Lucid Dreams

I had a pretty wild experience last night, as I was falling asleep. For a few years now, I’ve been experiencing “lucid dreams” on a regular basis. I was trying to describe what it means to dream lucidly to my friend Jim. Basically I understand it like this:

Have you ever noticed, as you’re drifting off to sleep, the beginnings of a dream? And upon noticing, you become more alert, and the dream ceases to exist? I think this phenomenon relates to asmita – the ego-functioning of the mind. We might also define asmita as the portion of the mind that identifies with whatever it perceives – the action of the subject attaching to its objects.

How does this relate to waking and dream states? When you’re awake, the ego mind is actively involved in the perception of experiences. But when you’re asleep, the ego mind is unconscious, and the subconscious and the remaining unconscious is free to express whatever it wishes to express.

For the most part, we don’t remember these expressions upon waking. When we re-assimilate the ego into our consciousness, we can only remember the impression these expressions leave behind.

Lucid dreaming exists somewhere between the states of waking and dreaming. It’s as if the ego pauses at the threshold between the two. The subconscious and unconscious minds freely express themselves, in the form of a dream, as the ego stands at the door, watching the spectacle unfold. Asmita is aware, but it is not attached to the objects of its perception.

The retention of ego-awareness has an extraordinary effect on the dream itself. The dream is rendered much vividly than normal – or at least more vividly than we remember it to have been upon waking.

Here is my “lucid dream” from last night:

My brother and I sat in an empty movie theatre, looking up at the screen, which was actually a porthole to outer space. The screen also served as a medium for the projection of our thoughts – a blank canvas. We were creating music. The music was a combination of different styles. It was a mix of techno and trance, with a low, repeating bass drum. Layered upon it were the gentle strums of a guitar, or perhaps a lute. The music was ominous, yet with a playful, haunting quality.

The strangest part of it was that I could hear the music as clearly as I would if it had been playing on the radio. It was incredibly crisp and all-encompassing.

Suddenly the dream shifted and I was boarding a yellow school bus with a group of monks. The monks wore red robes and all were lost in their own respective trances. The music was still playing loudly in the background, except now, the sound of all of us chanting Om was layered on top of it. Just as with the music, I could hear the Om as clearly as I could hear the music – I could even feel its resonance within my body.

At this point in the dream, I spotted a dwarf among the monks, and immediately I knew he was somehow functioning at a higher level of consciousness than the rest of us. I had a strong desire to drop to my knees and stare deeply into his eyes as we chanted Om, but almost in the same moment, I was overcome by the knowledge that doing so was forbidden, and by a force outside of my control, I closed my eyes and focused all of my attention on the sound of Om.

When I opened my eyes, the scene changed again, and now I was sitting across from a woman who excitedly reported she had just experienced the same dream sequence as I had. We were laughing and practically jumping with excitement over the sheer trippiness and cosmic nature of it all.

Eventually the dream dissipated and I returned to the darkness of my room. There were a few precious moments where I could still hear the compelling music I knew was the product of my creative mind. I sat in awe, trying to prolong the state as long as possible. But as my ego-mind became more aware of this desire, and more analytical of the remnants of the dream state, the music faded and then stopped altogether. All that remained was an impression of it – similar to the memory of a normal dream, yet different. Different since I knew I had been awake through the entirety of the dream, as opposed to being asleep.

So, what does all this mean?

A huge part of me wants to latch onto this and assume I’m receiving messages from the spiritual realm. The “scientist” in me wants to analyze this from a strictly material and psychological point of view. Yet another part of me is aware that all of these dimensions affect each other, and that the experience is an interplay among all of them, so forming any conclusion whatsoever would be a kind of folly.
I’m trying very hard to become more comfortable with mystery, yet maintain the same degree of curiosity and analytical reasoning. Surrendering to the unknown is not my strongest suit.

I’ve had a little bit of "monkey-mind" in the past few days, in the aftermath of the class plan due date. As Jennifer said the other night, "That thing was a BEAR!" Indeed it was. I’m surprised by how neurotic I’ve been about the whole thing. I’m still obsessing over it.

I feel like I should be working out my theme, since I didn’t flesh it out the first time around. As I stated loosely in my plan, my theme is going to center on evolution. But in what respect? I have to admit, Paul (my ex, who is taking Dhyana's teacher training) really raised the bar as far as I’m concerned, with his pictures of the universe and galaxies and all that jazz. He inspired me to really make something of my presentation. I’m satisfied with my sequencing, even excited about it, but what on earth am I going to say?

When I first began a regular meditation practice, I had the good fortune to be able to spend my lunch hour at a state park, which was right next to my office complex. I would find a fairly secluded spot, and spend at least an hour with my eyes closed. I would either lie in Savasana on top of a picnic table, or I would sit on a rock near a creek. I had no formal knowledge of how to meditate. But I did know that if I closed my eyes and listened closely to the sounds of nature, the churnings of my mind would come to a halt.

After a little while of just listening, of paying close attention to the distinct sounds of the external world – the birds, the trickling water, the wind through the trees – my perception of those sounds gradually morphed into something holistic. I was able to perceive the sum total of the sounds as a hum. If I could describe it in visual terms, it would be a glow. The sound had luster. And there was a certain freedom in that perception, a kind of bliss. Yet I knew this was not the bliss the ancient adepts had promised. It was too mundane – too gross.

Over time, my relationship to the hum changed. It gradually became an entry point into something new. But what? Now I know the hum led me toward sense withdrawal – pratyhara – but at the time I never heard of that term or concept before. Intuitively, it made sense, but I never know it was a specific technique to lead one to deeper states of consciousness.

So, when the senses stop engaging with the external world, they instead turn inward. But that is not even completely accurate. It’s more accurate to say that the senses stop engaging, period.

And then what happens? Perception still occurs. Synapses are still firing. We began to "see" and "hear" on the inside. We begin to observe more clearly the activity of our minds, when they are not engaged with external material. And what do we find? What have I found?

I guess I’ll save that for another day. All of this is so hard for me to express. But I’m just glad I’m trying. I trust that someday I’ll be able to get it all out in some coherent, relatable form.