I woke from a dream early this morning in which I had just been told to “add gold to the ocean.”
“How one can add anything to the absolute?” I was asking aloud as, still under the influence of my dream, I came to consciousness with no idea to whom I had been replying.
I lay in bed washed up on the shore of the new morning with enough daylight flooding the room to dispel the already receding gossamer substance of my dream. Then, unexpectedly, I heard a response to the quickly dissolving question of how or what one can add to the absolute.
“That is the mystery of life.” I heard myself say—which was not the first call and response exchange I have had in moments of transition from the world of dream to wakefulness. And it wasn’t over.
“We each add to the completeness. We each have something to contribute to the whole,” I said, listening as if to someone else.
I did not rush to get out of bed so that I might remain on the shore of that deep, roiling, mysterious ocean of sleep, so I could continue as a guest of that great vast consciousness so easily silenced by bright light, loud thought, fast preoccupied movement.
Add gold to the ocean, I pondered, holding the invitation with a large measure of delight and wonder.
Then I thought of the novel I am birthing this year. The Tremble of Love, A Novel of the Baal Shem Tov right now is my gold, my contribution of beauty to the whole.
The enchanting invitation to add gold to the ocean gradually diffused like dew in the heat of the morning sun, its only trace, my memory of that sweet, alluring command.
So what is the gold you are adding to the ocean of life at this time? I would love to know.
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