You held my hand in a dream. You reached over and took it. And held it.
Just like that.
All the people standing around saw you do it. They wondered why. They
wondered about the connection. They didn't get it. They thought it
Yet you don't let go.
When you hold my hand I
cleansed by the yes of real love. I calm down. The
frantic melts. Then dreaming on, I breathe relaxing into
You hold my love in the palm of your hand as I hold yours, your hand
and mine, walls of a cathedral, a sanctuary, our fingers its steeple.
In the sanctuary of You, deep in
and inquiry, I distinguish my life bizarrely keyed to what
others don't get. My compass points to what
others think oftentimes more than to who they really
are. It's insidious.
I'm thrown to suppress my true nature in order to be
nice, in order to satisfy others. Yet that simply cedes unwarranted
power to others who manipulate further by never being satisfied.
It's pernicious. It bends my
It skews my inquiry. Even in my dreaming.
Your hand in mine is the richest gift, getting still richer as it stays
way longer than I silently plead for it to stay. I'm the other
wall of the cathedral, your co-architect. This space
is worthy of the dignity and the magnanimity of all visitors. I'm
ecstatic, joyed, honored, and humbled by the
Neither Frank Lloyd Wright nor I.M. Pei would be unimpressed.
For the time being at least, that's a good view of things. There's
dignity and honor in it. Then slowly, imperceptibly at first, it begins
to shift, to change, to morph. After a while I see comparing you
with the other wall isn't accurate after all. I like the
equality of looking at it that way. I like the
equalness of it. And yet even as an analogy, I see it's no
longer accurate, no longer useful. It's just plain misleading.
Dreaming on, I'm a wall but you're not the other wall. If, even for a
moment, you show up that way for me, it's you generously not correcting
my naïvete, leaving my
intact. When I've had time to enjoy then set aside interimly being a
co-wall with you, I see what's behind it. You're not the
other wall. You're the foundation. You're a
But you're not just anybrick.
for all walls. You're the foundation for all
you are grants all
The foundation you are grants all walls their wallness. Really.
So we're sitting here in my dream holding hands, and you're not a wall
anymore. You've morphed into a
into the foundation of the cathedral. I ask myself if you and I are
equal. I mean I really delve into the inquiry. The first
answers coming up say we're equal. Then I notice they have a cardboard
rote undistinguished blandness to them which arouses my
skepticism of my own pretentiousness.
Giving up what I'm conditioned to say about all human beings being
equal, giving up what sounds right ie giving up the
right thing to say I blurt out "I AM YOU but I'mnotyou!", liberated by the sheer delight of finally
I haven't done what you've done. No, it's more than that, actually.
Except in the realms of "maybe" and "someday", it's unlikely I'll
ever do what you've done ... That's the
When you're holding my hand I have it we're equal. But it's not true.
No sense lying about it. Yes it's 99% true we're equal. But it's who
you are supports me. It's 1% true who you are supports me. Yet the 1%
who you are supports me is bigger than the 99% we're equal. By far.
Even in my dreaming.