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An Autumn DreamLast night I took an hour out of my sleep and made a two-hour meditation before retiring, instead of one. As a consequence this morning's meditation was much more serious and my reading has been more sober and fruitful. It was a good inspiration, and I will do it again once in a while. (Not habitually, for it would be just another routine.) During the night I dreamt I was in a strange city with some other monk(?), and we had to go to some place at the center and begin a journey. A waitress in the lunchroom left to come with us and show us the way. I remember the warmth of her presence sitting in the car with me. I spoke of streets like "Page" and "Sky" which I found on a map, but she had another and shorter way. All along, it was a case of knowing the way and of my not knowing it.Whose house is not built now shall build no more,
Who now is lonely long shall be alone,
shall lie awake, and read, long letters write,
and restlessly, among the drifting leaves
of avenues shall wander, to and fro.
Rilke's autumn poem ("Autumn Day"). Beautiful and close to home.
October 19, 1965, V.306-7
Karl Barth's Dream
Karl Barth had a dream about Mozart. (Mozart a Catholic and Barth is piqued by the fact that Mozart did not like Protestantism, for he said it was "all in the head" and that they didn't know the meaning of Agnus Dei qui tollis peccata mundi.) Well, Barth dreamt he had to "examine" Mozart in Dogma. He wanted to make it as favorable as possible, and in his questions he alluded pointedly to Mozart's "Masses." But Mozart did not answer a word.
I am tempted to write Barth a letter about his moving dream, which of course concerns his own salvation.
He says that for years he has played Mozart every morning before going to work on dogma himself. (Just think! Dogma is his daily work!!)
The Mozart in himself is perhaps in some way the better, hidden, sophianic fact that grasps the "center" of cosmic music and is saved by love (yes, Eros!). The other, the theologian, is seemingly more occupied with love, but it is a stern, actually more cerebral, agape ... a love that is not in us, only in God.
I remember my own dream about "Protestants." (They are perhaps my aggressive side.)
Barth seeks perhaps to be saved by the Mozart in him.
September 22, 1960, IV.49-50
Greeted by a territorial goose (is that redundant?). Feed it tortilla chips left over from my Chipotle's dinner last night. Sit in the somewhat trashed gazebo. Small fish flitting near the sunlit surface. Cool breeze. Watching a fisher bird dive and snag a bug? A small fish? Watching the fisher bird nibble up its wriggly treat. Goose swims up to the gazebo. Feed it some more tortilla chips. Spot a turtle sunning itself on a log about twenty yards away. Birds chirping. Faint aroma of honeysuckle. Goose swims over by the turtle. Turtle swims away. Goose starts hollering rather urgently. Thought maybe goose was calling for friends. Later on, turns out goose was calling for mate. Goose and mate glide along the water, away from me, making a swimming sandwich of their four fuzzy taupe goslings. Train: CSX, Hamburg Sud, Schneider, stackers. FedEx Ground. Someone's very important package is in there. Where is it going? Finishing up The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter. Good read, but not my favorite all-time novel. People have dreams, some realistic, some fantastic, some they live out. People have those dreams on afternoons like this.
