The priceless gift of disorientation

What planet is this? 

Your eyes open in the middle of the night, and you have no idea where you are. Not only that, you can't even recall who you are and  -- if the disorientation is deep enough -- what country you are in or what century this is. It can be frightening.

And it can be very exciting, and ultimately fulfilling... if you are flexible enough to accept the gift.

Nearly every serious dreamworker I know has experienced this at least once. When you begin cultivating the memory of your dreams by writing them down, contemplating them, and working with them, you build a bridge between two different worlds you live in.

One world is the one tied to the physical body and its five senses. It is tied to a personality associated with the history of this body: where is was born, who its parents are, its state of health, its education, the work it does, etc.

The other world is the one you inhabit when your eyes are closed and your consciousness (which is not your brain!) is freed from the physical body. In this world you wander through realms where space and time are different than they are in the physical world where you are reading these words. And in this non-physical world, you are other people, and you live in different circumstances than the ones you know day to day in the world of your physical body.

The stronger you build the bridge between your dreams and your waking life, the more the two begin to affect each other; that greater You (capitalization intentional) in your dreams begins to seep into this world.

If the transition from the dream world to the waking world is a bit bumpy, or you retain the dream consciousness after you open your eyes in the darkened, quiet room, you can become aware of the fact that the state of mind you are in does not belong to the physical world you've woken up into. And there can be confusion.

But if you relax and accept the experience, it can be wonderful. It is proof that you are more than you believe you are in your more rational, logical, practical moments. It opens a door to a new understanding of who You are.

Accept this gift with gratitude.    

Yoga is a batch of fried rice

Pranayama, ruler exercise, pepper, soy sauce...

I confess I stole this idea. Well... maybe not stole it; just recognized the truth of it.

You see, I once attended an aikido workshop in Sacramento in the late 1980s taught by Hiroshi Ikeda, the last uchi deshi (apprentice) of Morihei Ueshiba, the founder of aikido. Ikeda sensei started the workshop out explaining how every household makes fried rice differently. (Fried rice is one of the solutions to the ubiquitous Far-East Asian problem of having lots of leftover cold rice.) He went on to talk about how, over the years, one learns various things from the many teachers and from the various experiences one has in life. If someone wants a presentation of what you know/practice, you throw pieces of your different life lessons into the hot, oiled pan (making sure that they harmonize with each other), stir them around, add fresh ground pepper (I put chopped garlic and ginger into the oil) and some soy sauce, and (voila!) you have your version of fried rice.

"So today, I humbly offer you MY fried rice," he said with a winning smile.

Now, I have never been the type of student of martial arts or any other physical discipline to be satisfied with only practicing in the school. That's partly because I'm not a particularly graceful or coordinated individual. I have to put more effort into learning physical movements than other people. But mostly I practice at home on my own because I want to make things my own. It's one thing to do something in a classroom while many other people are trying to do it and the clock is ticking away. It is totally another to be by oneself, out under the open sky, or in your own home, and having the time and peace to concentrate on what you wish to teach yourself, to absorb it into your bones. It's also satisfying to go back to class and be able to move on from the last lesson, rather than spend time and effort trying to remember what you learned earlier, or didn't learn, as the case may be.

So, for thirty years now, I have exercised every morning. And over time, the routine has constantly changed. The red thread running through every routine is that the exercises have to address breathing, balance, flexibility, and moving from the center. Depending on what my needs are in a given period of my life, I put together different routines that include elements of what I have learned from aikido (my primary discipline), tai chi, kigong, yoga, and systema (a Russian martial system). It is my fried rice. It includes the things I find at hand, combined with an eye toward harmony, with the ultimate aim of nourishing my body, mind and spirit.

When I was younger, if the subject of my morning routine came up, I disliked telling people that I "excercise". It conjures images of somebody doing push-ups, jumping jacks and sit ups. It didn't matter so much what kind of an impression this made on other people as that it didn't make me feel good about it. Sometimes I tried to describe what I do and it would be too complicated, and people's eyes would glaze over with incomprehension or boredom.

Finally I just started saying I do morning yoga. Which is actually the truth. Here's what you'll find about that word in the Online Etymological Dictionary:

...from Hindi yoga, from Sanskrit yoga-s, literally "union, yoking" (with the Supreme Spirit), from PIE root *yeug- "to join" (see jugular).

I do these exercises to integrate myself internally, and with my highest ideals. They are my yoga. They are my fried rice.

If you ever come to one of my Dream Warrior Training workshops, I'll serve you a helping.

Do you dare look into the crystal ball?

The fist time I saw the crystal ball in the Hall of Gems and Minerals at the Smithsonian Institution when I was 11 years old, I was stunned. I walked around the corner and there it was: 106.75 lbs. (48.5 kg), and 12.9 inches (32.7 cm) in diameter; pure, flawless, natural quartz. I couldn't take my eyes off it.  I circled it, fascinated by it. It was at least a half hour before I could tear myself away.

Of all the things I saw in the three days I spent on the National Mall that summer, the giant crystal made the biggest impression on me.

Part of it was the sublime, pure beauty of the object itself. Part of it was what the object represented: vision! I endeavored to acquire one myself, which wasn't all that easy in a small town in West Virginia in 1972 (no internet e-stores, you know), and the first one I got was acrylic. Not quite the same. Finally, while I was living in California, I found a real quartz crystal ball in a mineral shop somewhere up in the Marble Mountains. It was a pygmy compared to the Smithsonian's crystal, at about six centimeters across. And I've acquired other crystals since. It's kind of a fetish.

Learning to see anything in a crystal is hard work, and requires lots of practice. Frankly, I still haven't had that much success with it. But I'll keep trying. That eleven-year-old boy inside me is still fascinated, and I think of the mother-of-all-crystal-balls that riveted me all those years ago every time I see a crystal.

But vision comes in many ways.

Like it did on that morning in the late winter of 2004. I wrote down a dream after I woke up, and didn't particularly notice it was anything unusual.

In the dream, an old friend of mine runs into me inside the MTI building. (the Hungarian Press Agency, where I worked for ten years). She tells me she needs to take another job, and I would be the perfect replacement for her. It would be in a different division of MTI and it would give me more responsibilities than my current job. I get excited. New possibilities! After I'd thought I was in a dead-end job.

The next day I was walking down the hall at MTI when I ran into an editor from another division in MTI; someone I only knew casually, and barely at that. She whispered to me conspiratorially to come into her office for a minute. After she shut the door she explained that she had been given the authority to set up a new English-language news service within MTI, but one that would be run more along the lines of a Western wire service. She was looking for intelligent, independent-minded native-speaking editors for her staff. She had immediately thought of me.

I remembered the dream.

"So... you're offering me a new job inside of MTI?"

"Yes. Exactly."

I was in awe.

When I went home that evening, I told my wife what had happened that day. When I was finished, I pointed to the desk and said, "My dream journal's been sitting there on the desk since I wrote in it this morning, right"?

"Right."

"Go read the last entry."

She did. When she was finished, she looked up at me with her jaw hanging open.

So, I got my crystal vision after all, even without the ball. The important thing is that I took that peak into the future as a signal from my inner self (my genius, my daemon, my soul, whatever you want to call it) to pay attention when this moment arrived. I was scared by the job she offered me. There were things about it I knew would be a real stretch of my skills. But because I'd had the dream, I felt I was being advised to be brave. I said yes. And saying yes set off a chain of events that led me to more challenging and life expanding situations.

A number of people who have heard this story try to explain it "rationally": I'd heard conversations in the hall subconsciously; my subconscious had made certain logical leaps and figured out what was going to happen. Yadda, yadda, yadda. I just shake my head at their desperate need to deny what was obvious to me. I had seen the future in my dream.

And accepting the dream's inner counsel lit a spark that ignited the flame of transformation in my life. It also brought me some hard tests.

I think one of the main reasons people don't remember their dream is because dreams have the power to accelerate change in your life. It can be scary.

Do you dare look into the crystal ball?

What business are you in?

Wanna buy some content, Mr?

Sometimes I feel like a frustrated character from a John Irving novel. No, not one of the bears from his early works (even though my children might think I'm a bit bear-like when I'm pissed off). No, not the tortured T.S. Garp.

No, sometimes I feel like the migrant farm worker Arthur Rose from "The Cider House Rules". In his efforts, as crew foreman, to keep his people focused on picking apples, he sometimes yells, "What business do you think you're in?" The correct answer is, of course, "the apple business."

When people get all prissy about being involved in digital media, especially social media, I just want to ask, "What business are you in?" And many people seem to have no idea that the right answer is "the digital media business".

Yes, I get it. Spending time on Facebook can make you feel "unclean." And, indeed, overexposure to LinkedIn, Instragram, and the blogosphere (or whatever the monkey on your back/guilty pleasure might be) can be harmful to your health. Well... I don't mean to break this to you too rudely, but... it's 2015. And being involved in certain activities makes digital media a necessity.

Take for example -- if you are an employee -- your workplace. The multinational where I work launched an internal, cross-border social network about three years ago. It almost tanked because of cultural resistance. I saw possibilities in launching a blog on business writing, a subject I run training sessions in. I'd asked people if they'd seen my blog. I got a shocking number of responses to the effect that it wasn't worth their time to play around on a company social network. What is it good for?

Hello? What business are you in? We're talking about corporate lawyers and management consultants and tax advisers. If this isn't the information business, what is? I was flabbergasted that my dear colleagues didn't see the value in getting to know people and finding out what they are doing. They didn't "get" the power of making connections all over the globe that will extend their reach and their potential to draw on resources when they need them. And this is just scratching the surface of what a social network can mean to this crowd. What business are these people in? They're in the digital media business.

I have friends who arrange martial arts workshops and promote them on Facebook with posters and videos. What business are they in? They're in the digital media business. They use social networks for business.

I have friends who write books and publish them as ebooks. This is an introverted crowd that can be especially wary of the contagion of social media. What business are they in? They're in the digital media business. They should realize that if they want to sell books, they're not going to be promoted big-time by a publisher unless they're the next Stephen King. Until they get their first best seller (or once they realize they write niche books for a crowd that has to be reached by clever means), they should be blogging to cultivate an audience for the kind of material they produce, and interacting on social media with groups of people who are interested in the subject they write about.

I can write about this so authoritatively because I am "a man of certain years" who is a bit wary of the digital onslaught. I have thought of getting off of Facebook several times. But I've realized that because I promote my own workshops and sometimes sell my writing... well... I'm in the digital media business. And once you realize that, you shouldn't dabble in it, you should jump in with both feet and make the most of it.

Banzai!      

Driving a stake through Freud's heart

Whenever I tell someone I am involved in dreamwork or that I lead a dreamwork circle, their first questions invariably contain some form of the words "interpretation" and/or "analysis", like the following.

"So, what do you people do when you get together?

"Well, we take turns telling dreams to the group, and then...".

"And then you all interpret them, right?"

"Well, no, actually. We avoid interpreting the dream as much as possible. What we do is we work the dream together."

And at that point I often detect a blank stare of cognitive dissonance. I can explain how other members of the group ask questions of the dreamer to help her explore the dream (Do you know a calico cat like the one in your dream? Did you or anyone you know live with one? In the dream you owned an aquarium. How would you describe the kind of people who own aquariums? In the dream you pass by a sleeping dog in the street? Do you think your dream made a visual pun about 'leaving sleeping dogs lie?' "

And I can go on to explain that we might draw pictures of characters, objects or scenes from dreams, or even play "dream theater" in which group members perform someone's dream like a play. The ways in which one can "work" a dream are as endless as the imaginations of the dreamworkers.

But people always get stuck on interpreting. That's what you do with dreams, isn't it? We've all seen the cliche movie and TV show scenes in which someone lying on (or sitting on) a couch tells the psychoanalyst his dream, and the very grave-faced psychoanalyst tells the dreamer (in this case playing the passive role of "the patient") what the dream "means". That's what you're supposed to do, right?

Here's the problem: if you analyze something, you decide that's what it means. And you look no further. You stop exploring. You stop experiencing. Another thing: analysis involves only the rational mind. It leaves out emotions, instincts, intuition, aesthetic sense, and many other dimensions of what makes us human beings. Often it takes months of replaying a dream in one's mind (re-experiencing that mysterious desire or fear or wonder inspired by some part of it) and experimenting with it (making or acquiring an object in the dream; researching characters or places in the dream) before the much desired "aha!" finally occurs. And when that aha occurs, you know it. It's more than the smug intellectual satisfaction of quickly solving a logical puzzle. It is knowledge. YOU KNOW THAT YOU KNOW.

As the old chestnut goes, "If your only tool is a hammer, everything you encounter looks like a nail." It's like that scene in Forrest Gump where Bubba names all the things you can do with shrimp.

But all some people could ever think of doing with shrimp is breading and frying it!

There are so many other tools in the box. There are so many other colors in the paint box. There are so many other instruments in the orchestra. Hammers are good for their purpose. And so is analysis. It has brought us many of the riches our civilization possesses.

But if you really want to learn about your dreams, you need to drive a stake through Uncle Sigmund's heart. It's OK. He'd understand. He'd see it as an Oedipal necessity.

There is power in paradoxes

"Spiritual Warrior" by Rita Loyd. See more at
 http://www.nurturingart.com/index.html

"I think you should come up with another name," said my friend Nick, when I told him about my plans for the Dream Warrior Training workshops. "I don't like the trend toward militarization in contemporary world culture. You should find a better word than 'warrior'."

I explained that in other languages the word for warrior doesn't necessarily refer directly to war. "Well it does in English, doesn't it?"

I thought about this for a while, and although it conjures difficult images, I decided to stick with the name. Not in spite of the problematic nature of the title "warrior", but because of it. It's a paradox that needs to be embraced.

There's power in paradoxes.

Let me give you an example.

In the art of aikido, along with the empty-hand techniques -- consisting of joint locks and throws in reaction to a physical attack -- we also learn how to fence with wooden swords shaped like the traditional Japanese samurai sword. These moves be can reproduced with no weapon in the hands, and are still amazingly effective in influencing the motions of another person, either throwing them or locking them in a pin.

"As opposed to true contradictions, paradoxes only "seem" to cancel each other out. Instead, they are a fruitful marriage of opposites."

Once, when I was attending a workshop taught by Koichi (Larry) Barrish, he described these empty-handed motions that imitate sword movements (called aiki sword) as "the sword so sharp it cuts things back together again." Logically, it makes no sense. But for me, this paradoxical statement perfectly captured the ability of these techniques to resolve conflict without perpetuating disharmony.

I noticed the power of paradoxes in my early twenties. Ever since, I've been on the lookout for things that seem to be contradictions, but actually act as a mask for a profound truth. As opposed to true contradictions, paradoxes only "seem" to cancel each other out. Instead, they are a fruitful marriage of opposites.

It makes me think of the time a friend stated, "The martial artists I know are some of the friendliest and kindest people in my life." I contemplated that remark and realized it was true of the people in my life, too. (And, yes, the few asshole martial artists I know are the exception that proves the rule.)

I am a warrior. I am a man who lives from the heart and seeks to express love in his actions.

I am a paradox. I embrace that.

A thousand years of Dream Warriors

This falls into the category of, "I'm not making this stuff up, folks!"

At first I thought combining dreamwork, martial movement and writing practice under one umbrella as "Dream Warrior Training" was a brilliant, revolutionary new idea. But slowly it dawned on me that there have actually been many traditions through history in which trained warriors were expected to also be refined individuals with skills and sensitivities honed by the arts and sciences.

Your average Roman army officer, for example (at least during the Republic period, and the early Empire period)  was a nobleman who'd been raised on poetry. He was familiar with and could recite a catalogue of verse. And very likely he evened penned a few himself occasionally.

But more immediately relevant to the themes of Dream Warrior Training is the lifetime of Chen Tuan (10th century AD). Chen Tuan is revered in Chinese culture as one of the great Taosist sages. He is credited with inventing and/or refining the movements that have come down to us as kung fu (which the Chinese actually call wushu; wu=martial + shu=art) and qigong. He is also famous for being a pioneer and master of "sleep meditation"; a cousin of what is popularly known as "dream yoga" nowadays. Dream yoga is the version of this discipline practiced by Tibetan Buddhist monks.

There is a surprising amount material on the internet about Chen Tuan and his sleep meditation practices, since he was as central a figure to Chinese spiritual history as, say, St Francis or Martin Luther are in the West.

Dream warriors have existed since the beginning of the human race.

Just imagine a prehistoric man sleeping with his companions by the embers of a fire. The stars sparkle over their heads, as he dreams of stalking a magnificent elk with golden antlers. In his dream he quietly raises his spear to shoulder level. Takes aim...   

The dream of the two dojo

When I woke up that morning and realized I'd had the same dream for the third time, I knew this was a deeper life issue.

The dream, entitled "The Two Dojo*" in my dream journal, starts out at a very traditional Japanese aikido school. The decor is spartan, and the only colors are black and white (like the white uniforms and black hakamas of the students). The teacher is painfully strict, and everyone is deadly serious. They practice with stony sober expressions on their faces. Later in the dream I find another school, where the environment is as colorful as a rainbow, and everyone is laughing and having a great time while they train. I instantly feel this is where I'd rather train.

Initially, this recurring dream affected where I chose to train and how I taught aikido classes at my own school. But, as with all "big dreams", there were multiple levels of meaning within it.

Now, almost a quarter of a century later, I realize this dream heralded the path I would follow later in my life once I had conceived of the unique self-development mode I've dubbed Dream Warrior Training. The essential principle behind DWT is that martial training**, dreamwork, and the discipline of journaling (writing for the purpose of exploring the mind), have potent powers for transforming the individual who practices them in combination. My mission is to lead workshops that enable people to benefit from the insights this combined activity can deliver. It is nearly impossible to spend time doing these three disciplines together -- even if only for a day or two -- without coming to some new, life-enhancing realizations.

This is the colorful dojo where everyone laughs and trains joyfully, even though the subject matter is of vital importance.

Whether or not you wish to, some day, participate in this mode of training, the purpose of this blog is to share with you my own insights gained from a life informed by the daily pursuit of these three treasures. If you are interested in dreams, in the wisdom that can be found within our bodies, or in the power to be discovered in using the written word (or any combination of the three), the postings to come in this blog will be just the sort of thing you're looking for.

And though I will engage in a certain amount of curating -- that is: linking and commenting on things I find on the internet -- my well-established blogging habit consists of telling stories relating to my own experience. I know that my own taste in blogs runs to the writers who generate original material, not those who just echo the rest of the cyber noise. I suspect you, astute reader, have similar tastes. If you have a feed reader, perhaps you should subscribe now, to follow this story from the beginning.

Welcome to The Dream Warrior, where insights are inevitable, and laughing is encouraged.  

*A dojo is a place where a spiritual discipline (in Japanese "do", like the Chinese "dao") is practiced.

**specifically the motions and breathing practices that awaken consciousness and enhance one's energies, which I call "martial yoga"