Gift of Sight

Meditation, for me, is more visually vivid than dreaming.

When I first began regular meditation last spring, I had a consistent vision. I would walk into a sterile white room toward a door. On the other side, I'd enter a most vital and beautiful garden. Splashes of color surrounded plush and fertile growth that spawn from beneath my feet many feet high. I'd explore and explore; and I'd always reach its end which appeared like a sharp cessation of the Earth. Only a sprawling sky was ahead. And always, I would jump.

This way I learned to fly.

Since my meditations have become increasingly visual, active and varied in their images. The only consistent image is when I begin. Instead of jumping from a cliff, I stand above what appears to be a rainforest waterfall, spread my arms, and simply fall. Like a film -- I see myself from one side, from above, and from the other side in three instant moments -- and I fall into water. I see myself meet the water from beneath in which the water is clear with a completely black background. When I make contact, the water's waves are neon blue, fusia, and orange colors. Momentarily, I feel this release. I begin from there.

Within meditation I touch suffering or conflict, large and small. I never intend to untangle it all but I find a starting point. A soft place to enter.

Above all, outside of meditation, I imagine all of my choices and their opportunities. When walking down a residential street this morning, I contemplated, "If I make thousands of choices everyday, I must see those thousands of choices that will alter my well-being." Such thoughtfulness feels like learning how to walk (really for the first time). I'm never certain to where my steps will lead, but I know each step to be true. For each choice I make with conviction, I cannot help but find myself where I want to be.