In the dream I’m standing on a cliff, looking out at the ocean shimmering white in the sun and seeming to stretch on forever. I want to go down to the ocean, but the steps leading to the water are blocked by a heavy iron door that is locked.
You. You pull alongside the steps in a sleek boat, dissolve the door and whisk me into the craft. I stand close by your side, you tall and handsome in your white uniform. You take the wheel in your hands and speed us out into the ocean—far, far—until we disappear.
The metaphor is so obvious now, but still, it took many years to see.
I was energized by my newly planned rebellion. The plan was to go to the ball despite being explicitly forbidden to do so. My stepmother had been gradually stripping away my money, space and freedoms—and I was finally getting fed up!
I, like the proverbial frog who doesn’t jump out of a pot being slowly brought to boil, had been quietly accepting the erosion of my power. First, after my father died, my stepmother moved me to the attic. I went along with it because, in truth, I was happy to get away from her and her two daughters, and have some space away from them—even if it was cramped, dusty and infested with mice. I pretended not to notice the water getting hotter when I was then assigned all the housekeeping duties—this after she fired the housekeeper to save some of our ever-dwindling money. (The estate my father left us would have lasted me several lifetimes, but she’d blown through most of it in just seven years.) Again, I didn’t really mind, because the extra work kept me busy and away from them—God knows, they stayed as far away as they could from any mop, bucket or rag. But when she said I couldn’t go to the ball because I wasn’t good enough and didn’t deserve to be in such company, well, that was when the water finally felt too hot, and I began to concoct my plan.
I was going to go to the ball no matter what it took. I’d make my own dress and sneak there one way or the other. And I was gleeful knowing that I’d still outshine them. Her daughters would be wearing the most expensive and luxurious dresses that money can buy, but I knew I’d still be the one who’d shine, the bright one who’d capture the heart of the prince. It had always been that way—just being happy, bright, quick to laugh, and well, very pretty, had always made it easy to be the favorite. So I was gleeful at the idea that I’d still outdo them, despite all of their attempts to hold me down.
But then another dream. In it, he walked towards me. The same man, the man from the boat. He was tall and lean, elegantly dressed. We were at the ball, and it was as beautiful as I imagined. Crystal chandeliers splashed light around the room, elegantly dressed couples waltzed around the polished dance floor, and a long table was laden with all kinds of delicious food and drink. I was sitting at a table, chatting away with a girlfriend, when I saw him walking towards me. Then just as he reached the table, he turned and addressed a young man sitting with us. I hadn’t even noticed him sitting there, quietly uncomfortable in his fancy attire. The tall man made a quick nod towards us and said to him, “If it seems like they’ve been doing this for forever, it’s because they have.”
When I woke up the excitement around attending the ball had totally evaporated. Any energy around getting some petty revenge on my stepmother and stepsisters had completely disappeared. Now, the idea of the ball felt boring, boring—as if I’d been to hundreds, if not thousands, of dances, as if I’d won the hearts of a million Prince Charmings. Like he said in the dream, it was if I’d been doing it forever and now it held no excitement. Instead, I clearly saw that I needed to get out of my situation, away from this lady who was trying to crush my spirit. Rebelling against her by going to a dance was too small. I really just needed to get away from them entirely, and leave this story behind.
Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me to leave. This home was my birthright, my inheritance, and felt like the last link to my father. But that’s crazy. My link to my father isn’t through a house of stone, and leaving it won’t diminish my connection to him. I may be leaving my material birthright, but my spiritual birthright is to be happy, and that will never happen here. I have to close the door on these folks.
It was my first big crossroad—to leave a material birthright behind in favor of a spiritual one—but once I understood the pettiness of that life, it was easy. Those people weren’t my tribe. So on the night of the ball, when everyone was away, I slipped out with my small bundle of things and took the stagecoach to Paris. My uncle, who was the black sheep of the family, welcomed me to stay with him, recognizing in me a kindred spirit.
I know now that the man in the boat, my teacher, was reeling me in to him, a huge magnet drawing me in. I would soon meet him and discover that he was my real Prince Charming. He truly saved me. Instead of sweeping me off my feet, marrying me and making me his princess, he delivered me to the ocean of bliss. That journey was quite a bit more complicated than the boat ride in the dream (you can read all about that elsewhere), but he helped me dissolve all identity, all individuation, until all that remained was Light itself. Umm. Om.
Enlightenment Fan Fiction 