The Pond
I ask for a dream sign — and it is granted in the most wonderful way, leading me to the sacred place that had been calling me…
The bizarre feeling that somewhere out there a particular place is trying to make contact with me does not leave me after my arrival in Berlin.
When I reach my room in the shared flat late that evening, I go straight to bed. I am utterly exhausted, my nerves so overwrought that I am practically vibrating.
What on earth is happening to me?
As I try to fall asleep, the energy anchored in my heart grows stronger. I try not to panic, focus on the breath coming and going, and empty my thoughts.
“Wish yourself a dream,” my inner voice whispers.
I startle. Of course — that has worked before.
I close my eyes, return my focus to my breath, and consciously form the wish to dream that night of the place that is trying to reach me. With the thought of this place, and my attention resting on the strange energy in my heart, I fall asleep.
It is night. Suriyel is with me. Together we wander from room to room. Pale moonlight falls through the windows. Floorboards creak beneath our feet. The rooms stand empty. The smell of dust hangs in the air. No one has lived here for a long time.
Suddenly the perspective shifts. I look down from above at Suriyel and my dream-self. It is so dark that I can only sense the features of my dream-figures. I hear my dream-self speak to Suriyel. “This is the place where our Sangha must practise,” it says, with quiet certainty.
I feel myself being lifted. With the movement comes the knowledge that I am standing in an old Protestant parsonage. My gaze widens. I am inside the house — and simultaneously before it. On the surface of a pond, the moon is reflected.
I wake.
My first thought, strangely, is not of the parsonage — but of Suriyel. One sentence rings through my head: He’ll never go along with this.
It is two o’clock in the morning.
The wolf hour.
I fall back asleep.
The next morning I remember the dream the moment I wake. A Protestant parsonage. With a pond in front of it.
I set my coffee cup on the desk and open the laptop. On an impulse I type “Protestant parsonage” and “for sale” into the search bar. And there it is: the Protestant Church has its own property portal. Under the search options, there is a category for houses.
It takes me less than half an hour to find it.
A red brick parsonage, a pond in front. Built in 1800, I read. Edge of village. In need of renovation.
So this is the place that had been calling me…
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