By Nancy Pickard
Years ago, there were “communiversity” classes in my city, offered by volunteer teachers, for free, often held in their own homes. But this time, when the teacher-host opened his front door, I was embarrassed to discover that I’d come to the wrong class at the wrong address. As I looked at the man in the doorway–a dapper, well-dressed fellow with a devilish goatee and an amused air of superiority–I felt foolish and ill at ease.
“You don’t have time now to get to your class,” he pointed out. “Come on in. Stay for mine.”
I didn’t want to. I didn’t like him, on sight.
But he had generously offered, and I didn’t want to be rude.
I thought, I’m being silly. It’s not his fault I’m nervous. I was in my early thirties at that time, married, no children, a writer always on the lookout for ideas, characters, plot twists. Go on in, I urged myself. It wasn’t as if I had anything else to do with the hour. You might learn something.
I was, indeed, about to learn something–namely, that I had better develop the knack of saying no, and that I should listen to early signals from my inner guidance system before its warning whispers turned into screams.
My host’s home was elaborately outfitted in Victoriana.
When the other students started arriving, they exclaimed over how immaculate and exquisite his decorating was, but to my eyes it looked like “gauche” masquerading as good taste.
I took a seat in an antique chair upholstered in yellow and crimson silk.
The other students talked and laughed easily before the class started; I seemed to be the only tongue-tied one who felt awkward and jittery. My smile was stiff and forced; I didn’t want to be there.
Our host conducted his lesson, which was about the arcane art of “reading” Tarot cards. He was knowledgeable and entertaining, but I never managed to relax.
I was relieved when the class ended an hour later.
He ushered us back out his ornate front door.
In spite of everything, I promised him I’d return for next Sunday’s class. Once again, I didn’t want to appear discourteous and make him think I didn’t appreciate his hospitality. Of course, I didn’t appreciate it. I hurried to my car, got in, and took some deep breaths. I’d been an idiot. I had no idea why.
That night, I experienced the most terrifying dream of my life.
In the dream, I lay on my right side at the edge of the bed.
I opened my eyes just a little and saw the legs of a man, pressed up against the mattress. I froze, forcing even my eyelids to remain perfectly still so he wouldn’t know I was awake. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see that he held a gun, and I sensed that he was trying to decide whether or not to kill me. I was terrified, and sure I was going to die.
But he didn’t shoot me.
The nightmare ended, and I thought I woke up, but the terror continued because I didn’t know for sure if I was really awake or still dreaming. I was lying exactly as I had been in the dream: frozen, but sweating from fear. Just as in the dream, my eyes were slits, my eyelids still unmoving, still staring at the spot where the gun had been so near to my face.
Was he still in the room?
Finally, I felt sure, to my immense relief, that it wasn’t real. He wasn’t there. He’d never been there. I was safe in my bed.
I didn’t tell my husband about the nightmare.
I didn’t tell anybody.
I went through an entire week of frightened silence about it.
I even attended a “Dream Interpretation” group and never mentioned it!
Then, on the next Sunday night, while watching a football game, I suddenly realized that this was the night of goatee-man’s second class, and the time had already passed for me to go. In a week in which I had thought about little else, I had “somehow” managed to forget to go to his class! My next realization was a lot more startling: I finally admitted to myself what I had been unconsciously denying all week: my nightmare was about the teacher. Both in the nightmare and out of it, I was scared to death of him.
But why?
I didn’t understand any of this strange chain of happenings: my mistake in showing up at his door, his appearance and manner that so unnerved me, my stiff demeanor and anxiety in his home, my acquiescence, twice, to do exactly what I didn’t want to do; then a nightmare so frightening that I couldn’t even talk about it, followed by the fact that I had sabotaged my own intention to go to the second class. But at least I could control what a wiser person might have done at the start–avoid any contact with the man who scared me more than anybody I’d ever met in my life.
But I still didn’t know why I was so stirred up.
It seemed such an extreme reaction to a trivial event.
I just knew I would never in a million years return to his house, his class, or be anywhere near him again–not if I could help it.
A couple of years went by before I got an answer.
One morning, I opened the local newspaper.
There, in a front-page story, was his photograph–goatee, and all. I recognized him immediately and, of course, there was his name, which I had not forgotten. The story told how, the night before, he had shot and killed his lover, killed his business partner’s wife, gravely wounded his business partner, and then shot and killed himself.
Sitting at my breakfast table, I stared in shock at that news.
No wonder I was so scared of him.
Something inside of me had reacted to something very frightening inside of him.
Had the nightmare saved my life?
I felt as if I’d had a narrow escape. It seemed my inner guidance had been determined to warn me to stay away from him. And when I wouldn’t listen to my own sense of the man, my psyche resorted to high drama to frighten me away from him.
I thought, Thank you!
When my husband appeared in the kitchen, I looked up from the newspaper and said, “You’ll never believe this.” Finally, I told him the whole uncanny story of my encounter with a killer-in-waiting.
After that, I took my dreams much more seriously than before.
Not long after, I was asked to write advertising copy for two men who wanted me to do it on spec, claiming they couldn’t pay me until their product sold. I was broke, but they were charming. Once again, inner alarm bells clanged, but I chose to gamble anyway. The night before I was going to tell them I’d do it, I dreamed I was going to meet them at a house with snakes hanging from every tree in the yard! This time, I got the message immediately, and turned them down. Later, I found out that their product failed, so they couldn’t–or possibly wouldn’t– have paid me. Once again, a nightmare rescued me after I ignored nudges from my inner protector.
I realized I didn’t want to count on nightmares to save me.
No more snakes! No more assassins.
When my inner voice spoke, I would listen, early and often.
And so I have, since then. I’ve even learned to ask first.
“Is this?” I ask, “a good idea?”
I’m grateful to those nightmares because they showed me that I am guided by a benevolent influence that rises from the deepest and wisest part of me. Because of that, when A Course in Miracles came into my life, I was prepared to believe in, listen to, and follow the inner guidance it calls the Holy Spirit. Through the centuries, various people and cultures have called it God, angels, intuition, guidance, second sight, conscience, sixth sense, or any of a thousand other names for Love.
Following the right involuntary Guide will enable you to recognize both physical and spiritual dangers, and will provide the means for avoiding each of them in the most efficient way. [CE T-1.21.2:2]
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