On Monday morning, just before I woke up, I had a vision that I was sitting near the front of a classroom. A young Asian man, maybe in his late twenties, stood looking toward the back of the room the way a teaching assistant would do in college. The room had brown paneling on the walls. I was aware that the class was full, but all I saw was this young man. Murmurs came from where he was looking. People were exchanging greetings in a language I didn’t understand.
“We’re going to see what you know about politics,” an older man’s voice said. I look, and it’s the teacher, and the teacher is the Dalai Lama. “We don’t need charts and graphs,” he continued, “we’re just trying to see what you know.”
I ask somebody, anybody within earshot,”What class is this?”
“Post-Modernism in an Aeronautical Age,” a voice near my right ear says.
“Well, if you’re expecting me to know anything about politics,” I think, “you’re going to be very disappointed.”
The voice by my ear seems to relay my thoughts. That’s when his Holiness speaks to me.
“Christine Lucas, you’re a surprise guest with us here today,” he says.
You know that feeling where you’ve crapped your pants in front of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama? Well, I didn’t have it, because I couldn’t imagine any consequence to being myself.
“I am,” I heard my voice ask. My tone was: Come on. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.
“You’re an astral projectionist,” His Holiness says.
This is news to me, because, in my twenties, I read Robert Monroe books, listened to Art Bell, and meditated for hours trying to pull that off. I didn’t even make it to QuikTrip for an astral cappuccino. I want to ask questions. I don’t want to interrupt again though.
“Where are his robes,” I ask that voice to my right. “For that matter, where is his body?”
All I saw was a head, the Dalai Lama’s head, and a couple of sheets of loose-leaf paper on my desk.
His Holiness says, “A distinguished classmate is helping you.”
The class continues and my ear buddy tells me that I don’t have to react to anything there anymore. I still hear the class, but it’s like I’m in the back of the room. There’s something else. My eyes are open. I’m awake, and I’m watching my husband get ready for work. I hear the television playing the Disney Channel, and my son calls out for juice.
“In what dimension is this classroom,” I ask.
“Eighth,” my helper says.
I get up, and the sounds of the classroom fade like lowering the volume on a radio.