Year of our Lord
I'm in a large white space with other people who are all, like me, wearing Medieval-style costumes and armor. But this is not a theatrical production because the sword I'm holding is a real one made of a dark silvery-blue metal. It's a long sword, with a broad blade that tapers at the end. The hilt is large and the metal is heavy although somewhat thin, as if it's a very old sword made centuries ago. It feels strange to be holding this sword, but if I'm going to use it, I should make sure it's a good one. Raising it before me with both hands, I suddenly realize I'm going to have to do some actual fighting with this sword! I'll be cut to pieces in a few seconds! I don't know how to sword fight! I walk away... I slip into lucidity as I open the front door of my house and step out onto the porch, where I experience the real sensation of a very gentle rainfall. It's surprising, yet sweetly refreshing. It's still night, but the darkness is alleviated by a lovely ambient blue light. I realize I'm not in our actual front yard but in a grove of trees illuminated by this soft blue radiance. Rising a few feet off the ground, I drift contentedly between the trees, happy to be lucid. The trees are much broader than they are tall, their branches stretching out in a sinuous way beneath a dark green canopy. These trees do not look native to where I live. As I rise a little higher above the trees, I perceive starry golden lights close to the horizon of this celestial blue mist, beneath which I discern a road of sorts. Taking a deep breath, I exclaim, “My Lord!” wanting to thank Him for everything, and feeling there's something I need to do, that He wants me to do, in this dream.
Without thinking about it, I turn to my left, descend, and walk out of the misty blue grove of trees. I emerge into a sunny day at the edge of an open square surrounded by the high walls of a castle or some similar protective structure. An open air market is underway. There are no booths or canopies, just three long narrow tables, covered with white cloths, arranged at right angles to each other. Before the table closest to me stands a short figure wearing dusty silver-gray chain mail armor that looks like its seen a lot of use. I can't see his face because he's wearing a helmet, but I assume he's a man. He's holding a sword in both hands before him, the hilt level with his chest and the blade extending all the way to the ground, its point in the smooth dirt. I somehow know he belongs to a force of knights protecting the people of this town. I remember my earlier dream in which I was holding a sword, but although this scene is the real thing, the atmosphere is relaxed; everyone obviously feels safe now.
I walk over to the nearest table, behind which stand two women selling necklaces. Focusing on one of the pieces, I pick it up and run it through my fingers. It's made of narrow and smoothly rectangular small white stones strung together on a very fine gold chain. I ask the women, “What is this stone?” but get no response. They don't seem aware of me at all, like I'm invisible to them. I have to repeat my question a few times, raising my voice, before they finally register my presence. “What is this stone?” I repeat, and one of the women—who is wearing some sort of white apron over a long plain dress—replies, “Rapta.” I repeat, “Rapta?” And she says, “Yes, rapta.”
Putting the necklace down, I take a step back before asking them, “What year is this?” I get the distinct impression I've gone back in time, and that I'm experiencing a real historical location and event. Once again, I have to repeat myself as they stare at me, bemused by my question. Then the same woman replies slowly and clearly, “The Year of Our Lord 1429.”
When I repeat what she told me, she nods. I'm sure I can remember this because Columbus discovered America in 1492, so I just invert the 9 and the 2. Repeating the date to myself, and the name of the stone, I wake up. But in all my later dreams, I'm talking to people about this lucid dream, and in one of them a woman tells me the name of the stone is namma not rapta.
I was completely blown away when I Googled “The Year of our Lord 1429” and discovered what I had not previously known. In fact, I have always had conflicting feelings about Joan of Arc, and so I have never read much about her. That morning I did!
“During the Hundred Years’ War, on April 29, 1429, the 17-year-old French peasant Joan of Arc leads a French force in relieving the city of Orleans, besieged by the English since October…
“At the age of 16, ‘voices’ of Christian saints told Joan to aid Charles, the French dauphin, in gaining the French throne and expelling the English from France. Convinced of the validity of her divine mission, Charles furnished Joan with a small force of troops. She led her troops to Orleans, and on April 29, 1429, as a French sortie distracted the English troops on the west side of the city, Joan entered unopposed by its eastern gate. Bringing needed supplies and troops into the besieged city, she also inspired the French to a passionate resistance and through the next week led the charge during a number of skirmishes and battles. On one occasion, she was even hit by an arrow, but after dressing her wounds she returned to the battle. On May 8, the siege of Orleans was broken, and the English retreated.”history.com/this-day-in-history/joan-of-arc-relieves-orleans
I Googled “white stone rapta” and this was the top search result:
Revelation—What is the “hidden manna” and the “white stone”: In the quote below from the Book of Revelation, the last book of the New Testament, it is Jesus speaking: “To the one who is victorious, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give that person a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it” (Revelation 2:17).
If I had Googed “namma” first instead of “rapta” I would not have found anything of any significance. I distinctly heard and repeated “rapta” when the woman replied to my question, as if I was meant to remember “rapta” because it would provide me with the right search result after another dream figure linked the white stone with this quote from Revelation by telling me the stone's name was “manna”. But as sometimes happens in a dream vowels and consonants can get mixed up, and when I woke up I thought I had heard "namma". Rapta also sounds like the beginning or a dream-compressed version of Rapture.
I felt I was in a moment of the real historical past, and it seems I was. My earlier non-lucid dream of holding a sword—and being expected to really fight with it even though I was a woman with no training—ties directly into this lucid dream. Could the lone knight I saw guarding the people, who was shorter than I expected an armored man to be, and who held a sword like the one I had held in my first dream, have been Joan of Arc?
Continuing my search, I discovered an account of the event penned by a young noblewoman who very emotionally described the miracle of their salvation by Joan of Arc. She concludes:
“My mother invites Joan of Arc to sup with us. She politely declines saying that she must tend to the other sick and wounded and help feed the hungry. I cannot make sense of all that happened today only to say that a miracle happened, and Joan of Arc was part of that miracle.”
I am in awe! I feel one of the reasons God blessed me with this dream was to encourage me to keep confidently wielding a pen as Joan did a sword.
“So now you must give others an intelligible account of what you see with your inner eye and what you hear with your inner ear. Your testimony will help them.”Hildegard of Bingen: A Spiritual Reader (Carmen Acevedo Butcher)
I slip into a Wake Induced Lucid Dream where I laughingly tell my sister that you don't need to worry about making a mess in a dream. But reconsidering, I add, “Then again if you come back in another lucid dream this mess will still be here, so really, it's not good to be messy even in a dream”. . . Another W.I.L.D. into an immeasurably vast white space, and looking out a window I focus on, I perceive the edge of a castle wall made of stone blocks with a greenish tinge in places. I love how very real and present the scene outside the window is as I move toward it, but I can't quite make it out there. . .
Saying goodbye to some dream characters I've been having fun with, in the process of doing so I become lucid and immediately take off into the sky—a powerful wind is pulling me up, and up. There are trees everywhere in a pure expansive landscape. The lighting is a soft silvery-gold as though it's dusk, or late in an overcast day in a place where everything is covered with a soft deep layer of snow. I feel fantastic and free ascending over this dreamscape. Then I spot, flying swiftly toward me, a bright blue-and-white bird similar to a blue jay. As it soars past and around me I reach out for it, delighted by the possibility of forming some kind of dream bond. But abruptly it shoots straight down to earth, and I'm pulled down after it. Plummeting toward the ground, I separate my arms slightly from my body, and willing myself to slow down land nicely.
Taking off again, I become conscious of my nipples which fact begins arousing me. Not desiring the distraction, I deliberately pull off what I'm wearing—an old-fashioned bodice that has begun slipping down over my breasts—and toss it away. I find it interesting I was able to simply remove the sensation in this fashion. A few seconds later, I perceive below me a white street at the edge of some quaint old-fashioned town. Three young men are crossing this street, walking and talking together, and I call down to them curiously, “Who are you?” They are quite animated, and I sense bonded by much more than casual friendship. They're all dressed the same, and their dark hair is neither short or long. Their skin is very fair and radiates a healthy vitality. I especially notice and focus on one of the three, who I sense is their leader. His face is alive with a highly attractive focused energy, and I distinctly sense he and his companions are real individuals from Earth's past interacting with me now in my lucid dream.
Worrying they may not have heard me, I descend to street level, and putting a friendly edge of command in my voice ask the group's leader, “Who are you?” Stopping as one, they regard me with the same focused attention I'm bestowing on them. All of them are wearing straight white tunics over long-sleeved black shirts and tights. But it's the young man I sense is their leader who meets my eyes and says, very distinctly, “11 Norway.” I ask, “So this is Norway in the eleventh century? Speaking for all of them he replies, “Yes.” And as they continue regarding me in what strikes me as a fully conscious way, I get the impression they somehow mysteriously know I'm dreaming - that I'm visiting them in a dream - and aren't surprised.
As we all enter another building, which is narrow and dimly lit, I repeat to myself, “11 Norway... 11 Norway...” before asking the spokesman, “What's your name?” “Hareldson,” I hear him reply. “Thorsday Hareldson.”
I'm sure I'll remember this because the Viking Thor's Day is where our day of the week Thursday comes from. I keep repeating what he's told me, “11 Norway, Thor's day Hareldson.” I'm standing very close to him, and his earnest noble face only inches away from mine is partially in shadow. And as I keep repeating this information to myself out loud, it seems to me he begins looking concerned I might not remember what he's told me. Feeling it's time to go so I won't forget, I begin backing away toward the door as I silently repeat in my mind what I've heard, determined to remember it...
I slip into a False Awakening in which I waste a lot of time trying to find paper to write my information down on, but it's the usual problem of every pad and notebook, etc. already being covered with writing. I finally wake up for real, and thanks to how often I repeated the information in the dream, I still remember it.
A web search of what I was told in the dream yielded information that truly amazed me: King Olaf, Saint Olaf, 11th Century, Norway "Olaf II's old Norse name is Ólafr Haraldsson. He was a pagan Viking raider who converted to Christianity and became King of Norway. He dramatically destroyed a statue of Thor one day as he began fighting to Christianize Norway. The huge wooden idol of Thor that he encountered was at a place called Gulbrandsdad in central Norway. The custom was to offer food and gold ornaments to this idol. Olaf announced to the local Thor worshipers that a golden sunrise then in progress was the herald of his God. With all eyes trained on the sunrise, Olaf had one of his men strike the idol a terrific blow with a club. The rotten wood splintered, the idol collapsed. According to Snorri Sturluson, one of Olaf’s principal chroniclers, “Out of it ran mice as big almost as rats, and reptiles, and adders.” Now, if you worship an idol, it is destroyed, and the man who destroyed it is not struck down on the spot by the gods, you are likely to be shaken. Olaf seized the moment to proclaim: “Either accept Christianity or fight this very day, and the victory be to them to whom the God we worship gives it.” The former devotees of Thor promptly agreed to baptism. "That is according to one account. According to another, gold ornaments offered to the idol, as well as vermin, scattered across the ground. Olaf is supposed to have then observed to the locals that such pretty things would look better on their wives and daughters. That was enough to secure everyone’s conversion. Whatever, “they who met as enemies,” says Sturluson, “parted as friends.” Vikings Were DREAMERS "Viking lore is filled with dreams. Like their bloodiness, the importance of dreams to them may make moderns imagine the Vikings as simply “primitive” and “barbaric.” That's pretty funny. After all, even as the unquestionable bloodiness of the past century ought to keep us from condemning the savagery of any preceding age, it really is bizarre of us to view any people of earlier times as superstitious because they took dreams seriously... If any who are Catholic see it as superstitious or primitive, it only shows how they have been polluted by the spirit of modernity. They ought to be mindful of St. Joseph. One of the few concrete things Scripture tells us about Joseph is that at key moments of his life he receives instructions from an Angel who comes to him in his sleep - who comes in a dream." - catholicism.org
I emailed this dream to another lucid dreamer and friend.
James: It's a very interesting and complex dream, Maria. Particularly the analysis. So help me to understand. Since it's not just the dream that's interesting to me. But also the how and why? And I believe I know what you're going to tell me. I think? So what is the purpose of having this dream? How does this information flow into your dream space and for what purpose? Do trust, I'll be super open-minded with regard to the dreamer's interpretation. I ask, in part, because had I asked the same question 3 years ago, I know I would have gotten a very different answer. Maria: Ah, but I could never have had this dream 3 years ago!:-) If there's one thing I've learned is that the WHY of a dream is not something than can be fully pinned down immediately. Although I can glean a part of the meaning, such dreams point to future developments as a result of progress made so far. So into my dream last night comes Saint Olaf, the son of a pagan Viking king who became Norway's first Christian ruler and fought to unify the country and free it of neighboring oppressors. I can glean one reason for having been granted a mysterious interview with him in a lucid dream. Considering the position I find myself in now (being shunned by a lot of lucid dreamers because I am fully embracing Christianity as a result of my dreams) I feel Saint Olaf is urging me not to be afraid to fight for what I believe, and to use all my personal gifts and intelligence to defend the joyful strength of my newfound faith. He may also be telling me not to worry about my past sins. I also think it's significant I had this dream the night after All Saint's Day. I transformed from a writer of BDSM romances (and apparently you're aware, James that my first published book was entitled Thorsday Night) to who I am now as a person and a writer, while Olaf was transformed from a teenage Viking killing priests into a champion of the Faith. Both our conversions, as often happens, were dramatic and absolute. Many Saints were once hardcore sinners before God took glorious hold of them.