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for the last moment of ultimate solitude when a man faces his
death and aloneness. Only then does it make sense. (1, pp.
285-286)
Castaneda's aloneness was heightened for me in my moment of loss of soul. Yet I felt a deep trust and love of the earth and of the spontaneous images of my dreams. It was almost morning. I gave up hope of having any more meaningful dreams and breathed deeply into the aromatic fumes of my mugwort pillow. I fell asleep and dreamed: Sacred Totem PoleThere is a foolish man working for my guide. I wake up suddenly and he has carved the redwoods into intricate lattice designs to an unreachable height. I am amazed. Previously my guide didn't think he was competent, yet now he has done this beautiful work. I think I can do the same. He leaves and I fall back to sleep and envision each post as a totem pole. The one closest to me has especially vivid colored faces. Wow! This place is now a cathedral and really is my sacred place. Alan: A miracle! I feel blessed and inspired by my dream manna. I am ready to give testimony. Hyperion: Here your work begins. Read the masks of your Sacred Totem Pole one by one, and you will know the many ancient spirits that dwell within you. Begin your testimony with your feelings in the dream. Alan: At first I scorned the foolish man. Upon awakening and seeing his handiwork, I was awed yet I felt inadequate and jealous that I couldn't equal him. I focused my magic power and (upon falling asleep in the dream) my resulting vision makes me gleam inside. Hyperion: Your source energy fuels you. Find the form for expressing your magic flight. But don't forget the pit of emptiness where you have been, or your wings will melt like those of Icarus. Alan: You mean that I will still have to face the pit of emptiness? I thought that my dream cathedral and my Sacred Totem Pole had healed me. Hyperion: Healing is making whole or expressing all sides of you. Your emptiness and magic flight are two faces on your totem pole. The inspiration of my Sacred Totem Pole was indelible. Yet my battle with giving form to my vision was just beginning. Three weeks after my incubation, while traveling in a small town in Guatemala, I had the following dream: Burned at the StakeI am in a store and am about to be burned at the stake by Mayan or Guatemalan soldiers. I am to be burned at a crudely hewn oar. I kiss Jocelyn goodbye. I am about to face it. I am terrified. Suddenly I escape and run out among the aisles towards the door... and into the night. The oar (or "or") is all of the many possibilities that 32
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