I can be a really bad chronicler at times. Countless spiritual traditions tell us that many of us get messages from the Spirit World every night in our sleep through or dreams and that it’s a question of training ourselves of writing everything down when we wake up while the details are still fresh in our mind.
“When I was painting a picture,” he explained,” I felt that I ought to make up my bank account. When I was making up my bank account, I felt that I ought to go out for a walk. And when in a long walk, I had got five miles away from home, I realized that I ought to be , at this very moment, in front of my easel. I was constantly in flight, an exile everywhere.
“It happened by then that I and my African servant in our travels in Morocco came to a small town or village. I cannot really describe the place to you, it looked like any other North African village. It stood in a flat plain, and in itself, was nothing but a number of mud-built huts with an old, broad mud-built wall round it. The only particular thing that I remember about it is its great multitude of storks, a stork’s nest on almost every house. But at that moment when I had come through the gate in the wall, felt that this was a place of refuge. There came upon me a strange, blissful, calm, a happiness like what you feel when a high fever leaves you. “Here”, I thought, “one can remain.” “And as now I had stayed in the village for a fortnight, all the time in that same sweet peace of soul and giving no thought to the past or the future, on a day when I was once more painting a picture, an old man, am imam , came up and spoke to me.”I hear from your servant,” he said,”that you have finished your wanderings and will stay with us, since here you have found rest.” I answered him that it was as he said, but that I could not explain to myself why it should be so.
“Master,” said the old man,” I shall explain to you. There is something special about our village, things have happened here that have happened nowhere else. It came about, not when I was a boy myself but when my father was a boy of twelve, and he has related it to me as it happened. Turn your eyes to the gate in the wall behind us. Above it you will see a ledge, where two men can sit, for in the old days watchmen were here looking out for foes that might approach across the plain. To this very ledge above the gate, came the Prophet (Mohammed) himself and your Prophet, Jesus Christ. They met here to talk together of man’s lot on Earth and the means by which the people of the earth might be helped. Those standing down below could not hear what they said to one another. But they could see the Prophet, as he explained his thoughts, striking his hand against his knee, and thereupon Jesus Christ lifting his hand and answering him. They sat there, deep in talk, till night fell and the people could no longer see them. And it is from that time Master, that our village has got peace of heart to give away. “I wonder,” said Mr. Philpot, “whether a clergyman from the Church of England would have told that tale.”
Like I wrote earlier, I ‘m very bad at recalling my dreams. With few exceptions, there have been times which an entire letter with the most perfect wording was suddenly sitting in my head, a crucial letter which I needed to send to someone. Or plans I needed to act on immediately. I had one dream while I was living in Turkey which I still cannot forget. It was *that* vivid and *that* real and sitting down to write it, came effortlessly. I don’t know what it means, but there is a symbolic message there and like Dinesen’s excerpt above, the similarities are obvious.
March 12, 2001
I dreamt that dozens of people saw Muhammad AND Jesus in Central Park, New York City at the same time, at two different ends of the park.
The group of people who saw Muhammad, saw him walk on water and apparently he had all the signs of being *the* Muhammad, according to one eyewitness, who himself was an Islamic scholar and a devout one at that. His name was Aziz, I think. Suddenly, tents were going up on the spot he had been and all the witnesses, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, suddenly had become men and women of contemplation. They renounced their old lives as businesspeople, students, whatever, to merely devote their life to study and think about the Infinite.
As for the other, second group that saw Jesus, well this being New York City in the 21st century, needless to say these are people who are a little aggressive, jaded, cynical and sceptical. So they needed stronger proof than walking on water. There was a rain of coins, twice. The first time, the coins were a coppery colour, but they were not pennies. They were Abraham Lincoln two-dollar coins, a very , very limited rare edition. That wasn’t enough proof. Then there was a second rain, this time of platinum coins. It was a Jefferson three-dollar coin which has never been made in the first place. Finally everyone caught on, it really was Jesus, but like Muhammad, the two of them disappeared as mysteriously as they appeared.
In my dream, I showed up in the park immediately after the incidents, I didn’t see the actual events. It was not quite yet pandamonium with religious fanatics, the clergy, scientists and reporters but the build-up of the oncoming media frenzy had just started. The park was already full of hundreds of people, onlookers and curiosity mongers, people running everywhere, crying, laughing, chaos.
I remember walking down one path and seeing these two hacky-sack looking guys, sitting cross-legged on the grass merely staring at the two stacks of coins they had collected in front of them, one stack of each denomination. The guys were totally out of it, in a daze. I looked at each coin. They were real alright, but somehow they looked like they were already starting to melt.
What could all this mean?