book. The bullfrogs that lived and bred in the pond were in full voice. Their deep, throaty croaks filled the night air.

“Let’s go catch some frogs!” he stage whispered across the room. “What?” Use the boat at night? That would never have been allowed. His eyes gleamed as he contemplated the adventure. The two of us had grown up together, so I trusted my friend completely. Out we snuck, shushing each other every few steps of the way. We quietly launched the boat and climbed in. “You row,” my friend commanded, pulling a large cotton bag and a flashlight from his jacket pockets. “Why? This was your idea. You row! Besides, I don’t know what we’re doing!” He shone the flashlight in my face, laughing. “You want to catch the frogs and put them in the boat?” I didn’t, really, not because their wet sliminess bothered me, but because I didn’t want to bother them, really. They were just doing what they did, being what they were.

‘Oh, okay, I’ll row.” I moved to the center of the boat, balanced the oars, and began to pull. “Where are we going?” I asked my fellow conspirator. “Sshh, they’ll start up again if we’re quiet,” he said. I realized that the pond had gone silent while we got settled. Then, the full-throated chorus resumed. “Over here! This way!” my friend whispered. “Closer now!” I angled the dinghy close in to the cattails that lined the pond’s bank. “Gotcha!” Then a frog the size of a toaster landed on the floor of the boat. Really?

“Hey! It’s jumping all over the place!” I yelled. “I’ll bag ‘em later,” he replied. “The sides are too high for them to jump out.” At that point, I wanted to toss the poor frog out of the boat myself, but I persevered at the oars as my friend directed, as he captured frog after frog. This was supposed to be fun? My friend was gleeful in pursuit, but I was sitting among a wriggling, jumping mess of half a dozen slimy frogs who only wanted to be free. Did I really have a crush on this guy? I was no longer sure. What were we going to do with them once they were all caught and bagged? Was this fair?

Finally, the croaking chorus ceased completely, and my friend began catching the frogs from the bottom of the boat. One by one, he put them into the big cotton bag he’d brought with us and tied the top closed. It was funny when the bag began to move around the boat, but I felt sorry for the frogs inside. And, one of my school book bags was now ruined. Great. “What are you going to do with them now?” I complained. “Take them inside and dump them in my sister’s lap!” he laughed. That was enough. I whapped him on the shoulder with an oar.

“No way!” I shouted. I didn’t care who heard. “Are you crazy? Mum will kill us if you bring frogs into the house!”

“How will she know unless you tell her?” he smirked. “My sister won’t say anything. They’ll blame her for letting us out.” He had a point. Always into frogs, snakes, and the like, he had probably done this kind of thing before, and she wouldn’t want to get into trouble. The idea was hilarious, but I wasn’t willing to dare the consequences.

“No!” I grabbed the bag from him, emptying it into the reeds. “There! Now let’s go in.” He looked up at me, laughing, his braces gleaming in the flashlight’s glare.

“It was fun, though, wasn’t it?” he grinned. Being out on the water at night, when it wasn’t allowed? Yes, it was. I couldn’t help but grin back. It wasn’t until two years later that we finally kissed, but that’s another story. We had known one another all our lives. We were close, but very different people. Together was never meant to be.

Time and life went on. He and I grew up, grew apart, stopped writing to one another, and led very different lives. Then, one day about two years ago, my friend came into my dreams. He wanted to tell me something, but I couldn’t quite catch the message. It felt as if it came from very far away. On an impulse from Source, I googled him. There was the obituary. It was quite recent. My friend, who shared the same birthday as mine, had left the planet. He was two years older, which fact he never let me forget. Why had he come to me in dreaming? What had he wanted to tell me? Was it only “Goodbye?”

He had been married years ago to a mutual friend. I was happy they were together and wrote to her to convey my condolences and my love. Love. That was it. He had come to say “I love you.” Had I loved him? Was he really my first-ever personal kind of love? Absolutely. There was no denying the heart opening or the grief. And yet, the mix of tears and joy was undeniable. So often we confuse joy with grief. So often they arrive together in love’s waves of our becoming.

As I remembered my friend this morning, I also recalled the “Heffalump,” left high on the riverbank in my dream. Old baggage? She sits in my closet, still. Have I closeted something that now wants out? Was that the connection? Can love ever be called baggage, even seen from the perspective of physical death? When one reality ends, another begins. We are left with reminders, only.

Love is what matters. Loving connection is what remains, no matter what else occurs. How lucky we are when our hearts are opened, and how blessed.

What a wondrous way to start today, as many realities drop away.