Connecting with the Collective Unconsciousness

A couple of months ago I was on vacation with my family in Hong Kong.

Each evening after dinner, I would space clear the hotel room and settle down to meditate before retiring to bed. Fortunately, the ground energies of that hotel were positive and strong and they would get even better after the energy clearing. My meditations ended up being extremely deep and I often saw flashes of the history of that region.

On my second day there, while visiting the local flea market, I had an encounter with a bitter and angry lady vendor. Seeing her shout and scream for no apparent reason took me by surprise. I couldn’t fathom what made her react so strongly. For some strange reason, I couldn’t get that experience off my mind, and found myself once again introspecting on the cause of her upset later that evening.

Not finding any logical answer I proceeded to perform my nightly meditation and then lay in bed still immersed in the subject of my contemplation. I don’t recall how or when I fell asleep, but what followed thereafter was one of the most disturbing and vivid lucid dreams I have ever had.

With striking clarity I saw how through the ages women had been plundered by men of power and property (landlords and politicians). Torn from their weaker fathers and husbands, women were used as cattle to satisfy the insatiable sexual hunger of those in power and then ruthlessly discarded.

All any man of power had to do was cast a dishonourable glance,

and the woman was forcibly taken away from her family to serve the hunger of the man’s libido. Scene after scene of mass abuse and oppression flashed before me. I then saw a familiar looking woman on the run, hiding in villages, on desolate rooftops, among abandoned children and in outhouses of large ancestral homes.

She was desperately trying to escape the trauma and humility of being coveted. Each time she was discovered, she felt  the lustful glances of dishonourable men who peeled the clothes off her body by the look they cast upon her, as she stood amidst rows of women lined up as bait.

Always on the run, she was alert as a jungle animal fearful of being captured.

She lived with the singular intent of protecting her dignity and respect. And yet she saw several other helpless women around her losing theirs. Quietly. Without a word on their lips but with hearts screaming so loud, their wails could shatter the strongest glass.

Time passed by and even at the ripe old age of 50 men would notice her and mock her saying, “She still has the juices left.” Even though her fragile body was tired, her spirit soared with determination. She continued to run through the jungles, garden houses and shacks and finally found a reclusive little hut at the deep end of a large community garden. She lived there all alone until one fine day, a middle aged man came looking for her.

He was a Muslim poet and came from a neighbouring country.

He said he had heard about her and wanted to take her back with him. He promised to keep her with honour and respect. After deep thought she agreed to go with him hoping that she might be safe from the tyranny of other men.

Every evening people would come to hear him recite his poetry. As the days passed by he began composing poems on her beauty and would read them out to the gathered crowds. She would sit quietly behind the curtain that veiled her presence, wondering whether a man could ever reach the heart of a woman. Could he ever truly respect her?

She had experienced the plundering and the abuse,

and now she was receiving what the world called respect. Perhaps even adulation. But even the poet was touched only by her beauty and chose to write only of her physical charms. He too had failed to see beyond.

I woke up with my heart palpitating and my breath beating in rhythm with the woman I had just watched in my dream. It was as though my soul mind had fused with hers for the eternity that was her life. Was she a previous incarnation of the woman I met in the street the previous morning? Or was she the collective voice of the Chinese women who have lived in pain, anguish and abuse forever?

I’m not sure which one it was, but clearly, she was the answer to the question I had held in my heart the previous evening about the unsuspecting and angry reaction of the street vendor.

 Dreams are a powerful way of connecting not just with your own subconscious mind but also with the collective unconscious.


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