To the Top of the White Marble Staircase: A Dream

A tall white marble staircase stretches elegantly from its earthly foundations up into the clouds.

Six steep steps away from the top, I am nearing my destination.

A part of me soars away from my physical body to appreciate the expanse of my pilgrimage.

Sunlight is sparkling and coruscating above me. As shafts of light catch the golden strands of my auburn-chestnut hair, a soft glow shimmers around me from head to feet. I feel warm and safe. Breathing an almost inaudible sigh of contentment, I bask in the glorious warmth of a light which varies in brightness, yellowness, and whiteness.

I am wearing a white silk tunic with white leggings. Blue bands border all of this outfit’s edges: neckline, cuffs, tunic’s hem end, leggings’ bottom edges at my ankles. Light rests against my clothing and then dances as sparkling rainbows, almost as though my apparel is embedded with invisible diamonds.

I am barefoot.

My sister's Maine coon kittycat Merlino, who is accompanying me on this ascending quest, nestles briefly at my feet. Glancing at Merlino, I think of his bravery, his gallantry, his loyalty, his devastating loss of his breathtakingly beautiful triplet, Caliquina, whose courage, gentleness, and generosity were boundless.

Tilting his head back, Merlin gazes up at me in the way that he used to, outside this dream, before his disappearance, whenever I carried him, with his tail and hind legs snuggling on my bent right forearm and his two front paws lightly grasping either side of my right upper arm.

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(NOTE: In our waking state, Merlino and I shared a passion for the early morning sunlight which is always laced with gentle, pure breezes. In the early morning the air is fresh; the odors and fragrances of the day have not yet attached themselves to the waftings of the day's breaths.)

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Perceiving that Merlino is slightly fatigued, I bend over and pick him up. Immediately Merlino settles on my right forearm and gently anchors his front paws on either side of my right upper arm. Just like old times, outside this dream state!

"We're almost there, Merlino," I whisper.

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(NOTE: In our morning walks, outside this dream state, I always whispered, perhaps because in the rural suburbs sound seems to be amplified by nature's seeming silence and easily traverses the distance between my home and the nearest neighbor.)

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Merlino again tilts his head back to look at me upside down. A smile plays at his mouth. His eyes are half-closed in pleasure and confidence. Sunlight dances off his whiskers and plays hide-and-seek with his grey-green coat.

"Almost there, sweetie," I promise as I prepare to resume our ascent.

"Only six more steps," I count.

The edge of the top of the staircase is visible and is haloed in sunlight, delicate clouds, and clear blue skies. I have a sense that this structure is a step pyramid. Its steps are wide, deep, and long.

I maintain a middle path in my climbing. On both sides of me, white marble extends to indefinite horizons. In fact, my only clear horizon is the edge of the top of the staircase.

"We will be there before the sun sets," I assure Merlino, who squirms momentarily.

What is at the top of the staircase? Mystery and uncertainty do not plague either my journey or my final destination in this dream. Visions of what awaits me hover in my heart: a wide expanse of open, marbled space flanked with pillars tickling clouds, free-standing arches, and white marble pavilions.

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(NOTE: Ever since childhood I have been fascinated by pavilions and especially by the splendid architectural jewels of Shah Jehan (January 5, 1592-January 22, 1666), whose Persian name means “King of the World.” Famous for the Taj Mahal [“crown of palaces”], built as a memorial to his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal [April 1593-June 17, 1631], Shah Jehan created many timeless architectural wonders, including one of my favorite pavilions, Naulakha [“worth nine lakhs of rupees”], in Lahore, Pakistan.)

(NOTE: Also captivated by Naulakha Pavilion, Rudyard Kipling [December 30, 1865-January 18, 1936] borrowed the name for a novel he co-wrote as a teenager with Wolcott Balestier [December 13, 1861-December 1891], brother of Rudyard’s future wife, Caroline [1862-1939]. Mistyped with k and h transposed, as Naulahka: A Novel of East and West, the novel concerns a precious Mughal necklace of 45 perfect, flawless gemstones “worth a king’s ransom”, with a central black diamond of “superb radiance.” Naulakha, in its correct spelling, was also the name which Rudyard gave to the Shingle style house which he had built and designed by Henry Rutgers Marshall [July 22, 1852-May 3, 1927] in Dummerston, in southeastern Vermont, and in which he lived from fall 1893 to 1896.)

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The pavilions at the top of this staircase resemble Naulakha Pavilion.

When I step into this vast open space, I know that Merlino and I will embrace the sunlight and air as they greet us in the warm partnership of their waltz through space. A golden chair, its back and seat upholstered in soft, aqua patterned silk, is framed by one of the arches. Cradled in its gentle contours, like a textured lullaby, I will feel at peace as my gaze encompasses all directions in smooth appreciation of eternity.

Now our pilgrimage is nearly completed. Confidence in the value of our quest and appreciation for the peaceful beauty which surrounds us imbue Merlino and me with a deep harmony which aligns earth and sky.

With the anticipation which is instilled by the home stretch, I raise my left foot to grace the sixth step. Casting a contented glance up at me, Merlino serenely then shifts his gaze towards the gleaming edge at the top of the staircase.

We both are close to eternity.

This dream visited me towards the end of last year, in November 2011. For several months now its images faithfully have maintained their clarity, despite my seeming inability to set aside time to capture them in written words. Memories, translated into intentions, persistently dazzled me with the desire to rescue these glowing embers from the eventual oblivion to which so many dreams are fated in the onslaught of daily life. Spectacular dreams are rare for me, so I liken them to shooting stars that blaze through sleep, leaving trails which inspire me to expand my perspective by absorbing a plethora of sparkling miracles proffered by life in both our dream and waking states and those amorphous states in between dreams and wakefulness.

Today I awakened with the knowing that it was time to still the flappings of this dream, which has drifted for endless days like a loosened kite, determinedly hovering near earth, in the quixotic plane of daily life.

A dreamed dream which does not die requires a memorial. Thus this dream, which has never left me, was finally transmuted today from the visual sphere of dreams into the written domain of words. This dream is now free to slip “the surly bonds of Earth” to dance “the skies on laughter-silvered wings” (“High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee, Jr. (June 9, 1922-December 11, 1941).

Copyright Saturday January 7, 2012 by Stessily