Last night, I experienced a dream that lingered throughout Mass; thoughts and images nicely roaming in my mind. I was visiting a Catholic family from my young adult years. I was friends with the eldest son. The mother and children of the family were hosting a gathering. Distinctly, I recognized among those attending a distant friend, Joe, a decadent leader of what we perceived as artistic expressive years—a time of experience, the enduring of lost innocence, desperately searching for identity. Joe was lying face down on the floor, not speaking to anyone, ignoring everyone. Polite conversation flowed otherwise.
In a dream-state fashion, I was reclining upon a comfortable couch, at ease with the conversation. The family always presented an amiable environment, encouraging conversation. There were three brothers and two sisters, along with the mother. The father was absent, passing away ten years or so in the past, collapsing on Christmas Eve while descending basements steps for the unwrapping of Christmas gifts. A cat was lying upon my chest. Upbeat, the cat began soulfully singing a Motown classic.
I remember mama said, “you can’t hurry love
No, you’ll just have to wait”
She said, “love don’t come easy
It’s a game of give and take”
How long must I wait
How much more must I take
Before loneliness
Will cause my heart, heart to break
The cat sang wonderfully. If it were not odd enough that a cat could sing, I noticed the cat never moved her mouth while singing. Her emotionally tinged words resonated in my mind, relaxing and putting me at ease. Her singing continued.
I looked to the mother of the family, complimenting her cat’s musical expression.
“You can hear her singing.”
“Yes.”
“Nice. Not many can perceive her precious vocal abilities.”
Ceasing her performance, the cat rose upon my chest, stretching, dragging her aged body off of mine. She walked back and forth upon the crest of the couch’s back. Lumbering, she difficultly made her way to the couch’s arm, and then the floor, walking in a circle, parading herself. I realized the cat was old, so old I feared she was near the end of her life. The cat halted her movement, staring into my eyes. I called for her. Awkwardly, she made her way back onto my chest. She spoke.
“My voice is young, innocent, hopeful, emotionally carefree, yet my body is old. My body brings forth a desire to die, to leave this world. I have lived nine lives, as they say, and now I am content with an end. However, buried deeply, I harbor regrets, longing for the days of my youth when I was arrogantly wise–stupid in fact, yet brave, sly, willing and agile. I want to relive my youth—to do all the same things over again—to be kinder and more considerate of others, less concerned with myself. Yet I accept that will never happen. Now all I have is my singing and that is limited since so few can hear the song within my mind and heart. The mother over there is a captive audience. She has always been able to hear me sing, even when I was the little kitten she first adopted.”
I looked back to the mother of the family, yet as it happens in a dream, things unrealistically changed. The mother was now the Virgin Mary. Our Holy Mother bowed her head in divine humility, raising her hands, palm upwards, as she lowered her face from sight. A tangible holiness spread throughout my dream perceptions.
The cat continued. “So…you see Her also. Excellent. I have something to tell you. Listen closely. You must understand that demons are lurking about, in fact a vast demonic patrol follows you around. They sense there is grace being dispensed. Their mischievous and jealous natures demand they interfere. However, with the Simple One of Grace so near they are blinded. You must comprehend the vitality of simplicity. Demons despise the simple. The simple ways of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Savior of Mankind, His simple ways confound and paralyze them. They command complexity, clamoring for chaos. Mary, the Handmaid of God, the Queen of Heaven, her simplicity also renders them useless and defeated. Where they call forth a battle, she returns nothing to contend with, simply and instantly crushing them. They desire details, dispute, debate, and confrontation, constantly seeking nooks and crannies in which to hide and lodge a base for their desperate need to challenge, their perpetual effort of usurpation. They thrive in an abundance of words and the proliferation of ideas. Remain simple, let your Yes be a Yes and your No be a No; refrain from too many words. Keep your words minimal. The more you speak, the more you present to the world, the more cracks and crevices you present to the demonic. Vanity of vanities, the more you try, the more you offer the demonic a niche in which to entrench themselves. You may think you are fighting against Satan, only to turn and realize he is right there next to you, urging you on with a passion.”
I moved my attention from the prophetess cat and her eternal words, focusing upon Joe lying prostrate upon the floor. He was miserable, forlorn and submissive. However, interiorly I knew an obstinacy ruled. He always needed to feel he was in control. The cat desired to be free of her aged body not to escape pain, yet to transform into that which was freedom–a higher state of being, maturity and moving forward. The cat respected her past, while remaining lovingly detached from it. Joe, collapsed within the futility of brokenness, never gave up on his delusions. He was dependently stuck in his past. His will had always, and would always, rule. In truth, his tenacious and ferocious will was the root of all his problem, yet habituation and stubbornness would never allow brutal honesty to call for a penetrating self-introspection. The freeing of himself from his dominating will could never be achieved. His vulnerability to sin had advanced to addiction, a dependence upon pride and consumption. Advancing into his elderly years, he was forced to consume the world with his bitterness and frustration, able to strike out only in the perversion of his mind. At a time when his heart should be growing softer, he forced it to grow hard: scirrhous, thorny, and calloused. His only solace was sin, and within the sin only torment—advanced unrecognized shame existed where shame had long since been corroded away; guilt replaced by a ceaseless blinding numbness. In the dream of a reconciling familial sharing, he could only collapse into a silent recoiling, unable to express himself or recognize others.
The dream inconclusively advanced into a lack of comprehension.
