It was a few days before the planes crashed into the Twin Towers, but of course we didn't know. I knew I didn't want to work at Wired Magazine anymore. I didn't know much else, outside of taking the bus to the south end of San Francisco every day, and trying to catch some sunshine in Dolores Park on weekends.
One night I was in a golden field, maybe it was wheat or yarrow but probably this gentle, sparkling, buttery blanket was dusky sunlight. A small man with a round face and memorable eyebrows held out his hand, smiling, saying without words, "it's time, let's go." I took his hand and walked across the field, into those golden waves, undulating through my body. I felt easy and happy but happy like content, and I woke up because I had been dreaming.
In our frigid kitchen on Divisadero I sat on the counter and told my roommates about this dream. They were unmoved. But I was in a drawing class so I drew this man's portrait in detail because his face now lived inside of me. Two days later 9/11 happened and my family begged me not to quit my job and go work in an orphanage in Burma as I had planned. Everyone was suddenly afraid of the world. So I didn't go to Burma but I did quit my job, move to a warmer apartment, and a year later I was embarking upon a graduate program in Chinese Medicine.
And like how dreams go, the scene switched, sped up over a decade, and here I am now in Vermont. I am walking down the aisle of the lecture hall at University of Vermont to find a seat for a class by a visiting teacher from New York City. I had heard of him; an 88th Generation Taoist Priest and Medicine Master. But mostly I signed up for the class because I needed Continuing Education credit to renew my license.
As I walk toward the front, I get close enough to see the teacher's face, and I freeze in place. It is the man from the field. He had gone back in time and traveled from New York to San Francisco to tell me in my dream that it was time. After class that night, I take the drawing out of a storage box to see if I had created some fantastical illusion. But there is no mistake; it is him, this time-traveling, dream-visiting Laoshi.
After class I talk to his assistant about this life-changing experience, expecting to be considered, as I feel, quite special. She cheerily and flippantly says "Oh yes! This happens all the time. In fact there are so many we've compiled a book! Would you like to add yours?"
Sometimes now in the treatment room when I don't know what to do, I imagine eighty-eight generations of Chinese Doctors standing behind me. Since they can float through golden light and time to show me a path I didn't yet know existed, surely they can help me treat these patients. They also remind me that special or not, time and life and healing are at once profoundly sacred and perfectly mundane.
*this piece and more available upon subscription: https://substack.com/@brookemoen
*Jeffrey Yuen, an 88th generation Daoist Priest of the Yu Qing Huang Lao Pai (Jade Purity School, Yellow Emperor/ Lao Tzu Sect), and Master of Classical Chinese Medicine, Daoism, Tai Ji Chuan, and Qi Gong
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