I woke up three days ago remembering the end of a dream. I knew there were two dreams but only the last part of one of the dreams found traction in my early morning memory dream catcher.
In the dream I am looking at a pile of papers stacked one atop another. There was a man to the right of the pile and he was holding one piece of paper above the others. I saw his torso and arm.
Two things stood out in the dream. The first was the quality of the paper. This was not everyday paper that can be bought by the reams. It was off white, cream colored and was of a heavy bond. The thought was that it was manuscript paper; something to be used for an important document. The other fact which caught my attention was that the paper had nothing written on it.
The man was holding the paper. He was not holding a writing implement.
I kept the dream fresh and alive during the morning and later. I did that by fanning it with attention, curiosity and a sense of receptivity.
This is what came to me. It was a book, an incomplete book. In fact it was my Book of Life. What has happened, what has been done, what is unfinished and incomplete, that is all already written.
But it is not yet finished. The blank page is yet to be written. The writing is waiting for something, namely, what has happened, what is experienced from this time forward. That writing will not be fiction created in the present, it will be fact based on the reporting of what choices and actions will have been made and their consequences.
I recognize that the book can be completed with a page which remains blank. But that was not the sense of what the dream was about.
Who is writing the book? An unknown scribe.
As I was initially reviewing this dream it came to me that the book had a name. The name was my name. I initially said my customary name: Timothy Joseph Hodgens. But immediately I realized that the real name was Timothy Aloysius Hodgens. More about that in a later posting, but for now it is important to have my given name, not the cover-up name which distracted from what I had originally seen as odd and different, on my Book of Life.
What also comes to me is that the papers which are already there in the “pile” can be seen as the end of that chapter, that “dream.” And the unwritten page is the beginning of the next stage, next chapter, next “dream.”