Poem For A Friend . . .

I’ve been helping a very dear friend of mine through the emotional trauma of child abuse. Not professionally of course, just as a supportive ear and as a kindred spirit who experienced his own share of abuse and subsequent healing. Her experiences have touched me deeply and I needed to write about them, if for no other reason than to try to purge myself of her suffering. The following poem is strong coffee and I caution readers who have suffered sexual abuse as children, that they may not want to read on. I’ve tried to be as gentle as I can with this horrific subject, but it is not easy to write about.

Once White

Time does not march on
it slides through fingers like sand
Slips out of pockets like a lost key
and leaves behind a trail of dust called memory
Within which one can become ensnared

The bedroom door creaks open, again
Much too late for a child your age
And that certain but unwelcome light
touches your nightclothes
and places not ready for light

A familiar footfall echoes
the promise of more attention
than you could ever dream of
even in your nightmares
and too much weight for
your tiny soul to bear

You cast yourself a lifeline of
Mother Goose rhymes
to make time go fast
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the king’s horses . . .
You’re dying

No mother to speak of
No mother to save you
She lost her mind along
the road to hell
before you were born
Sold her soul
to keep from going mad altogether
and placed her heart on the alter
to the God of fear

And then one day
you watched your life pour
out of her wrists and pool
upon the kitchen floor
The day life became too sharp
and stayed that way

Why she lived is hard to understand
though a child's love is boundless
But no amount of soap can
wash away the stains
And still you bleed
still you bleed
you bleed
bleed
bleed
bleed

And so you've thrown up stone and steel
An impenetrable fortress
to keep you safe from love
while the muffled cries of your
banished heart go unheard
And locked the door you did
indeed for all eternity
Meanwhile, your life has slipped
through your fingers like sand
and out of your pockets
like a lost key

But the promise of
forgiveness waits for you

by dennis tkon Copyright 2006

I Dreamed A Thousand Lifetimes

My becoming is upon me. Still so far to travel, but no doubt I’ve climbed in earnest. The horizon falls away more quickly now. Mostly rooftops and wisps of chimney smoke. And as the season of Christ’s birth stretches into full bloom, my wings likewise fill with the breath of life and become dry. The sky, so much more inviting. No fear of God at all.

I Dreamed A Thousand Lifetimes

I dreamed a thousand
lifetimes in becoming
Saw my reflection
drink from a thousand pools
deep and dark

And thought I’d never see
my kite again. But it
did not return to me
The wind claimed
so much more

Wearied, who should
but pause to drink
the night and gulp
the vastness of these
questions; a serious
remedy for soul
in search of

Stars; liquid reverie,
pools of genius so
enlightened; Your banquet
of amazement
Untouched by hands
in need of washing

So I rise to meet you
Set aside my demands
and touch your face
with eyes closed
familiar curves, a
distant memory from
a thousand lives before
Drink sweet water
from your hands
and remember

by Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: Anima

Anima

I remember it like my name
You stepped into my life
Just stepped in
And changed gravity

Your lips moved through introductions
But the buzzing in my brain
Kept your name a secret

There were no flowers to give you
So I shook your hand instead
Perhaps a moment too long
And the world disappeared

What passed for a floor was now air
Which I could no more walk upon
Than breathe
What passed for my life was now a wound
Which required you

In time you came to love me
With flames that would consume most men
And like the phoenix I was reborn
Each time in your arms

You breathed for me

I loved you desperately from within
The cage that held my heart
As I groped madly for the key
But a malady of faith kept my
Fingers curled tightly around iron bars
Cold and unforgiving

But love like this knows no end
And my flesh burns still
Though without you to cool me
And my heart asks why
Rhetorically

By dennis tkon copyright 2006

Ahem . . . Me me me me me!

I’ve never even heard of a meme before Monday, let alone completed one. Though I used to interrupt the silence between myself and my girlfriend with two-word lists I would challenge her with – expecting her to pick one of the two words presented. From her answer, I hoped to learn something novel about her. I’d say apropos of nothing, “Linen or Satin?” or “Lemon or Peach? or “Poem or Rose” or “Candle or Ice cube?” She’d protest and say, “Candle what? Ice cube why an ice cube?” I’d always respond the same way, monotone and firm. “Choose!” And she always would. We loved that game. Meme’s remind me of that and of her.

1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was … Jack be Nimble. I was two or three. My dad would recite it incorrectly in order to get a laugh – like this: Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jumped over the candlestick and burned his diddle! We’d laugh uncontrollably and repeat it over and over together. He usually gave me the chance to yell DIDDLE at the appropriate point in the rhyme. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize it wasn’t called a diddle until about 6th grade. We’ll save that discussion for another day.

2. I was forced to memorize paragraphs of Shakespear in school (8th grade) and just fell in love with his form and formula. I think Shakespear taught me to love words with double meanings. He was the master of double meanings. “Tis not so deep as a well, nor as wide as a church door, but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow and you will find me a grave man!” Brilliant.

3. I read poetry because I’m not dead yet! Seriously, I read it because when I find a good verse, stanza, line, metaphor, or poetic idea, I’m both transformed and transported. It takes me places I can’t get to with an SUV or a rope. If people were eggs and we received a good crack, poetry is what would run out of us for sure! Poetry is just a vehicle that lets us experience what’s inside without a sharp blow from a garden tool.

4. A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is . . . Jack be Nimble – just kidding. I think my favorite poem is Believe me if all Those Endearing Young Charms by Thomas Moore. It’s just an absolutely perfect poem of love. I hate that it was made into a song. It’s so much better when simply read. My favorite line: “and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still.” Another poem I absolutely love is called A Summer of Flies by Armin Tolentino. It gives me chills in the most delightful way. Here it is:

I clearly remember a summer of flies,

humid with buzzing, shimmering green.

A swarm in the garden perched on the rough

skin of the cantaloupes, split, spilling seeds.

This was in August. My grandfather died

three months before, his face in the soil,

a halo of sweat, dirt stuck to his eyes.

The melons grew fat, ripened, then spoiled.

Next summer I planted packets of mint

to help me forget the smell of the rot.

July brought no rain, the Earth dried to flint.

The melons grew back, though tiny like dots.

As I grew older, I neglected the garden.

The seeds below slept as the Earth above hardened.

(That’s one damn good poem if I must say so myself!)

5. I write poetry, but for the most part its an insult to what really passes for poetry. I have no formal training/education in writing, just passion. And so I continue to stumble in metaphors.

6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature. And that’s mostly because I read poetry in secret, hiding from everyone so they won’t see me cry as I experience unimaginable beauty and spirituality. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll cry over a good story, but it can take days for me to recover from poetry that moves me to tears.

7. I find poetry in the American Heritage Dictionary between the words “Poet Laureate” and “pogonia” (which is any of various small terrestrial orchids of the genus Pogonia).

8. The last time I heard poetry was last Friday when I listened to Dogfaceboy’s recording of “Jimmy” on her website, which by the way, is a very cool poem! Clearly, my preference is to read poetry to myself. Whether or not you agree, 87% of all information communicated is non-verbal. Which means when we listen to a poet read a poem, we get all of their interpretation, mood, tone, affect, etc. For me, experiencing poetry is deeply personal and I find that hearing someone else read it interferes with my own experience. So, when it comes to poetry, I’m a loner.

9. I think poetry is just another name for all of those drugs I consumed in college – which bent my perspective in the most delicious way, leaving me hungry for more, the moment the trip was over. It’s so simple now – words just get me high.

Inspiration of Unknown Origin

Night 12.03.06

Sapphire clouds
Hypnotic moon
I am mirrored in brilliant reflection
Helpless as I am to the breathless sky

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: If These Walls Could Talk . . .

My therapist told me today that I’m in the midst of a “spiritual realignment” -- that I’m shifting. Sounds to me like car trouble on the journey towards enlightenment! For me, all meaning in life came from the external world, but now all meaning seems to be coming from my experience of my inner-life. As a consequence, I now hate my job – or at least it seems that way, because it has nothing to do with my journey. My job used to blow my hair back on a regular basis. Now it just blows on a regular basis. I’m happy that much of what used to be important to me is no longer important. But I’m struggling with myself as this shift occurs. This week’s prompt got me thinking about how much time I’ve wasted in the pursuit of a career that I once thought was noble and worthwhile. Now I just feel stupid. My therapist says, “Be patient. All will be revealed in time.” Ok. I’ll wait. In the meantime, I write . . .

If these walls could talk . . .

If these walls could talk
They would wait, like painted soldiers
Stoically, at attention
Hep – Hut!
Bravely adorned with art hung on nails
A bizarre crucifixion indeed
Bearing witness to their own silent scream

Sixteen years in quiet reconnoiter
These walls
Observing and patient
The lonely march of a career
If they could talk
Swollen with secrets
A life caged within and spent
Like a thunderous cannon charge
Though only more slowly
A skein of yarn
Snagged on life’s momentum
Unraveled and shapeless as air

Oh, to witness the body of life’s work
The measure of a man, Ha!
Frenetic and pulsing
Yet another day discarded
The hollow clank of the refuse bin
Marking the passage of time
Like a galvanized metronome
Alas the canvas is blank
Wiped clean each day by the cloth
Of the unlived life

If these walls could talk
If these walls could talk
A great and urgent cry
Would pierce the darkness
An audible beacon of hope
Take flight!
Discard this mortal theme
And ascend my brother

Ascend!

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: Flicker

Holidays are great! So much free time to ponder the imponderables of life! One of my favorite things to do is go exploring. My favorite place to dig is in my memory. I’ve been digging around a lot lately and found a cache of old poetry buried in a secret place. I unearthed this old poem and blew the dust off it and gave it a good scrubbing. I think I’ll just hang it here to let it dry for a while before I put it away again for safe keeping.

Flicker

Beauty’s secret, revealed in the half-light of a candle’s glow
The last sip drained from lovers’ cups
An essence
The fragrance of flowers
Violets, Gardenias, Rose petals, Babies Breath
Intoxicating flavors, soothing to the lips
Love’s potion
Love’s poison
Immersed
Surrounded
Gloriously drowned

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: Hope To Die

This is something I wrote many years ago. I guess it was true then, but now its mostly a lie.

Hope to Die

Fingers crossed behind my back I swear this is the truth!
I sharpened my deceptive skills against a stone cold youth.
Trying merely to survive.
As young as four (but I’ll say five!)
If only they had heard my cries.
And so, I swear I had to lie.
Cross my heart and hope to die.
I love the thought of suicide.

by Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Munch Ado About Noshing

If you read this blog, then you’re aware that I have food issues. Not plural, just one – I eat when I’m highly stressed and lately, that’s most of the time. I wanted to talk to my therapist about it this morning, but I had an amazing dream last night, and dream work takes precedence over everything, so we didn’t talk about donuts. Instead, we talked about my dream, in which I was required to cry all of my tears into a cup and then somehow, the depth of my tears would be the ultimate measure of my soul. No, really! It seems bizarre that I can be undergoing this phenomenal spiritual transformation, and tap into the limitless power of the Universe, but remain helpless to a box of donuts.

My last post featured my Ego – Center Stage! It thinks I’m trying to kill it with all of my Consciousness work and it acts up like a three-year old regularly. I try very hard to keep my ego in check, because if I don’t, it shames me. Robin ( r’s-musings) suggested in her comment to an earlier post that she tries to follow this motto “What we resist persists.” Recognizing the brilliance in her suggestion, I thought I’d give it a try. I’d been trying to stuff my ego in a box over the last few weeks without success, and its been making me depressed. So I decided to hand the pen to my ego. It worked! I wrote a completely self-centered poem and discharged all of the excess ego energy that needed to get out. I felt like a million bucks after that (thank you Robin!) and my ego has been behaving nicely ever since.

Back to the eating . . . I figured if it worked for my inner-child, why not for my inner-glutton? So I wrote a powerful poem motivated by the energy usually reserved for eating. Again, it felt very good to get all of this on paper and I feel adequately discharged (again, thank you Robin!!) I haven’t eaten any crap yet today and I don’t feel the urge to either. Perhaps we’ve discovered a new form of therapy!!! By the way, I’m not really a glutton and to look at me, you wouldn’t know I have an eating issue – but God! It sure feels that way, especially when it gets out of control. (<---- My ego made me tell you this.) The poem isn’t factual, but it captures what it feels like to be me when I’m activated around food. Mostly, I’m feeling a lot of gratitude today – it’s a relief to feel relief.

Dr. Seuss on a Sugar Bender

Sugar is my enemy
Although it sort of grows on me
My stomach disproportionately
To what my waist size ought to be

Ate six donuts in one day
How much more now do I weigh
Contributing to tooth decay
I wish there was a thinner way

How much crap can one guy eat
And did I really need that treat
Surrendering to every sweet
Goddamn! I really miss my feet

The snacks that I should most eschew
I seem to buy and bite and chew
I’ll eat the paper package too
And then the bag before I’m through

My hunger to be un-unique
Has put me up that well known creek
Alas my boat has sprung a leak
That’s what I get for being weak

My cat waits by my feet for crumbs
As I consume tremendous sums
I push the food beyond my gums
With filthy-food-encrusted thumbs

Spaghetti-O’s a bag of fries
The promises to me all lies
A week’s worth full of useless tries
The ride to work and two more pies

I drive my car to foreign towns
Hit bakeries and make the rounds
My secret life of pie and pounds
Alone with just the chewing sounds

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

It’s All About Me!

I’ve often struggled writing poetry (and prose) because my ego gets in the way. My inner critic blocks the creative flow and micro-analyses the placement of every letter. However, I’ve found that the ego is an indispensable component of any quality writing. The ego picks up the pen and sets the time aside and the self eventually reveals itself, often in the most beautiful way. The secret is to find the proper balance between ego and self, for it is not possible to write with one and not the other. Truly it is a love-hate relationship but a necessary duet.

Sometimes, the best thing we can do is just let the ego hold the pen and have at it. My ego has been a royal pain in the ass lately. So I thought I’d let my “self” sit this one out and see just what my ego had to say, if given his own voice. The results were surprising and can be viewed below.

“There is no greater Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter oneself into an idea of being a great poet.”

—Keats

“Another and unexpected development in modern poetry is that writing the damned stuff is now often more popular than reading it. Poetry has become the favorite nostrum or therapy in this narcissistic age. I have looked into the matter carefully and can report that there are now 2,578,000 more poets in the United States, Argentina, and the Western Isles of Scotland than there were thirty-five years ago.”

—Alfred Kazin


For a wonderful treatment of the above subject, and a thoroughly enjoyable review of what’s wrong with poetry today, may I suggest you read the Worden Report.


Here’s my ego-laden poem – It’s a fun jab at myself, but believe me, I very much needed to say this! All I can say now is that after I wrote this, I feel so much more honest.

It's All About Me!

I am an egomaniac
my “I” did say to me
Admiring every syllable
In blissful reverie

My opinion, this night’s headline news
supplants the cataclysmic
Of course! But what would
you expect from one so narcissistic?

Arise the Sun! Be still the Moon!
The Earth turns as I say
The stars dance ‘cross the heavens
In my grand celestial play

My inventions go un-patented
No fear of duplication
Nor can I spare a moment
out of my self-adoration

I needn’t say I love you
For such words are insincere
Besides we both know who among us
I do hold most dear

Excuse my lack of humbleness
Humility, resignation
But apparently I suffer from
An ego-sized inflation

Be gone all those who criticize
I will not be diminished!
By now I guess you’ve figured out
my therapy’s not finished

By Dennis Tkon Copywrite 2006

Memories

Personal Inventory

I unscrewed the top of my head today
Just for fun
Placed my dome carefully on the table
For later
Fished around with a tiny teaspoon
Carefully
You wouldn’t believe what I found in there
Hiding
My first dog’s name
A linoleum floor I don’t recognize
The one egg my dad ever cooked for me
The textured pattern of my grandmother’s carpet
A garden where dead things grew
The incident with the crutch
The window I broke and lied about
And things too horrible to admit
I screwed the top of my head back on
For good

By Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: Once Trodden

Dash, a crimson rose once trodden
Underneath a foot path worn
Quickly loves first kiss forgotten
For this love though do not mourn

Eyes now open light first seeing
Skies of teal, so heather blue
Turn the page on love now fleeting
Look back not lest you review

Come upon the broken hearted
Coiled up where love once sprung
Bonds that joined now long since parted
Echoes faintly love’s bell rung

Do in time think to remember
Chance perhaps will come along
Soft still glowing loves red ember
Dash a crimson rose love song

by Dennis Tkon Copyright 2006

The Price of Ignorance

Our bookkeeper fashions pretzels with chocolate and sells two-dollar bags to raise money for her church. And I eat them in quantities that is, for sure, an affront to God. Yesterday it was cookies. The shame I feel outweighs the sheer quantity of food I take in. I’m not overweight yet. But as each pound returns, it deftly wipes its pudgy feet on the welcome mat and slams the door with such finality, there’s no doubt it’s here to stay.

Why not just one donut? Was it necessary to eat two this morning on my way to therapy, after I had promised myself that I would behave starting today? It was a new week God damn it! One would have been plenty – but two brought me closer . . .

I close my eyes and breathe in slowly through my nose and hold my breath – remembering the rush, the slow descent, the tide of calm rising within me, carrying me away from this godforsaken place as the drugs fulfill their intended purpose – their only purpose. I let the air in my lungs grow stale. My cells innocently protesting this unexpected deprivation. I let the feeling mature – it delivers its own pseudo-high. Again I crave more. Closer.

I’m disgusted at my weakness. Feeding a hunger not of my gut, but of my soul. An insatiable hunger to know you God, now that I’ve glimpsed your face, felt your touch, know your love. But the cage I occupy provides so little room – barely enough for a man to breathe, the crushing press of its bars a constant reminder of the price of ignorance. A sentence without forgiveness - the price of choices made blind to your love. I pray for my release daily. I pray that I may celebrate the love and compassion, which fill me in this tiny space – my corner, my universe.

The consequence of unfinished business

I feel pregnant with ideas and I must write about them. My awakening to consciousness is bringing so much light into my life – but with light comes heat. And too much heat is no good. I need an outlet to express my newfound passion. I’m on fire with love and compassion – a fire which does not consume but rather motivates. I want to fill my hiking pack with paper and pens and climb a secluded hill and look out over life and capture it’s reflections in ink.

But not today. There’s too much work to do. I hear you! Work can wait, it will still be there, but perhaps your passion may be fleeting! But then therein lies the dilemma. If I set work aside to write, there is a cost – the consequence of unfinished business. And when I do write, knowing that it is not leisurely creates tremendous pressure – so little time, your words must be perfect – Hurry! I rush my thoughts onto the paper and take no pleasure in what’s written. Of course it is not good. What did you expect?

I dream of a day when I'll wake up, alone. A writing desk in the corner. Paper. Pens. Time. Solitude. Amen - my prayer for today.

Poetry Thursday: Just You

Keeping with this week’s Poetry Thursday theme, I decided to go to a place that truly inspires me. It’s not a physical place like a library or my kitchen. It is an inner place – just a word – Gratitude. I spent a lot of time there on Saturday. Over the course of the day, this poem revealed itself to me, lazily. A sentence here, a word there. When I was done, I realized I had captured my personal spiritual journey quite succinctly. It seems to flow best if read very slowly. The following is true.

Just You

I summered in your garden
before life happened
There, on the hill by the lake
There were no other gods yet
Just you

Your door, open
Love spilled out
across the grass
wetting roots

I did not drink deeply
there on the hill
Dark clouds gathered
for me
The voice of false gods
on the breeze

Outside the garden
a season of rain
Love’s compass fast
with rust
Empty circles turned
wearing grooves

And you waited for me
There, on the hill by the lake
The grass strong
in your garden
Above your door
welcome home

by D. Tkon Copyright 2006

Poetry Thursday: Cling

The door that stands before me is a portal into nothingness.
Vacant lands I've crossed before.
Desolate, unyielding, unforgiving of the unforgiven.

All paths converge here in this moment of insignificance.
The ultimate decision begs definition,
yet to be constructed from a universe without choice.

Silence mocks emptiness.
Emptiness breaks silence with a triumphant cry of despair.
Echoing off of nothing, witnessed only by the moment itself.

The door slowly swings open, moved by forces unseen.
Momentum's pull beckons, tugging at my limbs without regard
for my need to cling.
The door closes silently behind me.
The moment having passed below the threshold of my awareness.
All is as it was before.
Indeed, I was there all the time.

Two footprints mark the spot where I stood.
Memorializing my progress, ahead of those laid down before.
Yet, another moment has come to pass.
I breathe in and prepare for the crushing weight of the next approaching moment.

It grows and swells with the anticipation of its own arrival.
Fully matured, it demands acknowledgment.
I feel the urge to cling.
Before me, an open door awaits.

by D. Tkon Copyright 2006

There's no "I" in Self

I have mixed feelings about this blog business. I thought it would be a good way to record my daily musings and vent, a way to track the progress of my ascent into consciousness. Mostly, I was looking for a way to share the amazing treasure I've discovered. A gift so wonderful that it would truly be a sin to keep it to myself. I want to just write about it and describe my experiences - my secret escape from insanity through the backdoor into wholeness. The problem is my ego is a royal pain in the ass. Its like a cat on your lap when you're eating ice cream. You can shoo it to the floor a hundred times, but it will keep coming back until you offer it something. And it always parks itself right in the middle of whatever I'm trying to do or create. Cat owners who try to read the newspaper know all about this.

Its hard to compose when your ego keeps tasting the words and phrases as if they were dipped in cream. I wish I could just write about me without it being about me. My inner critic needs a vacation.

I think I'll mediate on it for a while . . .

Pass the Sugar

I'm eating junk food again. Sugar activates me. Its not as good as alcohol or drugs, but it works the same way. Eat some - crave more. It can take up to two weeks to get the sugar out of my system if I stay away altogether. Lately its been donuts. This is new. In the past its been candy (usually chocolate). I hate all of the emotions that accompany eating crap. I'm a closet eater mostly. I can't eat any quantity of junk in front of anyone. The shame keeps me from doing it. It would be like going to the bathroom with the door wide open. So I eat in the dark, behind closed doors or hide in my car. Whatever I buy, I eat it all almost immediately. I'd die if anyone snooped my desk drawer at work and found a Pop-Tart or a bag of M&Ms. I have to get a handle on this and figure out why I do this.

You Have To Start Somewhere . . .

Last Sunday night I dreamt that my Shadow-Self led me through the streets of an unknown city to a ramshackle structure on the edge of town. At the base of the structure was an opening that led into a crawlspace. My Shadow-Self encouraged me to lower myself into the dark below. I didn’t even hesitate. I never do. I climbed through the opening and lowered myself down. My feet didn’t reach the floor. I couldn’t see the floor below. It was so dark. I let go of the opening and fell several more feet to the ground below. I looked up at the rectangle of light above, waiting for my Shadow-Self to accompany me. He didn’t. He covered the opening with a piece of wood. The light was extinguished like a spent match. I could hear my Shadow-Self heaping shovels full of dirt against the opening. My eyes suddenly felt too large for my head. I waved my hand furiously in front of my face barely missing my nose. I could feel the moving air but otherwise, I was now blind. Darkness tightened around me like a Boa Constrictor.

“I’m going to die" was all I could think. It was impossible to search for a way out. The chamber was filled with junk. Every effort to move caused something heavy to fall. I found what felt like a table top or a desk. It was clear of debris, so I sat down. My heart pounded inside my chest like a drum. My lips and fingertips went numb from hyperventilating. "I'm going to die!"

I wondered how it would come. Would I die of thirst? Hunger? Was one better than the other? How long do these things take? "Oh my God! I'm going to die in here." It seemed as though I pondered my fate for a very long time. I struggled in my mind for a solution and groped the darkness for an answer. Several times I cried. I sobbed. Then I cursed for wasting water. Finally, I was quiet and so began the long process of waiting for death. I don't know how much time passed. At some point, I stopped fighting in my mind. I accepted my death . . . and I surrendered.

[Surrender is a glorious feeling. I learn this over and over again in both my wakeful life and in my dreams. Surrender is the moment when suddenly, you can breathe under water, you can fly without falling, and the crushing press of darkness is unveiled by a torch on the horizon. And so it was in my dream.]

Almost instantly, a tiny dot of light appeared far off and away. The dot offered no illumination, it just was . . . there . . . hovering. Less than the head of a pin if that's possible. I'm on my feet and moving towards it. For all I know, its a hundred miles away. As I approach, it grows larger. Still not giving off any light, just shining in and of itself. Finally I am at its source. Its just higher than my head and in front of me. I swipe at it with my hand, which connects with debris knocking it aside. More light appears. My heart is pounding again! I do it again and again, until I've cleared an area roughtly the same size as the hole I used to enter this place. The junk I've been moving was simply blocking the light, which apparently was always there. Light is flooding into the room like air. The hole is clear and I can get out if I can reach it.

Suddenly a small boy's face appears in the window. He reaches his hand in to me and effortlessly pulls me through the opening. We're standing together now in an ancient city. I don't recognize this place but I'm struck with the feeling that this place is holy. We walk through the city and come to a door that's ajar. He pushes it open and invites me in. The room is dimly lit by several candles and a small fire in an arched hearth. A family I do not know is taking a meal together at a plain wood table. A place is set for me and I join them. The dream ends.