And last night I revisited one of my all-time favorite dream-locations: a valley that is always associated with regaining spiritual powers, and with intense joy.
The Valley was called the Lamar Valley in this dream (the Lamar valley is an area in the northeast of Yellowstone -- a beautiful remote place which doesn't even vaguely resemble my dream valley). The Valley is very deep and many miles wide, with open ends stretching away to tumbled broken stone foothills on one side and endless savannah, blue horizon on the other. The walls are sheer and of a reddish-white and grey granite; the floor of the valley is mixed deep forest and savannah, and is bisected by the shining ribbon of a river (which I rafted down in another dream). The forests are antediluvian and very large, with perfect, graceful trunks lofting a profound ceiling of rich green canopy, and something about the forests is intensely magical.
I am leading Dean DeYoung down the walls on a narrow, switch-backed game trail, on donkey-back; we pass, but do not enter, the ancient hanging ruins of a lost civilization, the wind whistling through the gaping empty windows (I have dreamed of these before). He is dubious about the trip, but I point out the view, the site of the paleontological digs on the other side of the valley (another dream), the river, the forest... then, as we reach the level of the first forest, I point out the tall and shining trunks of alder, beech, ash, aspen and oak. The sense of remembrance and joy are mounting uncontainably within me; I am starting to regain my true self, my full abilities, and I know that very soon, I'll remember how to fly. Within the dream, I remember other dreams of flying through the vast sunlit bowl of air filling the valley, and can feel myself feeling lighter and lighter as we finish the descent.
I hope I go back to the Valley tonight.