Passages: Into the Dream

Werbinox sat in a wicker chair beneath a tree, a Monarch butterfly flapping around his head. Warm on his skin, the sun reflected off the freshly mown grass. Fat cumulus clouds drifted thru the afternoon sky. Leaves fell curled and colored at his feet. Looking up he saw the old man sitting across from him in a chair that was identical.

“Greetings, my boy! How are you feeling on this fine day?”

“Much better than I was. I still can’t remember very much.” Werbinox said.

“Be gentle with yourself. The memories will return in their own good time. It is a tremendous thing you have done. You deserve a vacation.”

“I got pretty far out there, didn’t I?” He asked.

“Past the point of no return.” The old man said. “And yet you returned.”

“Did I?” Werbinox asked. “I don’t feel like the same person.”

“You are and you are not. That’s the nature of change. Solve et coagula. You can only manifest once. Every time after that is a remanifestation. Find that which runs thru all of it.”

“I can still feel him in me.” Werbinox said. “His ego is gone but his energy remains. It pulls me in certain directions at times, but I no longer fear it or fight it. The gulf between the polarities is as wide as ever, but it doesn’t split me in two.”

“That is a life condition that you will learn to better control and utilize with time. You are a unique case of a universal condition of sapience. The hero wears many different faces.”

“Including his own nemesis?” Werbinox asked.

The old man smiled. He seemed very tired, his complexion an ashen gray. Producing two cigars he handed one to Werbinox, along with a box of wooden matches.
“You have made incredible progress, and I am very proud of you.” He said.

Werbinox lit his cigar, puffing smoke above his head. Looking around he saw figures in white shirts and pants walking slowly and aimlessly thru the surrounding trees and lawns. Some glanced at him with recognition, their faces strange yet familiar. Facing the old man he felt disconnected from time, a symbol on a Tarot card.

“I’m not sure what is going on. I seem to have awoken from a dream. Or into one.”

“How do you feel about that?” The old man asked, his face crinkling.

“Good but weird.” He replied after a moment’s thought. “There seem to be many different personalities inside me making new alliances and friendships. Some things are resolving, and others are not. Some are left hanging without any explanation at all. I feel I’ve accomplished something, but it isn’t anything I can share with anybody. I hold a gem that only I recognize as priceless.”

“Welcome to the next level. Would you care for some wine fermented from grapes grown in the best unknown vineyard anywhere?”

“Very much.” Werbinox said, accepting the jug the old man handed him. It flowed pure ambrosia down his throat, blossoming tendrils of peace and celebration. The sound of music drifted from over the horizon.

“I have been gone so long.” He said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “What is happening out there?”

“With the disease removed, the inexhaustibility of the organism has reasserted in all dimensions, curing itself in ways beyond our wildest estimations. We are reconstructing here and there, yet largely stay out of the way. A stream flows clear again once the thrashing is over.”

“So we rise from the dark valley?” Werbinox said.

“Yes we do.” The old man responded. “Yet in the rise the paths to the next chasm are laid. Such are the perpetual oscillations of life.”

“What about the city?”

“With more people comes more politics. New movements spring up everyday. They are insignificant now, but soon they will be annoying. So many do not see that politics, and the currents of racism and religion it absorbs as fuel for its will to power, is the externalization of inner conflict with the hidden parts of the psyche. What do you fear and hate? It is all your own energy projected onto other people as the imagined source of your misery. It is so much easier to lay blame at the feet of others than to face the self in the glory and horror of its full complicity.”

Vapor trails streaked overhead. The distant music became more raucous. The butterfly flapped manically around Werbinox, stimulated by the cigar smoke. Sensing rather than seeing them, a crowd of people gathered at the edge of the lawn behind him.


“What can we do about this?” He asked, sipping his wine. A young girl with long blonde hair walked on the periphery of his vision. He had seen her face before. Did he know her? She blew him a kiss.

“Not much.” The old man said. “Whatever you do it has to be individual, else you become just another cell in the collective beast. Make your life as full, rewarding, and self-directed as you can. Right there is your success. Perhaps it will inspire others to do the same in their own way. The more who seek self-awareness thru initiation into their own mysteries, the less there will be who need the palliative of governmental politics, which never solves anything because resolution is not its purpose or goal, rather the endless misdirection of passions and prejudices for personal gain.”

“Shit stirring!”

“Exactly.” The old man toasted him with his wine.

“You once told me my initiation was complete. But it is never really finished, is it?” Werbinox said.

“Not unless you are, and by that I don’t mean your physical demise. The walking dead are legion. Slow suicide is their method. Consumed in the cowardice of chronic self-deception and thought crushing narcotization, they wait for circumstances and the accumulated effects of abuse to do the job for them. That is no way to die, and certainly no way to live.

“People of all ages and experience levels still have a lot of growing up to do, and this is not the same as growing old, which is defined by increasing restriction, hardening of well established, insufficiently challenged views; the erection of a fortress mentality, No to this, No to that, No-No-No! To the contrary, growing up is a process of inward and outward growth. For every No over here there should be a Yes over there, an opening up to new perceptions, new challenges, new people; an examination and utilization of previously undiscovered and underdeveloped emotions, abilities, and talents; a ceaseless drive to enter into your own mysteries and bring forth into conscious being your greatest, most creative and productive self for the benefit of not only yourself, but for the nurturing, protection, and evolutionary advancement of all intelligent life within your sphere of influence. Growing up, then, is initiation; a life-long and perhaps eternal process of being-becoming-being that, once it resolves to a new and higher level, begins all over again. It is a path of mastery applied to yourself as your most important work.

“Even when transported to a different location, the current culture is no friend to growing up. It even conspires against it! Instant gratification, the quick fix, easy score, getting away with it mentality is not compatible with the long-term psychology of growth thru commitment and adversity that is necessary for true initiation to take place. Nothing less than a consciousness revolution can rectify the gross imbalance of this society, and such things are difficult to predict if not impossible to engineer. The time is right, or it is not. Many think they can read the signs of a change, and are all too often wrong. For something to rise, something must fall. The insatiably materialistic, mindlessly patriotic, militaristic, great power chauvinistic, shut-up-and-get-in-line fascistic, succeed at all costs winner take all ethos that fuels your culture along with technology addiction, substance abuse, and fear based fundamentalist religion must lead to its inevitable dead end and crash and burn for any substantial, culture wide consciousness revolution to occur. The god that you get is the god that you feed, and whether people turn to a machine, a pill, a guru, or a savior to make things seem better, real and substantive change comes only from sustained personal effort. The reward is shaped from within, not granted from without.

“Older cultures understood the value and power of rites of passage in a way modern culture has not a clue about. A child cannot face the trials of young adulthood, with its tempests of hormones and emotions coupled with increasing responsibilities, as a child. To inaugurate a new state of mind, rituals and tests were used to initiate the young into a new and more difficult stage of life. Comprising a being-becoming-being progression in miniature, the rite of passage is a microcosm of the extended challenges ahead. Actual changes are not wrought during the rite of passage, but the basis of the psychological state necessary for change is laid, so that when the actual trials come the initiate can face them as a young adult, not a developmentally delayed child. The older rites of passage made sure to test loyalty to cultural expectations by demanding stoicism in the face of fear and pain. Fighting, floggings, the plunging of fists into hornet nests, the wearing of ant filled gloves, the hunting and killing of ferocious animals, deprivation based vision quests, all of them employed danger, agony, and overwhelming emotion. Leaving aside the possible sadism of the elders, the point was to sear the lesson of transition and obligation into the minds of the next generation, and to test and demonstrate the power of a social hold already established!

“New rites of passage need not be quite so endangering, yet they must make a lasting impression. The young do not respect that which fails to overwhelm. A purely symbolic ritual, devoid of any fear, pain, or test of endurance is counter-productive, for it inspires a sense of contempt for one’s culture that may be deserved. New rites also need not be uniform and monolithic. A free and pluralistic society can support many different coming of age rituals. And as libertarians like you and your father recognize, some individuals are aware of their own transitions, and do not require collectively sanctioned rites to help them cross the threshold. In all questions of social and cultural renewal, however, it must be remembered that such individuals are the exception, not the rule. The vast majority are highly influenced by what other people think, and this fact must be utilized for the benefit of all concerned.

“Exiting childhood and entering adulthood is anything but the only time of transition. Failure to recognize this is an expensive failure for any civilization. Young adulthood is of course full of many rites of passage such as falling in love, getting married, starting a career, childbirth, going to war, and so on. Yet somewhere around the mid to late 30’s or early 40’s a new life transition occurs. The illusory rainbows of youth fade with the hard-edged realization that you will not live forever. The face of mortality reveals itself with definable features! Facing the challenges of this new stage of life with the mindset of the young adult leads to deep depression, denial, delusion, and disaster. Where is the rite of passage to help inaugurate the requisite psychology to not only survive this stage of life, but to magically utilize its power and beauty for the accomplishment of goals and dreams beyond the reach and realization of the young adult? Usually it comes in the form of an unplanned and undesired event, a sudden illness, a divorce, the collapse of a career, the death of a loved one, the death of a dream. Much melancholy and darkness can accompany the passage to mid-life, but those who grasp it with the proper attitude and strength of will discover that it can be life’s greatest time. Fresh challenges are undertaken, and old shackles cast aside. It is a time of new freedoms, loves, and realizations. You may start your own business, publish a book, buy a house, tour the world, run for office, climb a mountain, and become yourself. Whatever you are going to do, now is a good time to do it. Many who stay a course set earlier discover that this is when the rewards of steady commitment begin to appear. Others start new paths by granting themselves permission to finally be what they want to be, and are. It must not be overlooked, however, that much of the fruitful and creative energy of this stage comes from an underlying and potential chaos of financial, mental, emotional, sexual, and spiritual breakdowns, and the facing of ever-present, pitiless truths. Many seek help in making the passage to this stage of life long after they have already entered it, turning to various spiritualities and religions, civic organizations, or initiatory orders. The near-automatic magic of youth no longer works, and a new, more conscious approach must be formulated. Some fail to make the transition at all. Clinging to the methods of a life that no longer exists, they knowingly or unknowingly choose death, going down in a blaze of bitterness, drug abuse, emotional and physical violence, resignation, and despair.

“Whether the most beautiful and productive, the ugliest, or both, eventually you realize the tragedies and triumphs of middle age are over, and the trials of old age have begun. Where are the rites of passage to inaugurate this supreme challenge? Retirement? Managed care? The nursing home? Forgive my bleakness here, but modern culture offers little else. I am not talking about the healthy extension of active life that may in certain cases penetrate well into the 80’s or 90’s, but the physical, emotional, and spiritual reality of old age as it manifests in each individual regardless of biological time. Some ease gradually into this stage, while many others wake up into it as a living nightmare from one drastic incident, when they have in fact been a resident of it for quite some time. The duration of health thru medicine, diet, and exercise does not eradicate the existence of old age, or the need for a meaningful transition into it. Physical and mental incapacity do not in themselves an elder make.

“What is the magically effective psychology for old age? How can it be formulated at the right time and cast forward into the future and beyond? Like every other stage of life it too must have its purpose, and that purpose will be as varied as the individuals who animate it. Yet in essence the purpose is two-fold: to dispense the kind of wisdom and guidance that only elders can give from their hard-earned vantage point, and to courageously face the greatest transition of all. As with any stage of life there are good and bad here, the capable and the incapable, the wise and the foolish. But the good, capable, and wise are our indispensable chiefs, teaching us what they know, setting an example for all of us to emulate in our own way when and if we are lucky enough to reach that stage ourselves.

“Running thru all of these transitions is the thread of initiation to guide us thru the inner and outer labyrinths of existence. Rites of passage are but a tool for the initiatory process, a template for the dynamic assigning and re-assigning of value necessary for a productive and advantageous determination of one’s own reality in cycles of metamorphosis. The initiate, who is the true explorer of self and life, must periodically withdraw into hidden realms and sacred spaces where energies collide and transformations occur amid great dangers and annihilating illuminations. Then he or she must return to mundane life with the elixir won to transform the world around them. This is the hero’s adventure. Your world needs more heroes, and must therefore train people to be heroes – first and foremost to their own selves.

“There!” The old man said with a flourish, putting aside his empty glass and extinguished cigar stub. “Now you have some ideas you can use to inaugurate a consciousness revolution. Of course, activating them requires one in itself. But I yammer on, and the hour grows late.”

The roar of massive applause drifted from over the horizon with strange acoustical distortion. The crowd of people at the gate behind him grew larger. The butterfly landed restfully on the back of his left hand. Werbinox lifted the smoking cigar to his mouth with his right.

“Old age is not the final stage.” He said.

“Death is.” Said the old man. “And a first.”

The butterfly flew off, disappearing into the autumn shadows. Chimes, bells, and echoing voices.

“Will I ever see you again?” Werbinox asked.

“Not like this. But don’t worry. Those who belong find their way back to the table.”

The old man stood. The haunting sound of a violin lilted poignantly thru the trees. Leaning over, he kissed Werbinox on the forehead.

“You have your new work ahead of you, but my work is over and my time is finished. I must go and conduct my own rite of passage.”

“I love you, ya know.” Werbinox said, a tear running down his cheek.

“All was lost but then regained.” The old man said. “I was nearly expelled for my methods, yet you came thru like I hoped you would. Working with you has been a nightmare and an honor, a terror and a joy. I love you, too.”

He turned and walked slowly away. The chair he had sat in was gone.

Images rose from the grass, faces bulging, wings flapping, hillsides burning, pyramids rising, flapping naked breasts. The gate was opened. People filed across the lawn towards him. Goosebumps rippled his flesh.

“Wait a minute!” he called out. “Is this real? Was any of it?”

“As real as anything.” The old man said, looking back. “And more than you think.”

“What about you?” Werbinox asked.

“Me?” He said, laughing. “Why, I am just a figment of your imagination.”