I am standing in a brown field. The soil feels like moss to my feet. Around me tall poles of sculpted oak are anchored deep in the ground. They stand straight up.
There is a pattern to their placement, a mandala perhaps, but I am within and I cannot make it out.
I am here with others. Strangers that later I come to recognize as friends.
Moving through this small crowd, flowing more than walking, in and around the poles is a tall woman.
She is three, perhaps four times, the height of an average person—as tall as the poles and darker, ebony dark. She is very slender and she wears a wrap the colour of cinnamon.
I follow her with my eyes. I watch for a long time, and am drawn into her orbit, to the perfect kindness of her face and her expressive beauty.
I want to be a spark and fly up as high as her face—a face that is enchanting, and a face I want, somehow, to own.
I decide to trip her. Now she lies prone, motionless. Looks into me and lets me look into her.
I explain that I tripped her because I needed to see her face, full, up close. She understands this before my explanation. And she does not refuse me. There is no hint of impatience, no frustration at my tripping her.
She speaks to me, quietly, and as she does the side of her face begins to change—and now I feel my own face changing.
She tells me she will be left with a scar. Again, I do not detect any resentment or remorse in her voice, only compassion. And with that I come awake.
Who knows from what transcontinental inscape dreams come from. I only know that this dream, vivid, and so compelling as to make me write it down, somehow sustains me. As such, I have often wondered about its Easter implications. In any case, I’ve treasured it as the gift it is.