Falling from the sky

I had a dream. It was my childhood neighborhood. Modest houses each on their plot of land, almost always surrounded by fences, usually chain-link fences which, as a child, I became adept at hopping over.

Going into a neighbor’s yard, which was familiar, was something you could do occasionally if you had to. To fetch a wayward play ball. In a highly inspired game of commando raid. Or wanting to take a shortcut.

In the dream that’s sort of what we were doing: Taking shortcuts. But there were many of us, and we were fleeing together.

We, the people of my community, the people of my country, we pure White Americans – people who for all I know might still exist back there, but have pretty much been completely eliminated here.

Back there it still felt like our land, with all the trappings and freedoms that entailed. We actually had land. Our little plots. And neighbors, and communities, and towns.

There was the gas station/garage where I knew all the Hell’s Angels guys. There was a skating rink. A bowling alley. The bar that smelled weird where I delivered newspapers to. The grungy department store run by some creepy guy with an expensive car and a bunch of liquor in the trunk. The appliance store. The corner 7-11. The train tracks.

At the start of the dreams I was actually somewhere else. I was still a runner, and was excited about finding a whole network of long-distance trails to run. I came across some people who know about these long trails and was trying to pry them for as much detail as possible about the routes.

These routes were freedom. They took you to distant places, away from roads and cars, which was a rare, precious thing. Just knowing these trails existed filled me with a sense of utopia, of great samadhi – bliss.

There was some spiritual impulse among the people, and people were aggregating in spontaneous little groups. One could find oneself sitting in a circle, discussing things about the times, about the world, about life, or spirituality.

Then the missile attacks started occurring. We were back in my old neighborhood now, with the yards and the chain-link fences everywhere, and we all decided that living was more important that the damn chain-link fences, so we started hopping over them in order to avoid incoming missiles.

We were constantly looking at the sky to see as early as possible incoming missiles so that we could scramble out of the way, to places of safety.

Occasionally they would land very close to us. One had landed and didn’t fully explode but was smoking. We didn’t linger and ran from it.

In this situation, we formed makeshift groups again, little circles. Little groups of wisdom, as our poor country was being attacked as retribution for what the jews, who controlled our country, had done. We knew there was no stopping the missiles, and that all we could do to survive was run.

It was heartbreaking that we were being attacked, but there was also something primal about all of us overcoming these fences and joining together. We started seeing the land of our community as our land, and not just lots of individual houses separated by boundaries.

It was sad and somewhat tragic that it took the incoming missiles to shake us Whites of the heartland of America back into a primordial collective awareness that was our greatness – a greatness that was profound yet had been latent for so long.

The stirring of our primordial collective awareness was so great that even amidst the incoming missiles we felt a deep sense of bliss at being truly reawakened to who we really are.