Dreaming of a Garden

The other night I dreamed I was standing in a garden, lush, green, somewhat overgrown, following a curving concrete pathway through trees. At my back loomed a church made of giant slabs of stone. I stood at the edge of the garden, unsure of my reason for being there, wondering if I had time to explore the path that wound its way among the greenery.

And then I saw a sign. A wooden placard, on a pole. As I looked at it, I understood its meaning. There was a scene carved into the wood: robed figures, one of them obviously at the center of the unfolding moment, bearded, wearing an expression of sorrow. Beneath this picture, there was a cryptic numeral: I.

Of course. This was a prayer garden, inviting the visitor to meditate on the Stations of the Cross. If I kept walking, I would find thirteen more signs like this one, telling the story of the suffering and death of Jesus Christ.

In the dream, I had previously been ill at ease, uncertain whether I belonged here and whether I had enough free time in my harried schedule to stay and enjoy the garden. But when I recognized the Stations of the Cross, I remember feeling a distinct resolve: I would stay, and I would meditate on the passion of Christ. I need this right now, I told myself.

So I did. I walked along the winding path, every two dozen paces or so discovering a new placard, a new Station. And as I walked, I felt this immense sense of beauty, mixed with grief, mixed with an almost electric sensation that buzzed quietly through my soul; a deep, moving feeling of spiritual presence, spiritual consciousness, like a hidden part of me was awakening for the first time in a long time, growing stronger and richer with every step I took.

I awoke the next morning feeling that I had actually experienced these moments. I found myself wondering if I should count myself more enlightened now for having been through such an intense and beautiful feeling. I still don't know what my dream really meant, but I do know that before I went to sleep again I took out a copy of the Bible and read through the story of Jesus' trial, suffering, crucifixion and burial in all four of the Gospels.

That night I went to bed feeling shaken by the strangeness of the story, even though I've read it many times before. But it was a good kind of shaken. I felt like I had seen something for the first time - something I'd been missing, something I needed to know.