26 July 2010 My Father and the Slug

4:18 am. I just woke from a dream about my father, who has been dead for eleven years. I was in our old home where all us kids were raised. I spent five years there recently taking care of my mother until I came to Healdsburg to live with my son. In my dream, the house was all but vacant. I was in the living room doing something, can’t remember what, but I was needing something, and I walked down the hall to the bedroom on the right where my part parents originally slept. Years later they took the other bedroom on the left as their own.  Seems that someone else was in the house, but I can’t remember who. May have been one of my uncles. When I entered the bedroom, I didn’t see my father I walked to the back of the room and looked back at the bed, but he wasn’t in it. For some reason I thought he was. The bed was made with just two white sheets, no plankets or quilts. I wondered where he could be because I knew he was there. Then I saw the light coming from the crack under the door in the adjoining bathroom, and knew that he was in there. I was waiting on him but realized I shouldn’t be in there because he it would surprize him when he opened the door, maybe scare him. When I first came down the hall to see him, I was afraid. I remember thinking that that I could go crazy in that house if no one was there with me. The thought that he might not be there scared me considerably.

According to Jung, Dreams should be analyzed. Active Imagination sessions should not. Active Imagination is to be experienced because it forms the bridge between the Conscious and the Unconscious. Dreams are shrouded in symbolism, Active Imagination not so much.

7:06 am. Just woke from another dream. I was in a long, one-room building where a lot of people stay in beds along the far wall. I’m there talking to someone who leaves. I start fixing myself some toast on one of the burners on the stove to the right in the makeshift kitchen. Then my cousin Bob comes in. He passed away last year. He came in and started fiddling around in the kitchen then reached over and took my little oven that was on the burner where my toast was and then inexplicably put his hand on the red-hot burner and removed the element. I was surprised that he didn’t burn his hand doing that, but he showed no sign of pain from the heat. He went to the door to leave, and I walked toward him. “That’s hot,” I said. Then he dropped it and went into excruciating pain. “You should have seen that I was using it for my toast.” I got the piece of bread, and it was hardly brown at all. I was going to put butter and jam on it. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. I went to the sink to get something for him to put on it. “Because I was just sitting here stupid,” I said. I left with him to take him to the doctor.

Association: A couple of months before he passed away, I went to see Bob. I spent a couple of hours there and ate lunch with he and his wife and the rest of their family. He showed me his tomato plants that were handing from baskets from the eves of the house. When I left, I shook his hand and then did the most inexplicable thing. Instead of hugging him, I hugged his wife, whom I had never met until that day. He had cancer of the thyroid. They knew he was terminal and had put in a tube in his trachea to help him breath. He could barely talk. I still wanted to hug him, but didn’t. Something inside me seemed to take over and direct my actions. Perhaps I should do an Active Imagination session on this. Here goes.

I close my eyes and try to concentrate on this particular event. I know someone inside me took over my actions (in real life when I was at his home), and I want to know who it was. Who is there? Speak up I know you’re there. Talk to me.

Do you mean me? (A little tiny voice says.)

Yes, I mean you. I see this little boy down on the ground. Get up here. I want to know why you did that.

Don’t shout at me, I’m afraid.

Why did you do it?

I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to hug him. He smelled bad from the cancer, and I was afraid I’d hurt him when I hugged him. I was afraid.

Why didn’t you let me decide what to do. Now I’ve got to live with this.

But the kid has slunk back down, and now he’s turned into something.

Stop it, I say. Get back here. Quit changing.

But he won’t quit. He’s now lost his arms and legs, and his head is beginning to loose its shape. He’s turned into a slug right before my eyes and just slinks away.

Well, I guess I could have handled that better. Maybe next time I shouldn’t be so angry with him. Maybe I should try to help him with his fear. One thing about Active Imagination, you always get a second chance. He’ll be around again causing me to do something stupid. Fear is a big problem for me, and I have now corralled the cause of it.

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