Many years ago the Beloved starting coming into my dreamtime. He would take the form of an old lover and beckon me into the consummation of earth, air, fire and water. Each time was an alchemy of the heart. I knew not to worry about the form or the vehicle in the dreamtime. Once it was Krishnamurti before I even knew who he was. The dreamscape was a modern American home. The young man was an Indian man in his twenties in a western style suit. I was beholden by my immense love for him. The most exquisite thing I have ever felt, awake or dreaming. Imagine a year later when I picked up a Krishnamurti book and discovered there a picture of him in his twenties in a western style suit.
Last night the beloved boy came again. Continually awakening I was, and then diving back in. How my heart was bursting like pomegranate seeds spilling forth. Layer after layer of seeds, hidden in caverns as the flesh is pulled away. Delightfully I bleed this ruby red juice and we swim in it. I die in this place with him and we shine like dolphins and there is no greater happiness.
These dreams are always about the boy. The beauty of the boy. I say boy, not man because boy captures something about the wildness. But not the immaturity. I have been in love with this boy for eons. I have never sought him in worldly relationship. He doesn’t live there except in glimpses or reflections. To analyze it as an integration of my “masculine” is a reduction of the immensity of the Love. It is a much larger mystery. One that feels thousands of years ripe.
The beauty of the boy. It’s a mantra in my heart.
