We Meet on the Bridge- A Daughter’s Remembering

With my daughter’s permission, her dream about her father is being shared in this blog. I hope it touches your heart and illustrates the beauty of what is possible.

A Journal of Dreams, Consciousness, and the Bridge

December 2025

For Dad — and for remembering

Context

This entry brings together two moments that feel inseparable:

• The dream I had with Dad on the night of December 29, 2025

• The conversation we shared the following day, December 30, 2025 (around 1:00 p.m.), in which I told him the dream and we spoke openly about consciousness, ancient wisdom, family, and the bridge between life and death

At the time of this conversation, Dad was reading The Immortality Key, a book exploring ancient civilizations, mystery traditions, and the role of sacred rites and psychedelics in revealing altered states of consciousness and experiences of immortality. That context matters—it shaped the language, the metaphors, and the resonance of everything we shared.

What follows is written as a continuous manuscript—part memory, part witnessing—so that this time, these insights, and this crossing are held, not lost.

The Dream

Night of December 29, 2025

Last night, I had one of the most beautiful dreams I have ever had with Dad.
It did not feel symbolic in the usual way dreams do.
It felt like communication—soul to soul.

The setting was a celebration: Dad’s 50th birthday.
In the dream, he embodied everything that is most him—his spirituality, his joy, his curiosity, his luminous presence. He was exuberant, glowing, youthful. There was an energetic flow throughout the dream, as though joy itself were moving through him and outward into everything around us.

Our family was there—Mom, Uncle John, Hannah, Zora, Andrew, Sarah, my children, their cousins. Everyone was present, yet gently in the background. The dream was unmistakably focused on Dad and me.

What felt like an eternity unfolded in a single, continuous moment:
Dad and I embracing.

We were holding each other—hugging, resting into one another—and as we did, he spoke to me about the other side. About death, not as something frightening, but as something he was traversing, something he was bridging toward. He used that word again and again: the bridge.

There was no fear in him.
Only joy.
Only beauty.
Only a kind of ecstatic peace.

He felt youthful—anchored in joy, fearless, radiant. And somehow, even though I knew in waking life that he was not 50, the dream held us in a timeless suspension, as if youth and culmination could coexist. It felt like a pinnacle moment—everything he had lived, achieved, and embodied gathered into one luminous presence.

The setting itself felt ancient and elemental. When I later tried to interpret it, I remembered a stone pathway descending from a hill or mountain—rock beneath our feet, light all around us. We were gathered in sunlight. Behind us, there was water—perhaps a marina, perhaps a lake, perhaps the ocean.

At first, it reminded me of Lake Atitlán, where I had once been with my family. Later, when I looked at photographs of the Azores, the feeling matched that too: rugged stone, cliffs, water meeting land, light suspended between earth and sea.

The exact place didn’t matter.
It felt liminal—a threshold landscape.

Dad was wearing a white guayabera.
I was wearing a white, flowing dress I used to wear often when I was pregnant with Sinai. Everything around us was white, light, sun-drenched, fluid. There was a softness to the air itself.

As we embraced, I felt joy—but also tears.
Tears of love.
Tears of release.
Tears of letting go of the physical form of him—the version of Dad as embodied, aging, bound to time.

And yet, beneath the sadness was certainty:
This does not end.

There was a deep knowing that he was connected to me through the soul. That what we were sharing was eternal, not temporary. The embrace continued, unbroken, timeless.

When I woke up, I had tears in my eyes.
Not the kind that come after waking—but tears already there, as though I had been crying inside the dream itself and simply carried them across the threshold of sleep.

I lay there for a long time.
It took an hour or two to return fully to my body.
It felt as though I had been traversing consciousness with Dad—moving through another realm—and was only slowly re-entering this one.

I noted the date carefully:

December 29, 2025 — the night of the dream.

The Conversation

December 30, 2025 | ~1:00 p.m.

When I told Dad about the dream the next day, it opened into something larger.

He listened deeply—moved, emotional, present. He spoke about consciousness, not as something unconscious or subconscious, but as primary. He said that what we often think of as darkness is actually full of light, and that dreams are one of the places where these crossings happen most clearly.

He spoke about ancient civilizations and what Western culture has forgotten—wisdom that is only now beginning to resurface. He talked about slowing down, about this time in his life as a pause, not an ending. A moment to “ease into” a new consciousness quietly, slowly, prophetically.

He spoke about psychedelics as part of this unveiling—not as escape, but as remembrance. As tools that ancient cultures used to access what is already real. As one of the ways the bridge has always been crossed.

He said this felt like bridge time—a sacred in-between. A moment not for rushing forward, but for holding gently, embracing rather than grasping.

We talked about place. We wondered where the dream landscape might have been—perhaps the Azores, perhaps Lake Atitlán, perhaps somewhere else entirely. We agreed that it didn’t really matter. The geography was secondary to the quality of the space: ancient, elemental, liminal.

He said something that stayed with me deeply—that this feels like a family journey. That what is being revealed isn’t meant to be held alone. That it feels like a great Thanksgiving—not the holiday, but the state of gratitude for what has been given.

“It’s not empty,” he said.
“It’s full. Full, full, full.”

And that—he said—is what we are tapping into.

Why I Am Writing This

I am writing this as a living journal.
A manuscript of presence.
A record of dreams, conversations, and consciousness as they unfold.

My hope is that as Dad moves through this transition—whatever shape it takes—I have this held. Not just for memory, but for meaning. For lineage. For love.

This is not about death.
It is about continuity.
About the bridge.
About remembering how to stand in the in-between without fear.

And about love that does not end.