Deshimaru was not a fan of dreams or dream interpretations. He considered dreams to be more delusion piled upon our waking delusion. And dream interpretations as still more delusion piled on the delusions piled on delusion.
Dreams can certainly be worthless, and certain dreams are more worthless than others. Also, some forms of dream interpretation can be worthlessness piled on worthlessness.
But dreams can be just as revelatory as anything else in our conscious or unconscious life of delusion. After all, as his teacher said, echoing Dogen, “Delusion itself is satori.”
This weekend I went to a gallery opening of textile art. One of the pieces was by a death doula, one who helps the dying to navigate the liminal space between this world and the next. A psychopomp.
Her pieces were woven shrouds hanging midair from the ceiling like ghosts. They could have been mistaken for very long runners on those endless banquet tables in a medieval monastery.
They reminded me of a dream I had recently of my Zen teacher Robert Livingston. He often comes to me in dreams whenever I am writing his life story. He sometimes talks to me. I can’t remember if he did this time, and if he did I can’t remember what he said.
He just lay down lengthwise on the table where the long white runner was laid. I folded it over to cover him head to toe. Then I picked him up and carried him in my arms like a child. Like Mary holding Christ.
The remarkable thing was that he was so light. Like a doll made of marshmallows and styrofoam, with sticks for bones. Like a bird. Light as a feather. Light as a father. Light as a whisper. Light as air. Light as light.
—-Richard Collins
Georg Ehrlich (Austrian-American, 1897-1966). Pietà, 1923, etching. National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.