Second Sight (34 page)

Robert had been diagnosed with colon cancer two years before he started psychotherapy with me. He had undergone a partial large bowel resection, but had not required a colostomy. His surgeon, a sensitive woman and well respected in her field, reassured Robert that the malignancy had been completely removed. Although his prognosis was excellent, he still worried. He abhorred hospitals and never wanted to see the inside of another one again. The follow-up battery of X rays and body scans he had to go through every six months terrified him. Each time it was the same: The week before each checkup was the worst. Now, with another meeting with his oncologist only days away, he had come to my office riddled with fear. Nothing I tried—meditation, guided imagery, or hypnosis—worked. I felt powerless to console him.

A few nights before this appointment, however, Robert had a dream in which he was undergoing surgery at UCLA Hospital, where he had originally been operated on. Perfectly alert and unafraid, he watched his surgeon make a painless incision with a scalpel down the center of his abdomen. Next, she removed Robert's entire colon and ran her fingers over it to show him that it was healthy and tumor-free. Then she passed it to him to hold as he marveled at the vibrant, glistening pink colon tissue. An extraordinary event that surely would have shocked him had he been awake, in the psychic dream state none of this seemed unusual.

“You mean I'm really okay?” he asked his surgeon in the dream.

“See for yourself,” she responded. “The tumor is gone.”

Robert, a soft-spoken computer analyst at Caltech, had never had a dream like this before, didn't believe in the metaphysical. Respecting his views, I didn't push it. But intuition, he felt, was different. This he could relate to: Feminine intuition was a common thing; he and other people he knew had hunches and often acted on them. But the psychic? No, according to Robert; that was just too far out. Possessing a sharp analytical mind, he could have easily dismissed the dream since it had no rational basis. But when he awoke, it had been so dazzlingly lifelike that he could have sworn it actually happened. Nor could he argue with his own sense of relief.

Uptight to begin with, Robert had become almost phobic about his cancer returning. This dream changed that, instilled a new faith that he had finally overcome his illness. When he told me what he had seen, I knew that it wasn't just wishful thinking. There are times when you want something so badly that your dreams respond and fulfill those desires. Merely fantasies designed by your subconscious, these dreams aren't psychic, nor are they based on fact. Robert's dream, however, was different. The clarity with which he described the surgery, the acuteness of each detail, his extreme sense of well-being throughout, and the authenticity his experience had for him all rang true to me.

After Robert's next checkup, all his tests came back normal, and he was given a clean bill of health. For the first time since he had been diagnosed, he stopped worrying. His dream comforted him far more than any kind of therapeutic intervention I had been able to make. Robert was still anxious about his life. But he was no longer obsessed about his illness recurring, and our work deepened. Over the past four years, Robert has remained cancer free.

It's easy to be consoled by dreams that bring you good news, but what about those that show you things you don't want to see? You may be tempted to downplay unsettling information, to write it off by saying, “Don't worry, it's only a dream.” Although some premonitions can be painful to accept, they're actually special gifts. If you detect an illness in the early stages or seek treatment soon enough to prevent its spread or complications, you may avoid undue suffering. In some cases, these healing dreams could even save your life.

A close colleague of mine once recounted such a dream, told to him by a retired army colonel. In it, the colonel is being shown a home by a real estate broker. The upstairs is sparkling clean and beautifully decorated, but the downstairs is a mess, with the stench of urine emanating from all the rooms. Apologetically the broker tells him, “I'm afraid I can't sell you this house. It will have to be condemned unless the first floor is fixed.” Disappointed, he agrees.

The colonel knew enough to discuss the dream with my colleague, an expert in dream analysis, and together they realized that this could be a warning—the colonel might have a problem in his urinary tract. They came to this both from their sense of the dream as a foreshadowing and from the imagery: the overwhelming disarray in the downstairs of his house representing the lower part of his body, coupled with the unmistakable odor of urine. The colonel decided to go see his physician to check it out. Skeptical, his doctor humored him and performed a routine urinalysis, and was surprised to find minute traces of blood present, which were later determined to be caused by a bladder tumor that required surgery.

A few weeks after the tumor was removed, the colonel had a second dream, and in it he returns to the same house. This time both floors are sweet-smelling, immaculate. The broker happily notes the improvement and announces, “Now this house is ready to be put back on the market!” The colonel considered this a message that his bladder had healed; later he received confirmation that the cancer was gone, and he has had no further urinary difficulties.

Unfortunately, you may often miss such healing dreams because they are metaphorical and require proper interpretation. In conventional analytic terms you could attribute them to your attempt to resolve unconscious conflicts rather than as a call for you to heal physically. In part this is true; dreams have many layers. But from a psychic perspective, analysis alone doesn't tell you the whole story. Sometimes you have a dream in which you foresee your finger is hurt. And it might be just that simple, no hidden psychological meaning. Your finger is going to need care. The dream could be a straightforward message, not a metaphor, that requires no further interpretation. It is important, therefore, to view dreams at their various levels.

In ancient Greece, during the period of the Temple of Aesculapius, healing dreams were highly valued. Typically, if you were ill, you'd be brought to the temple and put up in a dormitory with other patients until you had a dream. This was a sign that you were ready. At that point, you'd meet with the healers, known as “therapeuti,” and treatment for your illness would be developed on the basis of your dream.

For Native Americans the dream state is more real than the physical world, and contains leads for solving problems. When tribal members fall ill, they look to the shaman for help. A spiritual healer and dreamer of the tribe, he's able to traverse both the seen and unseen realms. Through the use of medicinal plants, prayers, drumming, ritual, and dreams, the shaman becomes a transparent channel for receiving and implementing healing knowledge. Considered an authentic voice of spirit, these instructions are then precisely followed.

As significant as dreams are that guide you to healing, there are those that themselves have the power to do the healing. Sometimes the change may be subtle: A kink in your neck is gone, a headache relieved, or maybe a dark mood has lifted. You might not even remember the dream, but the next day you indisputably feel better. Then there are those rare, dramatic examples such as the one my dear friend Linda told me.

When Linda was a freshman psychology student at the University of Humanistic Studies in San Diego, she enrolled in an introductory class on dreams. All students were asked to bring in a few current examples of their own dreams for analysis. Linda had always been an avid dreamer, but under the pressure of the assignment she couldn't remember a single one, and was afraid she might fail the class.

At about the same time, she developed a lipoma, a benign fatty tumor, at the base of her spine. In one month it had enlarged almost to the size of a billiard ball, causing her considerable pain. She worked as an assistant to her physician, and he recommended that she have the tumor surgically removed right away. But Linda kept putting it off, hoping to avoid both the stress of the operation and the toxic side effects of general anesthesia.

The lipoma worsened, causing her so much agony that during class she had to support her back with an inflatable beach chair while sitting propped up on a pillow. Still she resisted surgery. One night, while struggling to complete a term paper, Linda began to cry. Then she prayed. “I can't concentrate or do my work. I'm in too much pain. Please help me.” Exhausted, she stopped writing and fell asleep.

That night, she dreamed she was alone, lying flat on her back in bed. Through closed eyes, she saw a distinct image of a three-foot hypodermic syringe beside her. Seemingly on its own, the tip of the needle punctured the right side of her neck and penetrated the entire length of her spinal cord, down to where the lipoma was lodged. Though enduring excruciating pain, she was unable to move, not having voluntary control of her body. Only after the syringe began sucking out a pale white, watery liquid from the lipoma did her discomfort cease. Completely aware of what had taken place, yet witnessing it psychically as an observer, Linda remained asleep until morning.

When she awoke, she recalled everything and rushed straight to a full-length mirror. Standing directly in front of it, examining her back from every conceivable angle, she could see no sign of the lipoma. With her fingertips she poked and probed her spine for any remnants of the bulging lump. It had completely vanished.

This happened at a time when Linda had just begun to meditate and study the Hindu tradition. She had heard accounts of dramatic cures, but her teacher had warned her not to get distracted by such things. Although amazed by her experience, she followed his advice. Rather than blowing her dream out of proportion, she gratefully accepted the healing but didn't give it undue focus. She was able to consider the incident as a direct confirmation that other dimensions could be tapped into that could bring about actual physical change.

Linda was lucky that her university was nontraditional. Because she was studying transpersonal psychology, a discipline that acknowledges the spiritual realities, her professor explained that she'd had a healing dream. He didn't overanalyze it or impose any contrived interpretation. Nor did he ascribe to Linda any superhuman qualities. But fully realizing how rare and precious these dreams are, he was able to recognize it as an act of grace.

A few days later, Linda returned to her doctor, wanting her back reexamined to make sure that everything was all right. Seeing no evidence of the lipoma, he raised his eyebrows and shot Linda a befuddled look. “Isn't this interesting,” he remarked. “I guess you don't need surgery after all.” That was all he said. As if nothing odd had happened, he then scribbled a note on her chart, instructed her to get dressed, and went on, business as usual.

Instinctively, she knew not to mention the dream to him, afraid that he might be threatened or put her down. Not wanting to jeopardize their working relationship, she felt the dream was much better left alone. Linda's spiritual beliefs were so new; she needed support, not criticism, until she became more self-assured. She viewed this dream as a reminder that a vital and active transcendent influence exists. It reinforced her faith to move forward and signaled her readiness to pursue a career as a therapist and, eventually, a healer.

All of us are capable of dreams that heal the body. But will we make use of them? There are many people who are completely closed to the possibility. Then there's another group—most of us—who will experience more subtle, common versions of healing dreams once we begin to trust that such physical change can occur. Perhaps someone simply touches you lovingly in a dream and the next day you wake rejuvenated, your minor ailments gone. Or you drift off to sleep and find yourself lying on a white sand beach basking in the sun, and are relieved in the morning to see that your cold has disappeared. Finally, there are those people like Linda, whose experiences show us the possibility of the seemingly miraculous. Don't be disappointed if you never undergo such radical cures. Linda is an extremely gifted, clairvoyant healer; she has made the spiritual her whole life's work. But also don't decide that this kind of healing through dreams is impossible and give up on your potential. Allow yourself to believe—even though in this case, as in so many others where the psychic is involved, old ideas die hard. Attend to your dreams. Give yourself a chance to learn from them.

Despite the tremendous advances of medical science, there is much that it still can't explain. While sleep can help the physical body, dreams can rejuvenate the spirit. When deprived of dreams, people have been shown to become emotionally unstable, confused, even psychotic. Our dreams recharge us. I believe they contain mystical properties: Unencumbered by your body, you are freer, lighter in substance, can even fly if you wish. When you dream, you're more receptive and sensitive than at any other time in your life. You merge with a benevolent intelligence that touches you, and in some special circumstances it even heals. With your ordinary defenses down, your armor cracks apart so you can open to the larger voices calling out to be heard.

DREAM JOURNALS

The real art of dreaming is in remembering our dreams. Once we record the details in a journal they can no longer slip away. I can't count how many times I have been lying in bed half-asleep in the middle of the night, certain I'll never forget this extraordinary dream I just had—but the next day it's totally gone. Dreams are by nature ephemeral. By keeping a journal, we can bear witness to the intangible, commit our dreams to concrete form. When we do this, we are serving as holy scribes and translators, just as Thomas Moore says in
Care of the Soul:
“Our notebooks are our private gospels and sutras, our holy books.” Dream journals allow us to honor our inner lives, are a living testament to our personal odysseys.

I still have piles of my old dream journals, with worn bindings and faded pages dating back to the early sixties, stacked high on my closet shelves. Reviewing them, I can recall exactly what was going on in my life at the time of each dream. Keeping a regular diary has never appealed to me because what happens in dreams is usually much more fascinating to me than even my most compelling daytime activities.