Dreaming True - #magic #dreams #paranormal

I’ve always believed in magic.

My dad may have had something to do with this. He used to concoct wild stories about monsters and ghosts, ogres and trolls. I remember sitting cross-legged next to my brother, on the floor by my father’s chair, held spellbound by his tales of heroes tasked with magical trials and elementals battling one another for control of the planet.

Maybe I inherited his imagination.

When I was in elementary school, I had a garnet birthstone ring that I believed could grant wishes. Mostly I remember asking for simple, silly things—like a blizzard, so we’d get the day off from school. Then my mom came down with pneumonia. She was so ill that at eight years old, I had to take over cooking for the family. I was terrified by the sudden helplessness of the woman who was at the center of my world, who could, and did, do everything. The ring got a workout during that period. My mother recovered fully, solidifying my faith in the unseen and the effectiveness of asking for one’s heart’s desire.

I’ve written many times here about the mystical quality of my first BDSM relationship. At dinner on the night before my initiation, my soon-to-be Master told me he was descended from a family of sorcerers—that his Germanic ancestors had practiced the dark arts back in the old country. I’m still convinced I experienced true magick that night, though he often teased me about being suggestible.

Most of my life has been ordinary and mundane, of course, like everyone else’s. I’ve never been convinced I had any special powers. There’s one area, though, where I have experienced the uncanny, more than once. Every now and then, I have prescient dreams.

The first one I remember involved my Master. We didn’t see one another very often, since we lived on opposite coasts. After not having talked to him for several weeks, I had a deeply disturbing dream about him. In the dream, he was hospitalized, bandaged, unconscious and immobile on the bed. I recall everything being pale white, drained of color and life. I sat beside him, holding his hand, willing him to wake. He roused, at least enough to squeeze my fingers, but on his face was a look of absolute despair. I didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there, being with him, holding him, loving him the best I could.

I called him the next day, worried. He told me his father had hanged himself in the basement the night before. I didn’t tell him about my dream, not then. As I had in the dream, I held him in my thoughts, soothed him with my words, and hoped that he’d heal.

Another, later case involved a dear female friend, a woman I met on a ride board, with whom I drove halfway cross country in the dead of winter. Jeanie was the epitome of a free spirit—an author, artist, actress and musician, a fascinating creature who seemed to exist outside the boring realm of jobs and responsibilities. She married a guy as crazy as she was. They had wild parties, a rock and roll band, and a pet pig.

One night I dreamed that she told me she was going to have a baby. I was astounded. I tried to talk her out of it. “You’re not the motherly type,” I told her. “Think of all the responsibility! The constraints!” In the dream she just shook her head and smiled.

Two days later, I learned she actually was pregnant. (She turned out to be a fabulous, if unorthodox mom, by the way.)

These are two examples that stick with me, but I know they’re not the only ones. Indeed, I’ve had multiple less traumatic dreams about my Master that turned out to have elements of truth. “How did you know her name?” he asked me when I confided I’d dreamed of him with another woman. To be honest, I’m not sure he believes in magick, at least not the way I do.

Over the years I’ve published quite a bit of paranormal erotica, including my recent release Damned If You Do, my MM novel about the burden of seeing the future NecessaryMadness, my urban shifter romance The Eyes of Bast, and my collection of dark paranormal tales Fourth World. My paranormal worlds are mostly ordinary—mostly indistinguishable from our own. Every so often, however, bright power streaks through them, like lighting illuminating a thundercloud from within. That power—it’s easy for me to write. It feels natural, true. I hardly have to think about it.

In the realm of fiction, my dreams also shape reality.

Seeing and Believing

We may hear "I won't believe it until I see it," yet wise people know that we won't see it unless we first believe it.

I found these words yesterday in my Daily Word, the little inspirational book I read every morning. I was struck by the truth of this simple observation. Our reality, our vision, is profoundly shaped by our expectations and beliefs.

My mother was a brilliant and talented woman who by any objective measure had a successful life. She was married for fifteen years, had three healthy children, brought them up to be decent, self-reliant, basically happy people. She graduated first in her high school and college classes. She had careers as a commercial artist, a dancer, and a teacher. She was politically active, supporting liberal causes and even running for the state legislature. She could sing like an angel, cook like a professional chef, and create a dynamite Halloween costume from scraps.

Alas, she believed that nothing good would come to her, that she would always get the short end of the stick. So she focused on the negatives in her life: the fact that she went to a state university rather than an Ivy League; the fact that she didn't become a lawyer as she had dreamed; the fact that she lost the election; the fact that my father divorced her. She expected to be disappointed. She believed that she was unlucky. And thus, in her eyes, she was. Instead of celebrating her achievements, she was bitter about what she felt had been stolen from her. She saw what she believed.

At the opposite end of the spectrum are people who have handicaps, physical or mental, yet still manage to press on and make a contribution to life. I've encountered quite a few of these brave, cheerful souls on the 'net. Some of them write romance. Recently I read a guest blog by a woman who was paralyzed from the neck down by a stroke. After watching television and being bored for a year, she decided she would try to write. She learned to use the computerized tools available now for the disabled. She is now a successful children's author with several books to her credit. She believed that she could move past the tragedy of her stroke and create something new, and she did.

Being an author certainly requires belief in any case. Otherwise we'd never dare send our stories off for anyone to see. You have to be able to imagine someone else reading and enjoying your words. You have to believe that you're good enough.

Actually, I think some excellent writers get stuck at this point. They spend years polishing a novel, worrying it like a dog with a bone, but can't quite get up the courage to submit it to a publisher.

The lesson is clear. Believe that you can succeed. Believe that you can realize your dreams (though you have to be ready to accept some detours that the universe might throw in your path). Look for the good in your life and you will find it. Expect the best and you will not be disappointed.