The Crystal City

I dream of a crystal city with narrow crooked streets and tall houses that jut angularly, with nooks and crannies sticking out from their upper stories. Each house is faceted with tiny pieces of clear glass that are curved so that light is reflected outward, not allowing me to see inside.

This is a city in which everything is solid and devoid of color – the streets are white, the sky is white, all that I can see is white. It is as if the city and everything in it exists in a snow globe and a fine mist of white powder has newly fallen – leaving it perfect with no muddy footprints to infect its pristine beauty.

As I walk the narrow streets that curve and climb and roam endlessly through this seemingly deserted town, I wonder who lives in these edifices that seem to sit precariously on their foundations, with their jutting and angular parts that don’t look as if they are secure. Doors, deeply inset, attest to their habitation, though. I am alone yet feel connected to beings that I cannot see.

I awake in awe of this recurring dream. The inhabitants of my crystal city know me and watch over me. They follow me in my daily life, in my work and in my dreams, giving voice to that which I know and cannot yet quite fathom of the immensity of the universe. It is as if they are my tribe and a long time ago sent me off on a mission. Now, tired and beaten, they urge me on with dreams of a return and a homecoming beyond description. I feel their joy through my earthly eyes. Home. My true home.

There is one more task that you must complete, they say to me. It is the biggest yet. I beg them to remove this from my life for I feel the weight of its immensity and am uncertain as to my abilities. I beg their help.

My room is dark and still. It is winter; the time to hibernate. I love a winter garden, with fruit trees bare of leaf and perennials dead in the ground, with roses cut back sharply to reveal their skeletal image.

The air is cold and I am warm beneath the down covering that is adorned with a nine patch quilt of browns, burgundies, and oranges that I finger lovingly, recalling each stitch in its construction. I feel a push-pull in wanting to find my blank book and pencil and write versus maintaining the warmth of my bed. The clock says that it is 3:18 in the morning – too early to rise, yet my alertness precludes further sleep.

I relax back into my crystal city. Was there a time in my dreams when I was with someone wandering those streets? Did I have a family and a place to call my own? Was my life happy and secure? My senses all shout yes, yet my mind cannot recall an image or a time when I might have experiences those feelings.

In the city, I am small and the crystal edifices tower over me. Everywhere I see curved angles – soft yet distinct – clear yet translucent. I am tiny and everything is tall – a harmonious blend of juxtapositions of opposites that are not opposing at all.

There is a story that I must tell – of a future world that awaits, one the surpasses the current ‘ring past not’ of our group experience, leaving behind the grip of illusion that closes our eyes and opening up a vast new experience of living.

It is as if I exist in my earthly home and my crystal city all at the same time, each overlaying the other, allowing me to pass back and forth as I move from day through night, always wondering which is the true reality. I cry out for more details and another visit to my crystal city as I fall back asleep.