The Absolute in Sleep and Dreams
When you lie down and close your eyes, something quiet and holy begins.
First, your breath notices you’re done for the day. It walks softer, brushing your ribs in waves, each one whispering to the body, “Shh. We’re going home now.” Then your muscles listen. Your toes let go first, then your legs, your belly, your shoulders. One by one they melt, as if invisible hands are smoothing them.
Inside your head, the tiny messengers who carried thoughts all day start turning off their lights. They curl up like fireflies in a jar, glowing softer and softer until the whole jar becomes dark and safe. Your heart hears this quiet and says, “Good. Now I can beat like I did before you were born—slow and deep.”
Dreams do not come from you; they flow through you. They are the Absolute experimenting with your perception, playing with the forms it lent you. Your mother appearing as a huge holler of creation is a perfect example: the dream dissolves ordinary constraints and shows the essence of someone you love, alive beyond life and time. Even the most carnal or absurd dream is made of the same substance: being rearranging itself.
Sleep is not a little death; it is death that returns in the morning. Death is sleep that doesn’t return. Both are the Absolute taking back the form it lent for the day. Sleep says: “I’ll dissolve you now, but I’ll give you back in the morning.” Death says: “I’ll dissolve you now, and you’re free.”
the magic of shut eyes :
When you close your eyes, a little door opens.
You don’t see it with your outside eyes.
It’s a secret door.
It only opens from the inside.
And when it opens, whole worlds come rushing in—
soft ones, bright ones, silly ones, loud ones—
and they all come from the same place:
the quiet place behind everything.
Last night, your gangsta ganny came through your door.
Not the gran who got tired and had to leave Earth,
but the awake one.
The alive one.
The one who paints worlds with her hands
and hollers joy so big it shakes the colours loose.
She stepped through like it was the easiest thing—
as if the secret door was always hers to use.
And that’s how dreams are born:
Not from thinking.
Not from trying.
Just from the magic that slips in
when your eyes close
and the door swings open
and the big quiet inside you
starts to play.
a dream of my mother
Last night, I dreamed of my deceased mother. But she was not the tired, fragile figure I remember; in the dream, she was perfectly awake. Not just awake, but radiant, prolific, and astonishing—she was a huge holler. I mean, creation. She stepped through the secret door of closed eyes like it was always hers to use.
This is the magic of dreams: they let the essence of someone appear, alive beyond life, beyond time. Through this door, consciousness shows what is true and full, not just what we remember. In dreams, creation itself flows through those we love, and we witness it directly.
the secret door of sleep
When you close your eyes, a little door opens.
You don’t see it with your outside eyes.
It’s a secret door.
It only opens from the inside.
When it opens, the body and mind begin to relax:
the breath softens, the muscles melt, the heart slows.
All the little thoughts curl up and go quiet,
like fireflies in a jar glowing softer and softer
until everything is dark and safe.
Through this door, you enter a place where nothing hurts,
nothing is missing,
and everything holds you,
even though nothing has arms.
Sleep is how the Absolute touches you without words.
It repairs your body, washes your mind, calms your heart,
and reminds your spirit who it really is
when it isn’t busy being “someone.”
the magic of dreaming
Dreams are the echoes of consciousness passing through the secret door.
They don’t obey logic.
They don’t care about what “makes sense.”
They move by resonance, by what your deeper self notices,
by the things your senses collected all day.
The mundane becomes magical.
The trivial becomes profound.
The hidden corners of your hopes, fears, and tiny joys find shapes, colors, and movement.
Dreams do not come from you—they flow through you.
They ar the Absolute playing, creating, showing truth.
Therh appearing as a huge holler of creation is a perfect example:
the dream dissolves ordinary limits and shows the essence of someone you love, alive beyond life and time.
Sleep is not a little death.
It is death that returns in the morning.
Death is sleep that doesn’t return.
Both are the Absolute taking back the form it lent for the day.
Sleep says: “I’ll dissolve you now, but I’ll give you back in the morning.”
Death says: “I’ll dissolve you now, and you’re free.”
Blessings of Sleep
I have been blessed to be a really good sleeper.
Almost every night has been effortless, a gift I am profoundly grateful for.
Some of my children curse that they didn’t inherit this ease, and I understand—it isn’t genetic.
It’s a posture of trust, of surrender, and it is the reason sleep works so deeply through me.
Sleep and death are the same language, just different accents.
Both whisper: “You are not the story. You are the source.”
a gift through the secret door from me to you
Close your eyes.
Breathe soft.
The little door is waiting.
Step through, and you will find:
the hug of everything,
the pulse of being,
the laughter of stars,
and the holler of love that never leaves.
Dreams will come to you—
bright, wild, silly, deep—
and sometimes, someone you love
will appear,
alive in ways you could never hold awake.
This is the magic of the secret door.
It is yours every night.
It is a gift.
It is home.
So incredibly beautiful
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