"It is the only medicine that can break the spell of our split world"

A dream which is a Counter-spell for What Is Happening Now

Mar 28, 2025

You may not know this about me, but I’m a vivid dreamer—always have been. My dreams are cinematic, layered, and often feel as real as waking life. Some, I know immediately, are what I call big dreams—the ones that arrive with mythic resonance, charged with meaning that reaches far beyond my personal thoughts. These are not just about me. They carry transmission. Instruction. Sometimes even prophecy.

This one felt especially collective—so I’ll ask a question at the end, because I don’t think this dream is just for me. I’d love to know what it stirs in you.

A note:
I usually keep politically charged dreams to myself. My readers come from all across the political spectrum, and I’ve long chosen to speak in symbols and soul-language rather than headlines.

But right now, what is happening in the United States requires more from us—from me. It requires clarity, courage, and voice. It requires that we open the closets of magical tools at our disposal—and use them.

The dream:

We are all in a coliseum on a university campus. I am desperately trying to help the young people, who are running in terror as a group of men and women race down the steep concrete steps—a brutal stampede.
Desperate, I run to a huge closet and throw open the doors—I must find a superhero!
Behind three sets of doors, I finally find the treasure: a rainbow collection of beautiful clothing, each outfit more luminous than the last.
I dig through them—no, no, no—nothing here will help.
But the bad guys are getting closer, relentless. Out of options, I begin flinging clothes at them.
And something incredible happens.
The clothing comes to life—shirts fly like birds, pants leap and twist, wrapping themselves around faces and limbs. Each time a garment hits someone, they freeze, shimmering inside the embrace of the thrown clothing.
And when they begin to move again, they are transformed. No longer a threat. A real person now. Something essential has returned to them.
More and more are transformed—but more and more keep pouring in from the top of the coliseum.
I run to a second closet. Same challenge: three doors. Same reward: rainbow clothing that buys us time.
A third closet. Three more doors. I sigh, growing weary, but I can’t give up. I press my face into the fabric and call out:
Is there a superhero in here?
"Um… I’m a superhero," the costume speaks in a young man’s voice. Quiet. Hesitant. "But I’m not the right kind of hero. I mean… I’m a bridge engineer. I don’t think that’s what you… "
“Get out here!” I command.
I pull the reluctant costume forward and hurl it into the air.
It rises and shifts mid-flight—the red and blue stretchy suit transforms into a wall of glass, then a zipper line of red blocks.
It lands in the center of the coliseum and begins to build. A stone and granite foundation rises—solid and strong—and then bends sideways, arching over our heads and the outer wall.
A bridge. A real one. A solid stone bridge.
Everyone watches. No one moves until the bridge is complete.
As the last stone is set, we realize: We can leave the coliseum!
The young people are safe.
(So are the attackers.)
All begin the crossing.

I wake up.

person holding pink petaled flower — Photo by Thirteen .J on Unsplash

When I wrote this down in my journal, I asked myself: What is my version of tossing the garment? What act of beauty or love could I offer that disrupts the trance—not just for others, but for me, too? What’s yours?

For me, today - it was taking the time to write this post. Later, it may be a single, clear conversation where I say directly and simply, “This is where I stand”.

Tomorrow, someone may show up in my life who’s been directly affected by what is happening in this world. How will I respond?

The next day, I may be called upon to march, to make a donation.

If I ask myself this question every day, the answers will come.

How do we interpret a dream like this?
We begin with how it feels.

This dream reads like a myth for our moment—a surreal parable offering guidance in the face of spiritual and civic collapse. It shows us how beauty, imagination, and movement can become tools of real transformation.

But more than that, it reveals what activates those tools: not only courage,
but the deeper recognition that nothing and no one is outside the field of blessing.

There is no enemy.
There is no one who does not belong.
There is only the illusion of separation—
and that illusion is the spell we are here to break.

I’m reminded of that moment in Harry Potter when he receives his first wand.
“The wand chooses the wizard,” says Olivander.

Or the scene in The Lord of the Rings when Frodo, overwhelmed, cries out,
“I wish the ring had never come to me.”

“So do all who live to see such times,” Gandalf replies, eyes full of knowing.
“But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

This is such a time.

We are all being handed the wands that chose us.

And here is a Soul Caller secret: these wands chose us ages ago.
They have been quietly storing our power—each of us building strength in our own way,
preparing for the moment when our gifts would be needed.

They are needed now.
This is that moment.

And while we may wish, as Frodo did, for a different outcome—
these are the times we’ve been given.

How will we meet them?

The dream reveals its secret in what happens when the magic garments take hold of the attackers: they don’t die—they change.

This is not a video game.
And the figures charging down the steps are not monsters.
They are people—people under a spell.
Costumed in ideology, fear, and false storylines.
Just like all of us.

We all believe we’re doing the best we can. Doing the right thing.

The truth of what is really right can be found in what we share:

The impulse toward wholeness—to draw what seems outside of blessing back into alignment.
The impulse toward balance—so we can thrive, raise our families, and enjoy the lives we are given.
The impulse, frankly, to save the world.

But our challenge is this:
To reconnect that impulse to the Whole.
To sever its ties to what is currently feeding it—
isolation, distortion, propaganda.

This is a dream about spell-breaking.
About medicine—the only kind that will work.

Love first—then Truth.

That medicine requires two doses.

The first is a dose of pure love.
Yes, even for the person we perceive as “the enemy.”
And while we’re at it, we need to swallow that medicine too—
because we are worthy of receiving love in its purest form.

The second is a dose of Truth.
But I mean true Truth.
The kind that cannot be debated.
Truth with a capital T.
Unchanging. Eternal.
Outside the influence of anything we humans do.

And that Truth has nothing to do with politics.

Like the colorful costumes in my dream,
this double dose of soul medicine dissolves illusion
and transforms us into who we really are:

Vessels of Love.
Radiant beings, devoted to Truth.

Now here’s the challenge:

The dream’s medicine must be delivered.
And for that to happen, someone must open the closet.

You get this metaphor, right?

The closet is the medicine cabinet.
The garments are made of love.
Which is what makes them magical.

You get that, right?

Someone must reach in there and make contact with that magic.
Then someone must actively toss the garments.

So, this is me tossing the garments into the coliseum—across the space between us.
You get that too, right?

How the Magic Rainbow Garments Work

The rainbow garments don’t transform by being admired.
They transform when they are thrown—
when someone takes the risk of disrupting the spell.

Not with violence.
But with contact.
With surprise.
With color.
With story.
With imagination.

This is symbolic action.
This is myth made real.

Not everyone will transform.
But enough might.

And that’s everything.

Even in exhaustion, the dream insists:

There is another closet.
Another layer of possibility.
Keep going.

And when the final superhero appears—awkward, uncertain, not the kind we imagined—
he doesn’t fight.

He makes a bridge.

But he doesn’t just build the bridge—
he becomes it.
Stone by stone,
he becomes the path that carries us out of the coliseum.

That is the deepest magic:

Connection.
Wholeness.
A return to the truth of who we are beneath the costume.

He was always the bridge,
hidden in a magic garment at the back of the closet.

man carving stick — Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

We are all the magic garments.
We are all the superhero.
(We are also the coliseum, the space (and the enemy) but that’s a post for another time.

For now, know this:
The spell only works if we activate our magic—whatever it is.
This is me activating mine.
This is me, handing you the wand that I found in your pocket.

Thank you for reading.
If this dream touched something in you, I’d love to hear what it stirred.
We are all carrying pieces of the spell.
And sometimes what we name out loud
becomes the garment someone else needed to throw.

I know this was a long one. Thank you for reading. If anything opened inside you—an image, a memory, a question—I’d love to hear about it. What does “throwing the garment” look like in your life right now? What bridge are you building, becoming, or still dreaming into being?
Your reflections bless the field. Your stories are part of the medicine.

Tools of Power

In this following dream, the tools of power are garments of clothing in every color. Their magic is real—but only when activated. That’s the key.

These garments don’t work by sitting quietly in a wardrobe. They must be taken out of storage, out of hiding, and put to use now.

They must be thrown into the space that we share - the open space between us. To meet what is here in the open arena of our own lives.

To speak instead of staying silent. To bring our good work into the world, where it can flow toward what needs healing.

For my quiet and gentle readers, know this: this is not about going to war—or even marching, if that is not your nature. It’s not about trying to fix or heal the world alone. It’s about quietly and bravely admitting what you see and what you know—whether you speak in a soft voice or by scribbling your true thoughts and feelings into a journal.
Even that seemingly silent action makes visible what is real. And it matters. It adds your vibrational voice—and your choice—to the voice of the collective.
It’s about offering the vibration of your beautiful heart and hard-won wisdom to the collective field.
Your voice matters.
To the world. To me. And most of all—to you.

It’s medicine, a gift, and you are allowed—and encouraged—to share it.

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