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Page 2.
 What was I running from? Nothing happy or good, I would imagine. I was in such psychic pain that I was trembling and sobbing when Fanna led me across into the dream world to begin my healing. I imagine I was on a couch at CTI in their staidly ritzy, Victorian-era Bankers' Hill offices near Balboa Park. I have no idea. I don't know, and I really don't want to know, what misery I was freeing myself of. I simply didn't know then, and I still don't really know now. But it doesn't matter. What is important is what happens on the dream side, which changes your life on the other side. You never go back to victimhood, to oppression, to fear, to inhibition, to guilt (over nothing, really). You become a female gorilla let out of her cage. ROAR! See? I am woman and I can ROAR all I want, dammit. I will roar, and I do roar all I want. Actually, I got over the roaring part pretty quickly and started to ask Fanna and the other people in my dreams: What now? How can I help others? There is so much to do. There are so many poor souls to help—men and women alike, who need this espish therapy. I am an adept, come to find out. Maybe my story will help you feel better.
Once you cross through that portal from waking to dreaming, you remember nothing of the other side. When you are dreaming, you have little to no idea about your real life, except that it is probably not as happy and empowered as the dream world. When you are awake, at the same time, you remember nothing of your healing dreams. The motto is: What happens in your dreams stays in your dreams. That's how this works.
I was shaking like a lost puppy. My face felt as if it were streaked with tears, and my eyes ached from being washed in hot salty tears. I had no idea what my deep grief was all about, and that ripped sense of loss, but I still felt the pain. I felt like the dry heat after a house fire has been put out.
"The past is behind you now," she said comfortingly. We were two females, standing in a confined space with a high ceiling that seemed to taper off into dreams—maybe even into dark space sprinkled with stars.
My only answer was a dry, racking sob. I had run out of tears.
"What are you feeling?" she said. Her name was Fanna, an otherworldly handle on a tall, wraithy female with long ice-blonde hair, a pale lovely face of indeterminate race, but human species, and gentle—that was all I cared about.
She was a few inches taller than me. I am average everything—looks, height, cleverness, you name it. As I have come to accept myself, I lost weight just be feeling good about myself. I have a nice body with good curves in all the right places. I am that woman men only notice when the beautiful, shouty blondes leave the room. My hair (which I could turn to gold or white in my dreams, if I wished, but I choose to be me) is a rich, dark forest brown with hints of amber and glints of sunlight. My face is pretty in an understated way, with clean lines and large, happy dark eyes. My mouth is full and laughy (pardon how I make up words; I really don't give a fuck, okay, and here you don't need to). I have a good tongue, and kiss well and long. The men I have kissed always want to come back for more. They want to feel me, running their palms over my thighs, their fingers over my cheeks and forehead as they gaze into my eyes. I also know what dresses I look best in. I prefer to wear loose fitting, dark, richly tailored dresses in cottons or silks, colored anywhere from plum to merlot. It makes me look more alluring and mysterious. I have power in the dream world, even though I am so very average. It's all about attitude.
So there we were, during my transition. I was a shivering, sniveling wreck with swollen eyes and runny mascara. My lips quivered endlessly as I blubbered in misery. I forget if I kept my arms folded around me for dear life, or if I kept reaching out to steady myself on Fanna's elbow (something to cling to in my desperation).
Fanna's large eyes sparkled with golden slivers, while the irises seemed to change shades of color in a range from light greens to light blues and a lot of rainy gray in-between. She wore a long, straight gown that fit her slender form, showing only white slippers wrapped in gilded ribbons on the concrete floor. Were we in a parking garage? Was I dreaming? Of course I was dreaming.
"I feel—" I started to say as we just began to entered. That's when I really started crying. See, that's the first part of release—the waterfall of tears and grief, letting go. It's the moment when you cannot go on. It's the moment when you want to throw yourself on the ground and die. Only I wanted to live, and Fanna would not let me down. My eyes ached, so I must have been crying a lot. They burned, but I could not remember. I was all in. I started to sag to my knees, feeling woozy, but Fanna caught me in a surprisingly strong grip on a steely arm, slender as it might be, and almost transparent like pure ice. No, there was warmth under that hard skin. She was an ancient spirit, but young as the day was new. I collapsed against her tender form, into her healing embrace.
I don't know how long I sobbed blindly before the tears ran out, maybe dried by a baking heat in my cheek bones. My eyes burned from the grief I felt. My soul felt torn into rags with loss.
When I grew still, she gently released me so I stood on my own two feet. I felt strong now. The air was fresh and sweet, as if we were on a mountain top overlooking pine forests on a spring day.
"You are ready to move on," Fanna said. She pointed behind me, and I turned to look. Behind us was a tall, narrow closed doorway, two wings, made of something like dull clean copper. It was engraved with all sorts of enigmatic designs that looked like an otherworldly alphabet. High up on the door frame was a sign in my own language, which read: "Awaken."
"What does it mean?" I asked, feeling embarrassed at my newborn emptiness, a void of knowledge.
"It means there is a new life out there when you wake up."
"So where are we?" As I asked, the space around us became more clear. We were in a concrete looking shaft, almost a well, or an elevator. Ahead of me was a door like the other, only it said: "Dream."
"You will never be the same," Fanna said, raising her hands. Slowly, the Dream portal swung open. At first, it revealed only roiling white vapor.
"Am I dead? Is this heaven?"
Fanna laughed. "You are asleep, Rosemary. This is your very own special dream world. This is where your healing is going to begin, right now."
"What happened to me?" I asked, inwardly grabbing at shreds and snatches of a vanishing memory of terrible dark things. The awful things I had been through were evaporating, the way fresh wind blows in through a newly opened window and clears away fetid odors and smoke. Soon it is as nothing had been there, just this beautiful spring breeze scented with greens, with flower breath, with just a hint of warmth that penetrates aching bones and relaxes tight muscles.
"What happened to you back in your life is now a stale, broken house of cards that has been knocked down and can never reassemble itself. You are free, Rosemary. You still have a long life ahead of you, and you can do anything you want. We are here to help you."
"We?" I asked, holding my hands awkwardly behind my back. I looked down. I am not so bad looking. I saw a reasonably nice, slender figure in a kind of almost velour, merlot skirt, a puffy white blouse with short, trimmed sleeves and tiny pastel flowers embroidered on the hems. Looking down, I saw strong, feminine legs with nice even feet trapped in soft black leatherish quarter heel shoes. Brushing my palms down over myself, I felt a soft but tight stomach (maybe a little puffier than I'd like) and behind me just a little more behind than would have been desirable, but firm and smooth. I was not wearing stockings or underwear. Reaching up, I felt my puffy, tear-swollen face. I used my fingertips to squeeze the burning hollows of my drenched-out eyes. Quickly, I ran my hands up over my head, feeling thick, straight hair captured in a cloth band. I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland, in the old picture books, the way my hair fanned out and fell halfway down my back.
"We," she said. "We are your Helpers. Welcome to your Sexual Garden. This is your Sensual, Sexual Healing dream world. You need not worry about anything except being good to yourself and to others you meet here."
"There are others here?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious about my appearance and the lack of underwear. I could remember nothing about my life, so I had no idea if I'd been homely or overweight or dressed dowdy or who knows—a lot of frankly scared imagines flittered through my mind.
Fanna laughed. "Yes, there are others. Many of the souls you will meet here are Helpers. Others are Healing, like yourself. This is a hospital of dreams, we like to say."
"Do I get to go back?" I asked. "My life—"
"You will go back before you know it. Your life out there in the waking world is already better because the things that made it hurt are either gone or fading away. A lot of the things we worry about, including the pain in our past, is just weather."
"Weather?"
"Weather, Rosemary. Think of it as weather or not. We can choose to live under a cloud of bad memories, or we can choose not to. That's whether or not. Think of it this way. Memories are no different than dreams. They exist only in your head. So if you are asking—how can this be happening? Is this real? Think about it: your memories, including some very bad ones, are just like dreams in your head. Here in the dream hospital, we fix all that. When you grow into your new self, you will be able to control your feelings. You'll be able to blow your pain and sadness away, as the wind blows clouds away over the mountain tops, never to return. Did you know that clouds are mostly made of water, Rosemary?"
I had to smile. I'm not so dumb. "I know that." Why didn't I think of things like this to say?
"Clouds are made mostly of tears, Rosemary. You know what else is in clouds? Particles of dust and dirt. Think of shaking your pillow out, and all those icky mites fly away. When the sun comes out and shines her warm light into those gray old clouds, or even the big puffy white ones that are actually the most watery and tearful, filled with dust and must, that's when all the rain falls, that's when all the tears fall like they just did with you, and next thing you know, you are smiling with the sun herself."
"I thought the sun is a guy," I said.
"The sun is sometimes a guy and sometimes a woman," Fanna said. "It's all about mythology. These dreams are all about mythology. I can tell you this. In every culture there has ever been, the sun and the moon are opposite genders. For the Germans and the Japanese, for example, the sun is a woman and the moon is a guy. For most modern cultures, the sun is a guy and that lovely orb lighting the night sky is a mysterious beauty like the Mona Lisa in the painting."
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