Thursday, August 04, 2011


Ever dreamt you were at the bottom of the ocean?  You can see the shimmering sliver of light above you, but no matter how much you kick your feet and tread water, you just can’t reach the top?  You’re lungs are about to burst from holding the small pocket of air, feeling every little bubble press against your chest, screaming for release and refill?  You begin to lose consciousness and get confused, not knowing up and down until blackness swarms in as you open up your mouth and inhale.

In the past when I had dreamt of being underwater and felt the pressure of airless lungs, I’m somehow was able to find the supernatural ability to breathe beneath the surface, commanding, combining and extracting the small pockets of oxygen.  But, recently my dreams have changed and my superpower of underwater breathing fails me… and I’m drowning.

Now, for those intent on interpreting this dream - I believe I already know its meaning and there isn’t a thing I can do about it.

I’ve always enjoyed my dreams, even the scary ones because the story always ended with a sense of empowerment and victory.  No matter how evil the monster, I always won.  I’ve always contributed this to the spirit to fight and overcome adversity that dwelled within me, always assuring victory, reminding me of the truly evil obstacles I’ve overcome in the past.  I really have climbed some tall mountains; some that would have destroyed and defeated your average person.  Sometimes, I’m still in awe at some of them, knowing that I could never have overcome them on my own.

Yet, here I find myself, really for the first time in my life feeling spent.  I’ve been on the battlefield for so long, and fought so many enemies, struggled through so many wars… I’m tired.  The war still rages around me, but I don’t have the strength anymore to pick up my sword.  I know if I don’t fight, the enemies that surround me will strike me down.  My standard billows behind me, acknowledging my position, yet I don’t move.  When I was young, the passion to fight and the dream of Camelot filled my head.  The ugliness of the world I saw around me didn’t have to be the world in which I lived.  I could change it, one small step at a time.  Where did my passion and my fight go?  I sit here and see Camelot filled with swords as the battle rages around me.  So much death; so much carnage.  Yet, I know there’s a land flowing with milk and honey at the end of the battle, a fortress, a place of rest filled with love and peace;  at least until the next army of enemies comes and a new fight breaks out to protect; to defend; to conquer. 

I’m as Jonah… my spirit to fight has left me and I don’t want to continue the mission of God.  I have boarded a boat going in the opposite direction, the storm has come, and I find myself in the belly of big whale that carries me into the depths.  I don’t know if I can change my heart and be spit out onto dry ground.  Why not just remain in the belly of this whale, in the darkness, in the water’s depth until no more air, no more breath, no more struggles?  My spirit is willing, but my flesh is just plain worn out!!!!  Some will say, “Think of others”.  I don’t want to think of anything.  I can’t save the world.  It’s not my job.  I can’t even save myself, I’ve not the power. 

I’m a puppet in this play, just like everyone else.  I used to dream of string-less adventures, but now I just want to be cut loose and placed in a box.  I don’t want to entertain anymore.  I don’t want to dream; dreaming hurts.  The puppet master doesn’t need me to complete the performance; he has plenty of others to fulfill his demands. 

Whether a fallen knight, a runaway prophet or a useless puppet… I’m spent.  Unless the King, the God or the puppet master lifts me up, I can’t move.  Unless He fills me with new breath, I can’t breathe.