Dream of: 11 December 2001 "Slave Cemetery"

The house where I had been living was filling up with people. Many faces seemed to belong to relatives – cousins, aunts, uncles – whom I hadn't seen in years. But also many old buddies, and fellows whom I had long forgotten were mixed in the crowd. The arrival so many people was unwelcome because the house was quite messy; these people had shown up at the precise moment when the house was its messiest, just before I had intended to clean up. Things were lying strewn all about. Small white feathers lay on the hardwood floor of one room, as if a pillow had been torn open and its contents scattered about.

I was also not thrilled by the arrivals because I needed to prepare for a journey I was planning to take. I had decided to travel all the around the United States by Greyhound bus. I would probably travel for a month or more, riding by day, staying in motels by night. I would pack light, just a few changes of clothes. If only all these people hadn't been here, I could start organizing and packing now. I still had some stacks of magazines which I needed to bundle up and store somewhere.

But suddenly I recalled why many of the fellows (not the relatives) had arrived: we were all supposed to go somewhere and fight someone. The details of the fight were unclear to me; I only knew the others expected me to participate, and I felt a duty to go with them. This would be chance for me to show my strength to the others. I walked over to one fellow sitting on a couch and I asked if he were ready. He indicated he was. I said it was time, and all of us made an exodus from the house. There must have been 50 of us. We all boarded cars and pickups parked outside. And soon we were on our way.

As our caravan proceeded, I reflected I didn't know any of these fellows well. I had always tended to keep to myself and not form close ties with others. But now I felt as if I might like to reach out to them. Perhaps later, when I went on my trip, I could send out postcards. I could just imagine the surprise on some of the fellows' faces when they received an unexpected postcard from me. I could see them talking to each other, comparing the postcards.

Not until we arrived at our destination did I begin to comprehend the cause of the conflict, and why we were supposed to fight someone. We all disembarked in an ancient, dark cemetery, where I was shown the cause of the problem. Sitting prominently among the scattered little tombstones was a bold gray new monument – about a meter tall and a meter wide. Having obviously only been recently installed, this monument was the cause of the controversy. All the fellows with me were adamantly opposed to this monument's being here, and we – especially I – were going to fight with the person responsible for placing the gaudy stone here.

My mind was racing: I still couldn't grasp the significance of any of this. But then I was led a few meters away from the new tombstone – more toward the center of the cemetery – where I was shown a round hole in the ground, about a meter in diameter and about a meter deep. All around the inside of the hole were slender stone monuments – each only about 15 centimeters wide, and each stretching from the bottom of the hole to the top. The slender monuments were quite ornate, and even gave the appearance of the front facades of ancient stone buildings arranged in a circle around a central plaza. I was much in awe of the sight, although I still didn't comprehend what it meant.

Finally, someone spoke up and explained: this was a slave cemetery. Everyone buried here had been a slave. And all the fellows with me were in some way descendants of these ancient buried slaves. I perused more carefully the faces of my companions. Yes, now I seemed to detect some slight Negroid character in them. I looked back at the hole and muttered something about this being a sacred place. Now I was in agreement with my companions – the new gray monument didn't belong here and must be dealt with.

Suddenly, a course of action came to my mind. With my right hand I grabbed the hand of the fellow on my right, and with my left hand, the hand of the fellow on my left. I directed them to grab the hand of their neighbor until all of us were standing in a large circle around the hole in the cemetery. My intent was quite clear in my mind: I was going to let God speak through me to this group, to let God give us a solution. I had long been aware of this ability I had, for having God speak through me. But I had never exhibited this talent in front of another person; this was the first time. Thus I was definitely worried I might flub. Nevertheless, I was determined to try, and once the circle of hands was complete, I began singing, concentrating on letting God sing through me. The result was rather disappointing. My voice was certainly not the deep resonant voice which might be expected from God, but rather a thin-toned sing-song voice. And I clearly felt as if I, and not God, was creating the words I was using. Nevertheless, as I seemed to slip into an ever-so-slight trance-like state, I seemed to feel just the vaguest tinge of God inspiring my hopeful song. At least the message seemed to be coming through the song: this conflict should be resolved without violence.

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