Alan Abramowitz – The Butterfly in Lucid Dreaming
It began as an ordinary dream. I was calling my sister on the phone from 47th street in NYC near a subway entrance. At one point I saw her pass by and I slouched so she couldn’t see me. Later I was on the phone with a man in a hat who was unshaven. He was her boyfriend and I wished them happiness.
I went on some building shuttle or light rail that kept descending floor by floor until it reached the actual subway. And I saw we were on the subway track but it then moved away to a separate station. I got out and saw a big path in a field to another subway station. I was annoyed I had to pay double fares and I had to go fiddling around in my pockets for a huge token. I passed through the turnstiles and went on a subway train. Suddenly I was in a subway station. Then the dream became lucid.
There in front of me was Helen, my old friend Robert’s mother. She had passed away in 1981. I had a very long conversation with her that I certainly didn’t want to end. She had a dark piece of tinted see- through plastic covering her right eye. She had a bit of advice for me I didn’t understand in the dream. . .
I told her, “Robert desperately needs you.” She nodded.”Then I added, ‘When you were alive he desperately needed you.” She nodded, but a little differently, including tilting her head. At some point I realized she had not been my height but was very small, and now matched my height, I asked her, “What do you want me to tell him?”
She turned into someone else and walked to the gated subway entrance (swivel gate). There were two homeless-looking men trying to get in but the gate was locked. They were exasperated. She returned to normal appearance and we continued to talk. I remarked on how clear this dream was.
I walked with her up the subway stairs leading out of the subway. I remarked that this was like a butterfly in a storm, or affected by other factors. I said, “It was just the butterfly itself.” I looked to the right and saw a wiry man who had thin hair that was not close cropped and he was unshaven. Imagining the butterfly, I asked him if he was Carlos Castenada. He said no. I spoke more to Robert‘s mother. As I woke up it was as if a curtain moved aside and there was my bedroom, and in awake reality I was looking out the window.