*“In sleep, the spirit paints its truths,
In symbols, its quiet confessions.
And upon waking, the dream becomes a mirror.”*
Revealing the Hidden Masterpiece
It was sometime past midnight when I awoke from a dream, one of those that leaves an aftertaste not of confusion but of quiet wonder. In the dream, I was playing a strange game of catch with a young man—someone eager to prove himself, though by the end he had surrendered the effort. We were throwing back and forth odd objects, not balls but curious things, one of which I recognized as the rubber ring I use in waking life to strengthen my grip. There was something symbolic about that—testing one’s hold, the endurance of effort, the playfulness of strength.
The scene shifted, as dreams do, and I found myself in a house shared by a group of young adults. One of the young women, with Chinese or perhaps Korean features, began to make subtle advances, while another woman gently tried to dissuade her. Soon, a group of men entered, and I came to understand that this woman was already married, her husband the leader among them. The episode seemed to dissolve the moment any shadow of desire appeared. In its place, I felt only a reminder of boundaries and respect—the quiet strength that lies in restraint.
Then came another shift: I was in a car with my daughter, driving through heavy rain. She cut off a black Humvee, and when we looked back, it was filled with men who resembled cartel henchmen, their faces full of anger. I felt a flash of fear rise, but I responded not with defense or aggression; instead, I raised my hand, wagged my finger as if to say “no, no,” and then pressed my palms together in gassho—a simple prayer of peace. Instantly, the threat was gone, like mist before the morning sun.
We arrived at what looked like my old high school, and before us stood a tall pillar, caked with layers of dirt and neglect. I took a wet rag and began to wipe away the grime. Bit by bit, beneath the mud, colors began to bloom—two murals, vibrant and alive. The lower one touched my heart with a deep sense of reverence: it was the proud face of a Native American Chief, wearing a full war bonnet, his eyes filled with timeless dignity. Behind me, two young women giggled, one of them my daughter. “Wow!” they exclaimed. “You revealed a masterpiece!” And I smiled, knowing they were right.
For in that moment, I realized something profound: I was no longer lost, no longer searching for my way home. The act of uncovering that mural—of revealing beauty long hidden by the dust of years—was like uncovering my own soul. The masterpiece was never gone, only buried.
I awoke with gratitude in my heart. Sometimes, the dream world is kinder than waking life—it offers us the mirror of our inner journey. In mine, I found not confusion but clarity, not longing but return. I was, for once, home.
Author’s Note:
Dreams often arrive as messengers, bearing truths wrapped in symbols. This one reminded me that beneath all the layers of confusion, desire, fear, and time itself, there lies a masterpiece waiting to be uncovered—the pure, unpainted essence of being. To wipe the dirt from the pillar is to wipe the dust from the mirror of the mind. What we find beneath may not only be beauty, but remembrance.
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