TALKING WITH GOD

Dreamed on February 20, 2013

I am in Toronto, and it feels like I’ve gone back in time. All my children are much younger and I’m with my ex-husband in the blissful days before it all broke apart. We are living in a nice large home with a full back yard. I tell myself this is the life I’ve always dreamed of, but I know something isn’t quite right. My ex asks me to go with him on a date, and we hire a sitter for the children.

We go to a beautiful little mall that looks very Mediterranean, with a lot of wrought iron grill-work, small glass tables and chairs scattered around the bistro, under a beautiful glass dome ceiling. There are numerous plants everywhere, including a variety of ivies that trail into the iron grillwork. This is one of our favourite places; I sit down and adjust my shawl, conscious of the fact that I’m wearing a very pretty purple sundress and a matching wrap. My ex goes off to buy the food, and I continue sitting there, and sit there, and sit there…

The happy feeling I had is now waning, as I realize that I have been abandoned. He is not coming back. I allow that thought to really take hold in me, coming to terms with it before I turn my attention to my children. Instantly, I jump up and run out of the mall, but everything outside has now changed. The neat neighbourhood has been churned under giant bulldozers, and I find it difficult to find a clear path to get to the next street. After some struggle, I manage to do so, but am bewildered – nothing is recognizable to me anymore. I begin to run towards the lights, thinking that once I identify that corner, I’ll know how to get home. Everything is different, and I am totally lost. I’m not even sure if I’m in Toronto anymore, or for that matter, if I’m even on Earth! 

Again, I find my way obstructed by large machinery, and decide since I can’t get around it, I’ll simply have to go over it, and begin to fly. This is not the flights of fancy I’ve had before, where I revel in the freedom of flight – now I’m flying with purpose as solid as my walking had been. From this vantage point, I see nothing I can recognize, but eventually get myself out of the construction zone by asking some workmen for directions. They stare at me in amazement as I hover above them, and even try the stereotypical wolf-whistles and pick-up lines, but eventually tell me what I need to know. I fly in the direction they pointed out. By now, I became at ease with the thought of my children being in the care of the sitter, and know that they will be all right. Somehow this is no longer my concern, although I do not know what my concern really needs to be now. It’s like a whole new empty vista opens up inside me, unexplored and waiting to be entered.

Once I see more habitable streets, I set down and begin walking again. At the next corner, I see a large department store, and go in there. It reminds me of the past Eaton’s store that used to be in downtown Toronto. There is something stately and elegant about that establishment, and I’m surprised to see that it’s decorated in Christmas style, with large wreaths, garlands, and giant glass ornaments everywhere. I simply wander around, and eventually find myself in a small café. Something draws me here and an elderly lady waves me over, and pours me some tea. She says this is the holding area, and we will be called soon. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and simply wait for the next development in this extraordinary experience.

Soon a man calls us over to follow him. He is slender and graceful, his hair and beard are neat and beautiful silver colour, he wears a pair of reading glasses. And he’s dressed like a priest in a black cassock with a white collar. Intrigued, I follow with the rest, and we’re taken to a beautiful museum a few blocks down the street. We’re told to make ourselves at home, and enjoy the exhibits. All our comforts will be provided for. “However,” he warns us, “this is only a temporary way station. Be ready when you are called again.”

I don’t understand any of this, but even though I’m curious, I don’t ask any questions, being content to simply let it all unfold. Someone says that this place is called The Church of Apollo, which causes me to smile to myself. The exhibits are ancient, in perfect condition, and displayed beautifully. I wander around, admiring everything, eventually just floating up to other levels instead of walking up the wide marble staircases, ignoring the stares. At one landing, some four stories up, I see a curious site – a group of children are called one by one, and gently pushed over the edge. There is no panic; indeed, everyone laughs and applauds as this is done. The children are totally unafraid – as they float softly, their clothes change into shimmering white robes edged with gold, and they sprout delicate feathery wings.

I don’t have time to marvel at this for too long, because I now hear my name called, and fly off to where I’m led. I arrive at a destination on the other side of the building, to see the older women there, along with a group of other women who were obviously streetwalkers and strung-out druggies. We’re all invited to a lavish buffet, and the priest again comes out to speak to us. “Oh great!” I think to myself, “We’re in for a sermon on how sinful we all are and how we’ll all be damned to hell for it.” Instead, the priest graciously invites us to eat, and while we do so, he opens a big book and speaks to one of the younger women, listing everything she has done in her short life, both good and bad. As he does so, she sees, truly *sees* her mistakes, how she could have avoided them, what she could have done better, the gifts that she was given but never used. She bursts into tears, and begs forgiveness. The priest gently tells her all is well, she has another chance to make a better life for herself, the suddenly throws her over the rail. Like the children I saw earlier, she transforms. She’s still herself, but is now cleansed of all the harm she has done to herself. She’s able to fly as easily as she can walk, and I smile as she explores her newfound life.

Before the priest does this to anyone else, I walk up to him and start talking. “It’s very interesting, this whole situation,” I say to him, “There are heavy churchy overtones to these entire proceedings, and yet we stand in a place called ‘The Church of Apollo’, an ancient Greek God.” I walk to one of the exhibits and point to it. “I’m not at all surprised to see an authentic Roman lorica (Roman armour made of boiled leather) here, although now we’re mixing cultures here. I’m also sure that your book there will tell you that I’m not Christian but Pagan.” Suddenly, I feel very old, my true age, as though I aged some forty years in a few minutes. “My back hurts,” I say changing the subject, “I need to sit down.” I pull up a chair in front of the priest and sit down. “So, what is my judgement going to be, and who the hell gave you the authority to do this in the first place?”

The priest now subtly changes, and I realize I may have overstepped my bounds. “Ooops,” I think to myself, wondering how I can backpedal my way out of this. He laughs – a genuine, hearty, utterly open laugh and says, “I think I better sit down too – my own age seems to overtake me at the moments I least expect it”. We continue to talk for a few minutes, now completely at ease. The Light from his face and being goes mostly unnoticed by every one else, but I now know that I am in the presence of God, in all His forms – Apollo included!