And then I felt, no, I could see something almost indescribable. In my mind, along with the reality of my home, and the trees, bushes, and plants outside, appeared something like a tunnel, darkened by countless ages of humans and the earth. And the suffering of my friend and their child seemed to fit so readily in that tunnel; all our fears, worries, suffering fit in that tunnel as if it was made to do just do that. There was so much emotional pain there, and so much more in addition. Joy? Insight? So much of what all of us shared.
And it was so vast; anyone could easily get lost in it. I could easily get lost in it. It could be fearful and yet somehow comforting, intimately, infinitely comforting. And then it was seemingly gone. The birds sang. The food my wife was cooking sizzled.
What was it? Was it a revelation or like a waking dream? Did I imagine it, or see something that rarely shows its face? Was it a glimpse of something always with us, but beyond our grasp or control? Or maybe a random image or delusion?
Maybe it was related to the collective unconscious that Carl Jung described, filled not only with our own memories and the memories of all beings, but archetypes, the universal or innate patterns of imagery and thinking that have appeared throughout human history? Maybe it was related to what Australian aboriginals call the dreaming, or other cultures call the great dreaming of the earth.
In his book The Songlines, Bruce Chatwin describes creator beings who sang the world into existence; song being the original speech of humans. The origin songs were called songlines, or dreaming tracks, and mark the routes followed by creator-beings as they carved the earth during the Dreamtime, or time of creation.
But dreaming tracks are not solely about the past. They mark both a where and a when, a time and all time, or the continuous process linking the Aboriginal people to the land and heavens. According to Wikipedia, a knowledgeable person even today can navigate vast distances, cross deserts and mountains, by singing and following the directions in a songline.
Even in the daytime, it seems there’s an underlying stream of imagery running through our minds of which we’re only partly aware. It’s dream-like, in that it’s more emotional in organization than rational. All thoughts can share this dream-like quality, in that they can appear as real as day but be more of a personal fabrication, like a dream of night. So, there’s a bit of dreaming in the day and a bit of awake awareness at night.
We can notice this stream when we close our eyes⎼ and thoughts, images, dialogues rush through our mind. When we read a novel, images evoked by the book can appear inside us. When we meditate, we can notice our “monkey mind” taking off from the object of the meditation and getting lost in images of other people, times, or places.
Even with our eyes open, we can look at another person and imagery of which we are barely aware can color what we see⎼ or reveal what we’ve intuited. This is one reason why we can pick up a brush or a pen and a whole story can emerge fully formed from its tip. And why understanding mental suffering is so crucial to each of us and society itself. This stream of imagery waters both our creativity and delusions.
Some of us might have trouble sleeping and understanding our own minds because of not recognizing this stream running through us. We might dread a possible dream tidal wave or, to switch images, fear what curtain might open when we close our eyes.
The more threatening or unstable the physical, personal, or social-political environment around us, the more likely these troubles will occur. The more experienced we are in exploring our mental landscape, the kinder and more mindful of our thinking and feeling processes, and the more discerning, the more we can turn even troubles into valuable lessons in how to deepen and improve our lives.
And I wondered how the two, tunnel and stream were related. Was one another way to experience the other? Or maybe the stream flowed from the tunnel?
Sometimes, I wish I could see the insides of the tunnel more clearly, but maybe the darkness is the point. Maybe accepting not-knowing for sure is the point, accepting ourselves and our struggles. Accepting how much we share with others. Ancient humans throughout much of the world went into caves and drew their dreams, or their inner landscapes, onto cave walls. Maybe we carry these caves with us even today, as we sing our moments onto their walls as we live.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
