Dreamtime Revisited: Awakening to the Multiple Dimensions of Us


Call it a lucid dream, if you must, but the experience was as real to me as the act of typing these words. It was evening, one of those incredible October nights that are warm, slightly windy, with a full moon shining brightly.

I found myself walking to a nightspot known for beatniks and poets who, without a moment’s warning, would stand on a chair and recite the newest lines to be scribbled onto the page. It was crowded, yet intimate, dark but full of light. I felt alive.

Before long, I find myself walking along a sidewalk toward a friend’s house. I enter without knocking, observe the family viewing television upstairs, and then I open the door and head down to the basement.

I find myself standing there. And then suddenly…with a whoosh!…my body is moved backward against the paneled wall, and I hear a voice as clear as a bell say, "You have the power." With that, I am sitting up wide-eyed in bed, pondering what had just happened.

praying for rain

I am in the Pocono mountains, riding with a friend back to the Midwest after a road trip to New York City. We’re somewhere in Pennsylvania and the engine begins sputtering. It is hot and I’m thinking vapor lock. The car dies in a tunnel and I help push us through to the other side. I lose a sandal, glance back to see a tractor-trailer barreling down on us, so I forget the shoe and keep pushing. We make it through the tunnel and park the car on the shoulder.

We wait. We pace and wait some more. I think we need to cool the car down. I begin to think of my editor back at work, Jim Sherman, an old-school journalist who remembers lead type and card games and drinks after the latest edition has gone to bed. And then clouds roll in, rain begins to fall and the car cools down. Less than a week after I get home, my editor dies suddenly. I wonder what that momentary connection was that I shared with him as I wandered around aimlessly, praying for rain. Was he saying goodbye?

the gathering

I am dreaming again, or so I think, walking up to a very large open field. Cars are parked on both sides on the roadway, and like me, people are all walking toward what appears to be a gathering. Men, women and children are sitting on the ground…in a very large circle. There is a distinct feeling of anticipation. I see my brother nearby, and I sit down next to him.

I ask him what is going on, and he tells me that we’re all waiting for their arrival. I seem to intuitively know who they are. But what bothers me, in that moment, as if I am awake pondering what is taking place while I’m experiencing it, is that my brother would not be someone who would sit and wait for any extraterrestrial encounter. But here he is, waiting with just as much excitement as everyone else.

there’s more to us

As I write these words, feeling a tingling in my bones as if experiencing each of these events again for the first time, I get a sneaking suspicion that there’s more to us than we think. Call it a knowing.

Picture yourself as a ball of energy that happens to be anchored in your body. That ball of energy animates you as you go about your day in what most would call "the real world." But throughout the day, as you sit in front of the computer screen, as you wait in traffic, as you relax in front of the television, and as you lie down in bed and close your eyes, that ball of energy that is you is constantly reaching out and communicating with the millions of other light beings on the planet. And that ball of energy is constantly reaching out from the third dimension…the here and now…and communicating with the vast infinite intelligence in all dimensions…and beyond. Even with a part of yourself on the other side.

I think most of the beings here on Earth would explode they knew…consciously, in the here and now… the truth about who they are. To play out the game called life, here on Earth, that knowledge is better left for another day. But my question is, what about those of us who have glimpsed the other side? Yes.

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Tim Miejan
Tim Miejan is a writer who served as former editor and publisher of The Edge for twenty-five years. Contact him at [email protected].


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