Dream of Bhutan #3: In the Jaws of Death

The Cave was exceedingly dark, but soon, I realized it was not merely a dark cave, but the jaws of death itself. Walking on its tongue, it felt much like spongy mud and I was concerned about heading towards the throat of the beast.  Soon I would be swallowed!

As I looked behind me, I could see that its teeth formed bars of a white cage.  I was not powerful enough to open its mouth ... just then a winter-wheat shaft magically appeared in my right hand. 

I began tickling the throat of the great beast. It fought to avoid vomiting me from its mouth. Its great head swayed slowly forward heaving to and fro. On the onward movement, I took the opportunity to slide to the edge of the teeth along its right side. Two white fangs jut up and at an angle, very much like a triangle. It was a window and a shaft of light that shown through to my apparent escape.

When the head heaved forward one last time, I took the opportunity to pass through the opening. Upon passing through the opening of the teeth...the scene changed. I escaped!

Did I escape to a dirt road? Yes I did! There, I saw my parked car with my twin children dressed in red, hopping around inside. I instructed them to stay inside, so they would be safe. Oddly, they heeded me. 

Outside the car, I handled business with the vendor that sold me white prayer strings and a cluster of blue and white crystal beads.  Although there was nothing more than the currency of good will, the vendor placed the items in my hands. And, at the very moment, the scene changed once more.

The next scene was dim with light and filled with old artifacts, antiques, photos, metal objects and ancient scripts.  The scripts were stacked, in many stacks from the floor to the ceiling.  An elder seated in a far corner was writing something, then looked at me. With his mind, he asked, very kindly, if I would please help find the missing torn half of a script. I saw the torn parchment of paper in my hand with only half of a message. I set to work looking for its other half. The writing on the parchment was not as important as connecting both parts. Ironically. 

The last memory I had before waking was of looking at my hands holding the treasured half-script.

--This dream was sent to the proper dreamer--