Maybe it was all that wine at dinner, but something pierced the veil.
I had my first shark dream in a very long time.
I was standing at the edge of a lagoon. The old feeling returned: I have dreamed this place before.
Although I saw no people, I somehow knew that everyone who lived in the green mountains surrounding the water worshipped Megalodon, the biggest prehistoric shark that ever lived.
While in the waking world their brethren were hooked and hauled, finned and shot, here the dream sharks ruled the water.
I couldn’t tell the waves from the frantic gray chips that broke the surface then sank again.
Is it true that the most important thing about a dream is how you felt about it upon waking?
I felt elated. Happy to be dreaming again. Happy that the sharks had come back.
Beneath that dazed ecstasy, I also felt the tug of one small mystery–the contrast between the teeming lagoon of small fins and the looming ghost of the disappeared Megalodon.
Maybe in this world there were no people. Maybe the sharks themselves were the acolytes, the worshippers of Megalodon.
And I had been privy to their sacred world, which wasn’t so much about worship or ritual but a place of pure aliveness, of pure being.