Sitting in the passenger seat, while my friend drove north on the 405 freeway, I looked straight ahead, aware that Los Angeles International Airport was on my left. It was a clear, warm day as we whirled past slower cars.
Suddenly, without a breath of warning, a tsunami style wall of Pacific blue water appeared directly in front of the car. The wall towered over us and death seemed imminent. It was a powerful force of water with a capacity to swallow us up as if we were nothing—two ants on one of the busiest freeways in the country, if not the world.
The fear had hit hard for a few seconds and then bam, we hit that wall of water, and in a flash, we continued our drive north on the freeway. The California sun shined again and when I turned to look back behind us, there was no trace of any water at all.
“Well, we got through that,” I heard myself say in a casual voice to explain a death-defying event. I was unscathed on the other side of a tsunami wave in life. I glanced at my friend and caught her giving me a definite nod that explained the calm acknowledgement between us—we had both just smoothly sailed against the impossible.
I shifted from sitting in the car with my friend…to being alone where a raging fire loomed behind me. I stared at the fire and murmured, “Oh, it’s a fire again,” while recalling fires in the Santa Barbara hills. It dawned on me that I should call a fireman—I need a fireman to keep me safe. I had no cell phone to use to call for help. There was no one in sight. I was standing there with a ferocious fire in the background that was moving closer and closer, as if chasing me, but somehow knew I’d be OK even if I remained in that space by myself without a strong hand to guide me. The fireman didn’t show up—no friend, no family, no dashing lover to protect me. I observed the scary blazing wall of fire moving fast toward me, but I didn’t run.
The tsunami wall of water and menacing fire didn’t harm me. I wondered why. A floating thought came to me that there must be a reason I was safe and alive and that I’d gotten through many life-threatening moments and chapters. This was just one more. My feet propelled me forward as I felt them firmly walking on the earth. I turned around to look behind me and saw the fire fading in the background like the backdrop of a movie set.
I woke from this realistic dream when birds were just waking to begin their chirping chorus in the red glow of sunrise. It rendered me immobile because I was riveted. I was going over every detail. Ideas swept over me and circled around my head. They circled the bed where I lay, unharmed by tidal waves and flaming fire, cozy under my creamy colored imperfect duvet, in the womb of walls emitting a graceful green-blue as if I woke in the sensation of being under the warm sea. I knew there was a profound message to grasp and I formed the conclusion that the dream was symbolic to my life.
It was as if these massive and frightening disasters—natural disasters that meant that life could be over in a minute (both occurring in one brief dream at dawn)—were simply something to rise above, as if they were everyday events. Many who know me would consider it a fair assessment that life has thrown me several unusually harrowing events, and even critical challenges, that I continue to be presented with, deal with, and overcome. A seasoned survivor, I got through cancer twice but teetered on the real possibility of going to the light. It’s as if the Universe was telling me, “OK, you managed those alarming episodes. Give this next blow a shot and see how you do!”
Life has been the duality of survivor and dreamer—each struggling to find a way to work together. Like the hummingbirds, my toddler instincts led me to fight for dominance in order to survive. When I see myself as a mermaid, swimming free, warm, safe, and happy, I’m the dreamer. Both roles served me in the navigation of my life.
What the spirit can endure is truly a phenomenon—one as miraculous as all that spins far above us in an endless celestial roof conspiring to create sparkling awe. For all of us romantics, we can be wrapped in the lovely cosmic knowing that we, human beings, are made of star-stuff. Romanticism’s opposite is scientific fact: We are made of the same atoms as stars—imagine that—star DNA. We beings share the mystical power of planetary star splendor that connects us to a sea of vast, magical potential—and carries us to shimmering star-filled infinity.
Celestial empowerment. Indomitable indeed.