Tag Archives: dreamwork

Loved ones with dementia: FUNCTIONING ON ANOTHER PLANE


Gram with her daughter – my aunt; circa 1940

Summer, 2001. We were at my aunt’s long pine dining table watching boats jockey for position on the St. Clair River in Michigan. Their neighbor’s well was vacant. He was out in the mix, in a boat SO fast the speed sucked the “F” right off the logo, dubbing it “ountain.”

The aunt was in her glory preparing and serving yet another delicious meal. A homemade three-layer pineapple cake posed provocatively under Saran Wrap; toothpicks protected the fluffy frosting and made the dessert look a little bit dangerous.

My uncle was (usually) happy to have his grown kids at the table; they – and their spouses – were well into their beers.

Gram and I were the downers. I was mourning my most recent marriage and she was slipping more deeply into dementia.

Conversation and laughter were bouncing back and forth across the table and Gram was itching to join in. She was not yet at the point where she was afraid to open her mouth. When a few of the cousins slipped out for smokes, she found a silence long enough to get a few words in.

Aunt Julia in the 20s

“I saw Julia last night.”

Aunt Julia, her sister, had been dead for 30 years. My uncle’s grin widened and he blurted out “Was she still in that big brass box we got for her funeral?” And he roared with laughter. Everyone laughed.

Gram forced a giggle, but she clenched her elbows together under her chest and cupped her bony hands between her knees.

I remember thinking she probably did see Julia.

Because the more deeply she slipped, the more open she was on other levels – unrestricted by convention, as spiritually/psychically open and innocent as a small child. When she died in ER – and was brought back – she described her out of body experience this way: “There were two of me, but it was ok.”

We visited in dreams after she passed 9 years ago.

Seven years since my mother started the slide and hated me for seeing it and knowing it. My previous blog, FROM THE LANAI: The Dream with Six Pages shows how the dream/spirit world sent comfort.

But I want more.


Last week I bought Conscious Dreaming by Robert Moss.

Wikipedia describes Moss as “an Australian historian, journalist and author and the creator of Active Dreaming, an original synthesis of dreamwork and shamanism.”

Shortly thereafter, something so strange happened, I had to tell him. Today I wrote:

I’m new to your books, but not to focus on dreams. I’ve had past life memories, visits from loved ones on the other side, “postcards” I call some of the imagery they’ve sent – and visions from spirit guides or ancestors.

But with your books I feel like I’ve moved out of the slow lane. I need to share my recent experience.

First, let me say I always used to joke that when my Gram passed, she’d be my first visitor in Florida. (I had just moved 1400 miles south of family.) My beloved Gram raised me and in my heart I knew her dementia would be gone and she would be fully back.

Many visits after her transition proved that was the case. She was a little cranky about me not being with her; she was most definitely back to her usual self.

In the past few years my mother – 1800 miles north in a remote area – has been showing signs of dementia. She got pregnant at 15 and had the bastard (me) at 16. Her sister and husband (my stepfather) have always pushed that button, yanked that chain – spent decades using the “bad girl” card to put her in her place.

She IS a bit controlling and narcissistic.

When her memory loss began to manifest, I encouraged her to see a neurologist. When she resisted, I insisted my stepfather take her. (There’s more to it, of course.) But essentially, these things made me her enemy.

Last summer my stepfather went out of town and left her alone at home; he did that before and she was injured. This second time, she was injured again – and hospitalized. I called him and said I would go up, I insisted she could not be alone and he finally said SHE DOESN’T WANT YOU THERE.

Her behavior after that statement made me realize it wasn’t coming from him – it WAS coming from her. She started calling screaming, making accusations (after her money, trying to come between her and her friends), etc. One day I finally yelled back – YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO TALK TO ME THIS WAY!

She never called again. I call when necessary, and she is polite. Nothing more. I realize she has chosen to forget she had a daughter. I was always a reminder, an inconvenience, an embarrassment.

But the other night I dreamed my most difficult client was insisting I attend a retirement party. I hate business parties. (This was also happening in real life.) And in the dream my mother called the client; I was on another phone, listening in. And my mother told her in no uncertain terms that I was sick and would not be attending.

She was stepping in on my behalf. Which leads me to think that in dementia, maybe part of our consciousness separates. That her higher consciousness was able to lift out of her scrambled, fearful self and enter my dream state.

It was a great comfort.

Bless you.


I posted the message to his Facebook page; he responded with minutes

Dear Micki

I have often observed that in cases diagnosed as dementia, Alzheimer’s etc, a vital part of the sufferer is traveling outside the body, having its own life.

It’s grand that at least that part of your mother cares for you and wants to help.

Bright blessings


Mom at 15

It’s so good to know part of them rises to function on a higher plane; and that – with faith and knowledge – we have the potential to meet them there in our dreams.

I highly recommend Conscious Dreaming by Robert Moss.

Buy it on Amazon or Thriftbooks.com



FROM THE LANAI: The Dream with Six Pages



I turned 60 on a Tuesday. Who turns 60 on a Tuesday? I “celebrated” with Stouffer’s Macaroni & Cheese; consumed a quarter portion, then nibbled through a quarter more. It was my birthday, after all. I didn’t know I had a problem with gluten. I only knew I never felt quite right and my intestines never worked properly.

No, 60 was to my life what 40 was to my vision. One can deal with contacts and glasses; but 60 can throw you right off the rails.

I had already contracted Lyme disease at 52 … undiagnosed with that crushing illness for more than two years … and surprisingly managed to limp out the other side. Moving to Florida gave my bones the warmth I needed and fate (God) placed me squarely within bicycle distance of a true yoga studio. The kind that celebrates spirit along with motion, intent with alignment.

Yoga helped me rise physically, a phoenix from the ashes.

At 63, however, yoga is not an option; it is a necessity. Weeks away from it, you can nearly feel your body crumble. Last week my ankle gave out; it’s an old skiing injury, broken in 3 places in 1965. Thank you Cubco bindings. I nearly had to crawl up my stairs.

Which, of course, leads one to wonder how long one can live alone in a place with stairs.

My mother has no problem with stairs.

Two years ago she did start having problems with math, computers, cooking, cleaning … and me. In two short years they had to close their antique shop because she couldn’t manage the accounting, let alone the taxes – and my stepfather was in no mood to pick up the slack. He told her they had to sell out, auction off. She was enraged. She started throwing tantrums; some at him, and some on the phone to me.

I donned the bullseye when I expressed concern about her memory and pushed my stepfather to take her to a neurologist. They saw in the diagnosis what they wanted to see. “Some” decline. They did not use the term that actually appeared in her paperwork; “cognitive impairment.”

A doctor friend told me that is senile dementia.

We expect to lose our parents through death; not by circumstance.

I finally yelled back in January. Thank God she hasn’t called back. I’m alone but not lonely – strong, but incredibly fragile. She was dragging me into her darkness. I had offered to help, but she needs none. I had offered to find them a place near me for the winters … but no.

I now realize that accepting my offers would have been a confession of age and weakness. While I freely admit my own, they both chose to write me off, out of their lives. They’ve broken my heart; I am newly orphaned.

I have been praying more, I have been meditating. I actually bought a comfortable bamboo sofa for my lanai; it’s the perfect place to commune with nature and achieve peace; but it’s not working.

Freelance projects have been coming in, so I can afford to go back to yoga. My body is regaining strength and balance. During class the inner pain dissolves, but it returns in the morning.

Every night I pray for my parents, loved ones and those who need it.

Every morning I wake to near total despair.

This morning I woke urgently repeating “272 and 273.”

As if a guardian angel told me YOU MUST NOT FORGET! Somewhat unnerved, I groped around for a pen and wrote the numbers in my dream diary.

As I started to wake, I decided to write why I was so sad. The words poured out as I let the straining pain off the leash.

Sad over Mom & my stepdad. “How do you do that to someone?” How does a mother write off her only child?

Sad that one of my clients is hiring kids who drop the ball and waste my best efforts.

Sad that there is no man in my life – and that my most beloved female friend has surrendered to fear and paranoia.

Sad that at this age it takes so much effort to stay mentally and physically functional.

And I wrote “Sad that I don’t know how to get happy again. I feel like my mother is dead but it’s almost worse because it’s near-conscious rejection of the bastard she never wanted.”

Awakening the Buddha Within was next to my pillow. I opened to page 272. It was about practicing the six perfections – generosity, virtue, patience, effort, meditation and wisdom. Always a good reminder. Page 273 emphasized “Making the effort to meditate daily.”

I’ve been doing that and my dreams are becoming more profound; suddenly strong enough to wake me up urgently repeating page numbers.

The second book in my bedroom was The Dreamer’s Book of the Dead. I was intending to read it “one day.”

Page 272 was about the parallel lives … a concept I don’t yet comprehend. It said “The professor explained that he had been tracking the interplay between personalities who lived in different times but were all connected by a common intelligence, a central identity.” Further down the page, it reads “We might discover that in our Now time, from a place of vision and power that is opened through Active Dreaming, we can move to commune and communicate with our counterparts across time and space, to help (and when necessary, correct) each other, share gifts and knowledge, and change the workings of karma in more than one lifetime.”

Page 273 describes the author’s own dream where “I was hurled into scenes of a savage time, with Viking longboats nearing the shore of a Scottish or Irish village. I found myself in the body and mind of a tribal king with red-gold hair. I could feel the weight of his armor and the heavy band of metal around his brow. It was a very physical experience, as he drove his warhorse at a desperate gallop against his people’s enemies.”

Again, it registered. I have a profound connection with my ancestors; I have experienced “dream memories” where you know the weight of your apparel and feel of the soil beneath your feet. To know spirit is to know there is no death.

OK. I felt a little better. Stronger. A little more connected.

I went downstairs and made coffee; there was one last book waiting for me on the lanai. The Essential Rumi, Translations by Coleman Barks. Rumi was a 13th Century Sufi mystic and poet. His poetry is like dark chocolates, potent in tiny bites.

Page 272 made me gasp; I nearly burst out crying. (The spacing is authentic to the book … the bold is mine.)

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round
in another form. The child weaned from mother’s milk
now drinks wine and honey mixed.”

And on page 273, I was filled with awe as the loving messages were brought full circle.


“For hundreds of thousands of years I have been dust grains
floating and flying in the will of the air,
often forgetting ever being
in that state, but in sleep
I migrate back. I spring loose
from the four-branched, time-and-space cross,
this waiting room.

I walk into a huge pasture.
I nurse the milk of millennia.

Everyone does this in different ways.
Knowing that conscious decisions
and personal memory
are much too small a place to live,
every human being streams at night
into the loving nowhere, or during the day,
in some absorbing work.”

I hope these messages bring you the deep, long, cosmic hug they’ve brought me. I have a sense these messages were meant to be shared.

May you stream at night …