The Dreamseller: The Calling

by Augusto Cury

  They lost everything, and in the end, lost the man who taught them to love, crucified on a wooden cross. He died humbly, loving as he breathed his last, forgiving as he perished. After his death, the group might have faded away, but they had been invaded by an indescribable force. They became stronger after that chaos. They spread His message throughout the world.

  They gave their tears, their health, their lives—everything they had—to humanity. They loved strangers and devoted themselves to others. Countless societies across the world, from Europe to Africa to Asia to the Americas, were founded on these very principles, as well as the basis for basic human rights.

  Centuries passed and that life became “normal.” Churches became excellent temples to conformity. These days, hundreds of millions of people across the world enter these temples to recall a sanitized version of Christmas, the Passion, and other milestones of Christ’s life without ever imagining what it’s like to sleep out in the open, to be branded a lunatic, and to feel society’s scorn. Over the millennia, they have lost the ability to imagine the intense pressure those young men endured to follow that enigmatic master, Jesus.

  I imagined the lumpy straw beds they slept on under the open sky. I reflected on the pain they suffered in trying to explain the unexplainable to family and friends in Galilee. They couldn’t say they had learned to love a man, lest they be stoned. They couldn’t point to this master plan they were helping unfold because the plan was intangible. They couldn’t say they were following a powerful man, the Messiah, for he demanded anonymity. What courage they must have had to summon to answer his call. And just like that, Bartholomew brought me back from my deepest of thoughts with a shot. I don’t know whether he was praising me or attacking me.

  “Hey, Superego, if you’re too scared to stick around, we’ll still respect you. But you’re important to the team.”

  I took a deep breath. I thought about the man who had stopped my suicide and brought me to sleep under a bridge. He’s not Christ, he has no messianic calling. He doesn’t perform miracles. He doesn’t promise the kingdom of heaven, or an earthly realm, and he doesn’t even provide us safety in society. He had nowhere to live, he’s broke, had no car, no health insurance. But he had an incredibly magnetic personality. He was the definition of solidarity, he dreamed of opening people’s minds, of fighting the system and confronting selfishness.

  Wouldn’t it be less dangerous to just let society go on being an insanity factory? Wouldn’t it be better to let people wallow in their own selfishness? Wouldn’t it be easier to let obtuse minds go on thinking only about the superficial mysteries of shopping centers, computers and fashion instead of the mysteries of existence? We’re too small to do anything against the powerful system, anyway. We could be arrested, injured and continue to have our names dragged through the mud.

  While this circus was playing in my mind, the dreamseller was still in the center ring performing wondrous feats. Patience was his number one virtue. Seeing my worry, he called the three of us together and told us a simple parable that touched the depths of my fears.

  “There was once a flood in an immense forest. The weeping clouds that should have promoted life this time predicted death. The larger animals fled, leaving even their offspring behind. In their stampede, they devastated everything in their path. The smaller animals followed their steps. Suddenly, a small swallow, completely soaked, flew in the opposite direction, looking for someone to save.

  “The hyenas, seeing this, were astonished. They said, ‘You’re insane. What can you possibly do with that fragile little body?’ The vultures groused, ‘Just look at how tiny you are.’ Wherever the fragile swallow flew, it was ridiculed. But it continued seeking someone to rescue. Its wings were fluttering wearily when it spied a baby hummingbird thrashing in the water, ready to give up. Despite never having learned to swim, the swallow plunged into the water and, struggling terribly, grabbed the tiny bird by its left wing. It flew off, carrying the infant in its beak.

  “When it returned, it encountered other hyenas, who quickly declared, ‘This is crazy! You’re just trying to be a hero!’ But the swallow didn’t stop, despite its fatigue, until it had deposited the little hummingbird in a safe place. Hours later, it found the hyenas in a shady spot. Looking them in the eyes, it told them, ‘I only feel worthy of my wings if I make use of them so others can fly.’”

  The dreamseller let this story marinate in our minds, then told us:

  “There are many hyenas and vultures in society. Don’t expect much from the large animals. Rather, expect a lack of understanding, rejection, ridicule and a sick need for power. I don’t call you to be great heroes, to have your feats recorded in the annals of history, but to be small swallows who fly anonymously throughout society, loving strangers and doing for them whatever you can. Be worthy of your wings. It is in insignificance that great significance is achieved, and in smallness that great acts are realized.”

  The dreamseller’s parable at once moved me and wounded me deeply. I thought, “I have to admit I’ve acted like a hyena or a vulture on many occasions in my life; now I need to learn how to act like a brave little swallow.”

  The Most Lucid Place in Society

  NORMALS” ALWAYS GET OUT OF BED THE SAME WAY. THEY complain the same way. Get irritated the same way. They curse using the same words. They greet their friends in the same fashion. Give the same answers to the same problems. They express the same humor at home and at work. They have the same reactions to the same circumstances. Give presents on the same days. In short, they have a tiring and predictable routine, which becomes an excellent source of anxiety, anguish, emptiness and boredom.

  The system has blocked people’s imagination, corroded their creativity. They rarely give presents on unexpected days. Rarely react differently in tense situations. They are prisoners and don’t know it.

  “Normal” parents, when they correct or advise their children, are interrupted midway through. Their children can’t stand hearing the same arguments anymore. They say, “I know that already . . .” And they really do. “Normals” don’t know how to relate their own experiences in order to stimulate the thinking of others.

  I was always predictable in my relationship with students, and I only discovered this when I began my journey with the dreamseller. I taught class in a single tone of voice. I criticized and admonished in the same manner. I varied the verbs and nouns, but not the form or the content. The students were fed up with a professor who seemed more like an Egyptian mummy than a human being. They couldn’t stand hearing over and over that they’d be losers in life if they didn’t study.

  On the other hand, the dreamseller continually sold the dream of enchantment. How can someone who has nothing on the exterior be so captivating? How can a man without any kind of teaching background so effectively engage our imagination? Walking with him was an invitation to innovative thinking. He saw ordinary situations from different angles. We seemed to travel without a destination or purpose. But deep down, he knew very well what he wanted and where he wanted to go. He was training us to find an unimaginable freedom. Each day was like a garden full of surprises, some of them pleasant, others not.

  The next morning, after meditating silently on his own worries, the dreamseller rose, took several deep breaths of the polluted city air from under the bridge and gave thanks to God in an unusual way.

  “God, you exist in every space in time. You are infinitely distant and infinitely near, but I know that your eyes are upon me. Let me capture your feelings. Thank you for granting us one more show in this surprising existence.”

  Honeymouth, who loved country music, said, “What show are we gonna see, chief?” And he expressed an early-morning enthusiasm that I had seldom seen.

  “Show? Each day is a show, each day is a spectacle,” the dreamseller answered, roused with excitement. “Only he who’s mortally wounded by tedium doesn’t discover it. Drama and comedy are in our minds. All we need to do is decide to release them.”


  Bartholomew had to be drunk to free himself of his sorrow, to rid himself of his boredom. Now he, as well as Dimas and I, were discovering another world, another stage. The dreamseller set off, and we followed. We climbed a hill, walked three blocks, turned to the right, then walked four more blocks. We exchanged glances, questioning one another, trying to guess where the dreamseller was headed.

  After walking for forty minutes, Dimas, who still had not been sufficiently astonished by the dreamseller’s words, asked, “Where are we going?”

  The dreamseller stopped, looked him in the eye and said, “Those who sell dreams are like the wind: You hear your voice but don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going. What matters isn’t the route but the journey.”

  Dimas understood almost nothing, but he began exercising his rusty mind. And we continued to walk. Fifteen minutes later, the dreamseller stopped in front of a gathering and headed toward it. We slowed our pace, and let him go on about twenty feet ahead of us. Dimas looked at me and said, apprehensively, “This is a funeral home. I’m not going in there.”

  “I’m with you. I don’t think the dreamseller knows what he’s getting into,” I said.

  It was a family wake, the only place where strangers are both unwelcome and have no desire to enter. But the irreverent Honeymouth, trying to maintain his poise, prodded me, saying, “Come on, Superego. Get over yourself. Let’s go to the wake.”

  Just then I felt like slapping him. I don’t know whether he was humoring the dreamseller or truly following his heart. But since we were close to the wake, a place of respect, I contained my anger. The atmosphere was riddled with pain. There was a crowd mourning a man who had died of a rapidly growing cancer, leaving an only son, twelve years old.

  The area where the dead were mourned was grand and ostentatious, decorated with several rounded, marble-covered arches and lit by chandeliers. It was a physically beautiful place to house so much sadness. Fear of causing a scene in a place where silence should reign made us slow our pace even more. We distanced ourselves from the dreamseller, remaining about fifty feet behind him. Looking back, he saw our apprehension and approached his timid disciples.

  “What is the most clear-thinking place in the great madhouse of our society?” he asked. “The courts? Editorial rooms of large newspapers? The politician’s pulpit? The universities?”

  “The bars,” Honeymouth tried to joke, then quickly apologized. “Just kidding, chief.”

  The dreamseller answered:

  “It’s here, at wakes. They are the most lucid places in society. Here we disarm ourselves, strip away our vanities, remove our makeup. Here we are who we are. If we can’t be ourselves here, then we are sicker than we can possibly imagine. For those closest to the deceased, a wake is a source of despair. For those a bit more removed, it’s a place to reflect. But for both, the truth is stark: We fall into the silence of our crypts not as doctors, intellectuals, politicians or celebrities, but as mere mortals.”

  These words made me see that it was at wakes where we ceased to be gods and truly came in contact with our humanity, realizing our frailty and accepting our mortality. At wakes, we, the normal, engaged in an intuitive group therapy.

  Some said, “Poor man, he died so young.” These were the ones who could empathize with the deceased and started to wonder whether they, themselves, could live a kinder life. Others said, “Life is full of risks. In the end, death comes to us all.” These saw the urgency of relaxing, slowing down their lives. Still others commented, “He worked so hard, and just as he was about to enjoy the fruits of his labors, he died.” These discovered that life passes like a shadow, that, in their search for riches, they neglected their own health. And they realized that they needed to change their unhealthy lifestyles.

  People at wakes were trying desperately to buy dreams, to remember the reasons for being alive, but the system steamrolls them in a matter of hours or days. Everything returns to “normal.” They didn’t understand that dreams will last only if they’re woven with fine thread in the secret places of the mind. I had always tried to make myself immune to these feelings. To me, the misery of others was like a movie, nothing more than fiction trying to take root in my mind, but never finding fertile ground.

  “Don’t expect to see flowers growing in a place where seeds haven’t died first,” the dreamseller said. “Don’t be worried. Let’s go.” And he smiled.

  To him, these words were enough. To us, they merely took the edge off our hesitation. Death is worrisome, but so is life. The former extinguishes courage, but the latter can choke it out. What could the dreamseller offer in a setting where words fail? What could he say in a venue where all arguments fade away? What could he possibly say at a moment when people are disinclined to listen and taste only the bitterness of suffering in the face of their loss? What words would offer them relief—especially coming from a stranger?

  We knew the dreamseller would not behave like just another mourner; that was a problem. We also knew he would not stay quiet and stand idly by. And that was a greater problem still.

  A Solemn Homage

  I WENT THROUGH THE SAME ORDEAL WHEN I LOST MY MOTHER. The expressions of sympathy, the prefabricated advice, nothing helped ease the pain. All the comforting words didn’t make a dent in the bars that imprisoned me. I would have preferred the silence of embraces or just a few tears shed at my side.

  The dreamseller asked to be let through the crowd, and we followed. The closer we came to the coffin, the more the people seemed to be suffering. Then we saw a young man, near forty, with thinning black hair, a drawn and anguished face, lying motionless in the coffin.

  His wife was inconsolable. Relatives and close friends were all drying their tears. The son was lost in despair. I saw myself in him and felt his pain more than my companions could. He had barely begun his life and had already begun losing a great deal. I had only just started to understand life when my father ended his, and then I lost my mother, too. I dined with loneliness and slept in my own sealed-off world, plagued by unanswered questions. God ignored me, I thought. I felt bitter toward him in my adolescence. Finally, in adult life, he became a mirage and I an atheist, a specialist in pessimism. Realizing the emptiness in this young boy, I couldn’t hold back the tears.

  The dreamseller, seeing the boy’s despair, hugged him and asked his name and his father’s. Then, to our amazement, he turned to those present and in his deep voice offered words that shook them, words that could provoke an uproar: “Why are all of you grieving so hopelessly? Marco Aurelio isn’t dead.”

  Immediately, Bartholomew, Dimas and I tried to distance ourselves. We did not want to be recognized as his disciples. The people had different reactions to his claim. Some went from tears to mockery, albeit well contained. They secretly laughed at the crazy man. Others were extremely curious. They thought he was some eccentric spiritual leader invited to officiate the funeral. Still others wanted him thrown out, outraged at the invasion of privacy and disrespect for other people’s feelings. Some of these grabbed him by the arms in an effort to usher him out.

  But the dreamseller wasn’t upset. He said in a strong, firm voice:

  “I’m not asking you to silence your pain, only your despair. I don’t expect you to stanch your tears, only the depth of your anguish. The emptiness never goes away, but despair can be alleviated, for it does no honor to the departed.”

  Those grasping him released their grip and began to understand that the strangely dressed man with a heavy beard might be eccentric, but he was intelligent. The deceased’s widow, Sofia, and his son, Antonio, stared at him.

  Then, with an air of serenity difficult to describe, he added:

  “Marco Aurelio experienced incredible moments. He cried, he loved, he fell in love, he won, he lost. The reason all of you are sad—thrust into an existential vacuum because of his absence—is because you’re letting him die in the only place where he must remain alive: inside you.”

  Seeing th
e people more introspective, he resumed his penetrating Socratic method: “What scars did Marco Aurelio leave on your emotions? Where did he influence your paths? How did his actions and words color your way of looking at life?”

  After offering these words, the dreamseller said something that shocked everyone, including us. Once again we were ashamed of our lack of wisdom and sensitivity. He repeated the question that had shaken his audience: “Is this man alive or dead inside of you?”

  The mourners answered that he was alive. Immediately, he made a comment that lifted them out of their despair and soothed their spirits:

  “Shortly before Jesus was killed, a woman named Mary, who loved him, poured the most expensive of perfumes over his feet. It was all she had. By anointing him with her perfume, she was praising him for all he had done and experienced, and he was so moved that he praised her magnanimous gesture, while the disciples scolded her because she had wasted an extremely valuable perfume that could have been used for other purposes. Scolding his disciples, Jesus told them that he was preparing them for his death, and that wherever his message was spread her gesture would be recounted as a timeless homage.”

  The mourners pondered his words. The ones who couldn’t hear clearly squeezed closer to him. Then he concluded:

  “Jesus wanted to demonstrate that a wake may be a place of tears, but it should, above all else, be an atmosphere flooded with praise and solemn remembrance. Mourning should be a perfume, an homage to the departed. A setting for recounting his life and his words. A word of praise can be said about any person. Please, tell me of this man’s deeds. Tell me how he impacted your lives. His silence should give wing to our voices.”