Through the Open Window

A Dream and a Healing

Recently, I’ve been imagining owning my own coffee shop. I’ve imagined this for years, but lately its been more matter of fact, not if but when. One of the ideas I’ve been getting really excited about is using the shop’s space after hours for creative, community centered events.

"The dream’s images came to mind again.
This time, I couldn’t ignore them..." 

For example, I’d love to shove the tables aside and teach yoga classes. They’d be a perfect environment to get people healed, and I’d call them “Yoga with Jesus.”

While imagining this, Dad reminded me of a conversation I had with a friend, Hannah. “I feel like I’m getting a word from God about yoga instructor certification, but I don’t think it’s for me. Maybe it’s for you,” she said. I smiled at the memory, brushing it aside as unlikely and implausible for a wide array of reasons.  

---------

In the dark hours of Tuesday morning, I had a dream. I remember a few specific images from the dream, nothing more. First, a pair of hands resting on someone’s back. The person wore a heather grey shirt, the dream’s perspective gave me no further detail. 

A moment later, I was given a broader view. I saw a wooden table that looked carved straight from a tree, from which an umbrella loomed. I was also engaged in a heated conversation with my employers that had me feeling heavy and oppressed. (I’ve never had such an interaction, I don’t expect to. I’ll interpret this part in a moment.)

When I woke up, the weight of that conversation stuck around. I felt flustered, unheard. For the most part the dream slipped my mind - had I not been wrestling with this negativity I’d have forgotten it entirely. “What the heck was that about?” I asked Dad. 

He reminded me, “You asked for adventure, correct?”

That was true, I agreed. I smiled, and the negativity I’d carried in from the dream realm dissolved. Eyes still bleary, I rolled over and pulled my computer onto the bed. There was a blog post I’d been putting off for a couple days ("Between the Coaster...") and I was feeling oddly eager to write it. Whenever that happens, I like to take advantage right away. 

I opened my computer, clicked the internet icon, and waited for Blogger to load. An error page popped up, informing me I didn’t have an internet connection. Being that I connect via the router in my apartment complex’s office, which is across the parking lot, this happens frequently. Sometimes closing and opening my computer gives me a fresh connection. 

I closed my computer and opened it back up. Multiple times. At the top of my screen, an exclamation mark blinked over my connection strength indicator. Since I’d never seen an exclamation used in such a way, I took it to indicate I wasn’t going to have any luck connecting to internet from home today. I packed up my things, jammed my helmet over my hair, and rode my moped through the rain to the coffee bungalow I work at. 

Though seating is outdoor, there’s a hefty table that looks as though it was carved from a tree with a wide umbrella that keeps at least a small portion of the table dry. A woman, one of my regulars, was already sitting in one of the dry seats, apparently waiting for a friend. I sat kitty-corner from her, pulled out my computer, and opened up Blogger with ease. 

Unfortunately, I recalled that much of my material for said post was derived from Facebook. I logged in, and was thoroughly distracted from the task at hand. On top of that, my table partner’s friend had arrived and they were chatting up a storm. Huddled around the driest parts of the table as we were, I couldn’t help but overhear most of their conversation. It’s incredibly hard to write anything when you’re listening to other people’s conversations, let me tell you.

I overheard some important details, though. Mainly, that my regular’s name was Alice (I’m terrible about exchanging names), and she’d recently injured her back. Though she didn’t have the means to got to a doctor or chiropractor, she has several friends who are healers and massage therapists she could visit. 

The images from my dream flashed through my mind, but I was busy and mostly ignored them. Except to note that Alice wore a heather gray shirt, just like the one the dream had shown me.  

Mildly frustrated that I’d yet to write more than a few words, and to take a break from the exuberant girly chatter, I went inside to order an espresso. By the time I came back out, the sun had broken through the clouds with force. I sat down at my computer to find the sun’s glare practically blinding me from Facebook. Grudgingly, I rotated to the other side of the table where there was more shade.  

I now sat next to Alice, who was describing (as best I could figure while eavesdropping the middle of a story) a trip she took to Greece. While there, she met a woman who utilizes dreams and visions for healing purposes. 

My dream’s images came to mind again. This time, I couldn’t ignore them. The table, the umbrella, the grey shirt, the back injury. All while Alice is telling tales of a woman who heals through dreams. Too much, too obvious. 

With as much patience as I could muster, I waited for Alice to finish describing conversations she’d had with the mystic woman from Greece via email. They involved Alice dreaming, opening her email to write the woman about the dream, and finding she’d already received email from the woman describing the dream at hand. 

The moment the story paused, I put my hand on Alice’s shoulder. “Hey,” I said. “Tell me your name again?”

“Alice,” she said. “And I’ve totally forgotten yours?”

That was a relief, I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t remember the name of the person they’d seen three or four times a week for six months. “Kaylani.” I took a deep breath and continued before I had time to think. “Sorry to interrupt but, I’m a healer. And last night I had a dream that I was here, and I healed someone’s back. Can I lay hands on your back?”

"[We discussed]... Who jesus and Buddha
were compared to the religions that now
represent them..."

Alice smiled and agreed. “Awesome,” I said. “What I need you to do is focus on hope. Hope for anything, whether its your back being healed or whatever. I’m going to speak, and I’m going to use some hot-button words that can be offensive. That’s when it would be really cool for you to maintain your focus on your hope.” 

Alice agreed without hesitation. I placed my hands on her back; they were shaking uncontrollably. I rested there for a moment, waiting for them to calm down. “Holy crap my hands are shaky,” I said. 

“I can totally feel them,” Alice said. But she was patient, and dedicated to her hope focus. 

I pressed in with a bit more pressure to steady my hands. The image of my employers in my dream came to mind. I recognized the sense of oppression I felt in the dream, and allowed myself to carry it into Dad’s presence. I’m not positive what specific spirits were affecting the climate, but they needed dealt with. 

After several deep breaths, a thought occurred to me - though the dream conversation with my employers indicated a spiritual attack, it's also further proof that I'm in exactly the right place. My mind cleared and I felt the energy in my hands transition from out of control shaking to steady and focused. Then I began to speak. Specifically, I felt urgency to speak three details: 1) I needed to invite Holy Spirit 2) I needed to speak Jesus’s name and declare him King. 3) I described the knots in her back as ice cubes, melting down and out her leg. 

After a minute or two of speaking, I paused and asked Alice what she was feeling. It took her a moment to disengage from her focus. “I feel warm,” she said. “Except where your hands are, there’s a line of cold running all the way down my right side.” 

I looked down and noticed she’d removed her right boot and sock. Beyond excited, I said, “That’s the Holy Spirit, that means your being healed.”

“How did you come to identify yourself as a healer?” Alice asked. 

“Here’s the thing, I think everyone is a healer. It’s just a matter of what parts of our identity we choose to embrace. I find my identity in Jesus. At least in America, I feel like everyone has heard a lot of shit about Jesus. I heard he was a healer. Is a healer, rather. And through a very personal journey, I began discovering I have the same access to healing he demonstrated.” 

We chatted a bit about this. Alice grew up Catholic, her friend Buddhist in Vietnam. We shared distaste for the corruption and greed in religion, and a hunger for spirituality; disbelief in the systems of man, and who Jesus and Buddha were compared to the religions that now represent them. Wonderful, life giving conversation. 

Both women are studying to enter the medical field. We returned to the topic of healing, with Yoga our focus. We discussed classes we’d taken; they shared their favorite classes in Olympia, I shared a vague inkling I’ve had to become a Yoga instructor. “Oh my gosh, you know what,” Alice said suddenly. “I met a Buddhist Monk a while ago. He gave me a book called Yoga With Jesus.” 

My mouth dropped. “You’re kidding me,” I said. “I want to incorporate healing into a class I would call ‘Yoga With Jesus.’”

We freaked out together about how crazy our encounter was for another few minutes, then all realized the time and our growling stomachs. Alice is bringing me Yoga With Jesus whenever she comes in for coffee next. I’ve been gushing about the experience ever since. 

As soon as my husband got home, I told him all about it. Having been part of my coffee shop yoga imaginings, he was excited too. “You each had gifts for each other,” he observed. And I freaked out some more about how cool Dad is. 

*Note: Names changed for privacy.