The Creative Power of Dreams: Johnny Jumper’s Story Is Our Own

Dreams can be a fabulous source of creative energy and inspiration for us. Many artists recall their masterpieces having first been seen in a dream or a vision. Visionary thinkers like Einstein and Da Vinci recount awakening from dreams with the solutions to particular problems simply worked out and known. The  artist lucid dreamer can begin to experiment with setting the intention to discover their own future masterpieces in their dreams. This works! I like to enter a door with the knowing that a work of art will be on the other side of the door. When I get on the other side and see the art, I study it closely and methodically so that I can recall most of it upon awakening.

One day during a  nap, as I was drifting off into the  hypnagogic state I heard the voice of a woman reciting the most beautiful amazing flowing poetry I’d ever heard. I knew that if i  could just get down some of it that it would make a great piece of poetic prose.  When I woke up I sat and wrote  furiously. I’m not sure if the poem that follows is exactly the words that I heard… most likely it is far different… but the feeling of the poem is certainly the same.

Johnny Jumper’s Story is Our Own

Johnny Jumper
Chains down his heart,
while intuitively he knows he must start
to relinquish control
of the hole
in his chest.
Oh what a mess his silly world has become.
What once was fun
is empty now.
Hallow.
Nowhere.
And in the emptiness, feline eyes stare,
piercing holes in an armor of pain.
Confirming he’s no longer sane…
And so… longing to find something to blame,
He chooses himself.
Not the infinite Self.
Not the eternal Self.
But the illusory, dreamed-up idea of himself,

that the world has told him he is.

And so… as trickling water drips through crevices in the weathered stone
that forms the walls of his dreary dungeon,
it sings a sad song about days of freedom and abundance shattered into fragmented memories barely retrievable through the polluted reservoirs of his mind.
How blind he is to the diamond resting in his own pocket.
How blind he is to the light that can only be let out through an opening,
an unlocking,
a stop to the compulsive barricading
and the destructive clinging
to destructive cling-things, that clang and cling like clangy cling-tins,
ring-tinging inside

and stinging his hide

and bringing nothing out.
Only drowning out.
Suffocating.
But through the overwhelming pressure of compressing stressors
all vying for time in the spotlight of mind,
the trickle remains,
tickling through the slimy chains that bind the diamond away.
And when that faint tickle makes its way into the pocket where the diamond lays,
then a phenomenal play will be played.
Touched by pure water from a timeless source,
the precious gem will defy physics and laws and all binding principles.
It will radiate light in a trillion directions, for only an instant and will in that singular moment
experience unity with the divine.
Fueled by an inspiration to taste that calm,
that radiance,
that peace,
that bliss again,
it will pour light upwards through the small trickle of fluid,
following it upstream through cracks and caves,
through dark corners and evil hide-aways,
blazing a trail of luminosity through the decrepit depths.
Gaining momentum it will surge to the surface,
transforming its own path and the very earth along the way
until all chains are thrown aside,
all blockades disintigrated,
all shadows illuminated,
and the heart and the mind and the body and the soul and the self and Spirit
are united in a glorious brilliance.
The unfathomable glow of the vast expanse in all its majesty,
kicked up to the frequency of infinity,
echoing in eternity forever,
bulging in brightness,
overflowing into the over-flow that flows below the overflow,
until all flows blow like leaves in an autumn breeze.
Crisp and cool.
Calming like chamomile.
Awake with a cup of tea.

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~ by jonahhaas on August 4, 2010.

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