Jesus has often said to me, "The truth in fantasy is called prophecy."
Yet my fantasies have run amiss so many times that I have misplaced the will to count. As heaven stands, I can't even count blessings, for blessing are unlimited. I have days where I feel I can be no more blessed, but am always proved otherwise by another count of God's humor or favor. All laughter and celestial generosity aside, surely like the hairs on my head, even my dreams are numbered. Seldom is prophecy ever prevented, prophetic dreams are visions that cannot be interfered with, but rather serve in psychological preparation for future external disruption.

Six months ago, a monstrous oak tree in my front yard was struck by lightning. It gradually died. Bark flaked off like leaves, coating the lawn below with a layer of gray and brown debris. I knew the threat the larger tree limbs posed to the house was becoming more and more imminent with each heavy gust of wind. Only mere weeks ago, in a series of dreams, I saw downed tree branches. Days after seeing the visions, just as the dreams had warned, the tree began to snap and fall to splintered pieces all over my yard. I struck a deal with Michael to protect the house and as promised, he has upheld his end of the bargain, the gutters, roof, and windows have miraculously remained intact. Additionally, archangel Michael also sent an affordable tree service to remove the tree for a thousand dollars cheaper than all of the other astronomical estimates I had received. Currently, the tree has been reduced to hundreds of fractured logs-- sawed, fallen, and strewn all across my yard, many of which struck and smashed my favorite white border flowers in the giant lumber crash of 2009. The tree guys supposedly wrecked two industrial saws during the process and had to leave the remnants as-is to go have the saws repaired. They are still gone and as I write this, it looks as though a forty-foot oak tree has exploded over the entrance of my home. The only reason I am not a basket case over the incomplete work is because for the past month, I saw the events unfold in the dreams and I know everything is going to be okay.

Beyond my front yard, I don't know of many modern-day governments that run their day-to-day affairs based on any precognitive dreams, nor anything Nostradamus or any other insightful writer has predicted over the centuries. The interest in obscure prophecies has eroded with get-it-now-in-your-face, this is how it is, media-whores. This is a universal travesty. I try to be patient with the facts of the world, like the fact the name Tiger Woods is more well-known than the name Edgar Cayce--a man who actually served and improved humanity by paving the way for psychic dreamers everywhere. Patience, one of the most fruitful of the spirits, is becoming more old fashioned and endangered each passing day. How often is wide-spread spiritually lost to the appeal of instant gratification? Being the sensitive soul-searching creature that I am, and having already comfortably found Christ, sometimes I wonder what else it is I am being patient for. For everyone else to transition? The final ascension? Or is my last test of patience to wait for every last twig of dead wood to be cleared out of my yard so I can return to a semblance of landscaped normalcy?

In the mean time, as these questions linger, I write. Writing as a craft, requires not only an abundance of patience but also a degree of inherent isolation--- removal from ordinary life in favor of aptly making a home in extraordinary fiction. Yet in said home, each page I write is merely another subconscious prayer drowned near a despondent beach on reality's quicksand, the terrain responsible for the demise of so many futile dreams. With all the various levels and forms of dreaming, the the dreams I reference here are realistically operative and changeable because they are responsive to the unpredictable elements of free will and love. I cannot pretend to carry a congenial spirit when navigating through these types of dreams. My spirit is unequipped to resist the need to struggle in a pit so many before me have died in. The pit I paint for you rests not under the branches of a lifeless tree, but in the stump of transpersonal relationships. Deep down, I know I can no longer ignore the roots--- anymore than I can shroud the faint cosmic moan I've heard each morning since the question was posed, "Marry me Mary."

A question all too real outside, but not even phrased as a question so much as it arrived sounding like a definitive military order. Yet if the proposal was nothing more than a tasteless joke coming from his insides, I still know not the difference between the places. Because I wanted the inner most part of his soul to be my reality, the only sensible answer is unspoken fate. Like most answers in life, mine is still evolving.

For many withdrawn years, I've envisioned a quaint wedding with minimal, low-maintenance guests. The scenic extravagance however would, in theory, be accentuated by classic art and natural roses in a variety of shades. It just so happens, a stones throw across the river from my house there rests a lovely art gallery that has played host to countless weddings and special events since its inaugural. Beyond the gallery and through the double doors to the exterior of the compound, next to the river, there grows an enchanting rose garden. Not only would it make the ideal setting to begin a marriage, but any bride could save a fortune on the florist bill were she to plan a spring wedding outside the art museum, amidst the vibrant perfume of hundreds of uncut roses. The only drawback is that due to the unthinkable value of the priceless work in the museum, open flames are not permitted anywhere near the building and therefore my plans of having hundreds of tall white pillar candles are dashed. A small compromise for a dream wedding I suppose. Yes, a wedding without live fire is conceivable, but to me, a marriage without a spark that grows into a holy flame is unfathomable and cannot be compromised by a day, a dollar, or a dead tree.