See it this way

By C Alexa | October 6, 2026
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By Christina Alexa
Founder of Prema Shala
Founding Editor of Lucent Magazine
Co-Founder of Enjoy the Journey Retreats, LLC *

This morning, I had a dream.

It kept me like a trap, but I did not want to leave.

I was there, I wasn’t here. If my alarm went off, I never heard it. Perhaps I hit snooze and quickly forgot. I awoke with a start at 6:16 a.m., precisely one minute into a class I was supposed to be teaching online at 6:15.

I quickly glanced at my phone and saw a text from a fellow instructor who was in class with the students.

“Are you coming? I can teach if you overslept.”

Even half asleep, the gratitude seeped in. “Yes,” I answered. “My alarm didn’t go off. Can you start?”

“Absolutely! Jump in if you like. You can take over if needed.”

That is the beauty of this online community. Once in a while, things happen. An instructor oversleeps. A family issue arises. Another teacher will step in and simply, seamlessly, take over the class.

I arrived several minutes late, and slipped easily into teaching, thankful to be there. Although part of me was still back in the dream, for some time.

* * *

He was six or seven. And when we hugged, I could feel my son’s body. I knew that he had passed away because it was a lucid dream. He also knew that he had passed. There was no conflict. It was simple.

We were playing, holding hands, hugging, in the living room of my mother’s house, a place we lived together for a while after she died. Joe always loved that house, and he wished that we had never moved away or sold it. A regret I am sorry to have.

We were holding hands and playing. He was showing me that he could run outside. And I was telling him: I cannot follow you. I can’t go outside the front door of the house, past the living room wall with the picture windows. I have to stay here, inside the room, in the safe space that is this house. In this realm. But, I told him, if you go outside, I can reach through the wall and hold your hand. You can come and go, even if I cannot.

Joe, with his towhead hair, so blonde…his limitless energy. He jumped up and down, excited, giggling. My heart burst with the absolute joy of maternal love that seemed to go out beyond the walls of the room, past the edges of the forest that surrounded the property. And beyond that.

I had not felt this since he was alive. The nourishment it brought, the healing, is indescribable.

I laughed too. Joe jumped, ran out the front door, to the front of the house, to the picture window. I knelt down and extended my hand through the glass.

He was giddy and latched his small but strong fingers around mine. Still, I can feel it in my palm, as if it happened in this waking reality, not in the dream.

He did not need me to show him how to walk through walls, to effortlessly pass back and forth through the veil. He jumped through it like it was a game and leapt into my arms. I rocked side to side, holding him.

Our hearts, one.

Then he jumped down. I took his hand and we ran partway across the room until I had to let go. Out the door, around to the picture window, where I knelt and pressed my palm through the glass until his fingers found mine, and through it he came, into my arms. Again and again. His laugh. His joy. Our hearts.

* * *

His eyes. A crystalline light, like they always are in the dreamtime. Otherworldly. A clear white, with no color to the iris. The crystalline construct toward the surface, starlike, and behind it, the most brilliant white light, too bright for adjectives. A light that has texture and depth, like the nectar of life itself that can never die. The light of the soul.

The dream ended as I was holding him. How solid he was. How much force in a small boy’s arms. I pulled back just enough to gaze into his eyes, and the crystalline part turned bright orange, like the eyes of my cat Felix. Somehow, that was right. But pronounced, so that I would remember.

* * *

The yoga class was exactly what I needed to ground in my body.

I teach from a room in my house, live and online. When I finally logged on, my friend said, “Here she is!” and the students bubbled a welcome. I apologized for sleeping in and was met with loving kindness. She asked if I wanted to take over straight away. I sipped at my hot coffee.

“No, go through a couple more poses so I can start to feel where you all are,” I said. I sat on my mat and watched and felt the energy of the students. In that space, I listened.

After a minute I said, “Ok.” She stopped teaching, and I began to guide us through the next poses.

At one point I asked what the theme of the class was. We always teach to a theme, drawn at random from a deck of Kate Lemay’s art.

“Transformation,” they said.

Transformation.

They did not know about the dream. They only knew that I overslept. There was no judgment in the room.

* * *

Later in the morning, I spent time in reflection with a guide, someone who helped me look at the dream differently. She led me somatically through my feeling body, and into other strong elements in the dream, to see it from different perspectives.

From the perspective of the veil, the wall. From the perspective of the room itself, the luminous container of maternal love. And from the perspective of maternal love I held in my own heart.

And the eyes, the orange eyes.

* * *

What I truly experienced is not something I choose to express here, in these words, on this page. Some things need to be held close and never strayed from. They are just too precious. As if they hold a seal to the deepest inner workings of the heart which house the sacred nectar of the soul.

And yet, all things are sacred, as are we. Therefore, all things are known to one another.

* * *

And so, the part I can share is what I gained. A sense of grounding in my roots, from my solar plexus down to my feet. Like the trees in autumn, I am steady, anchored to this earth. I am still here. It is not time for me to move through the veil. And yet this is the season when the veils are thin, and it is easy to perceive what lies beyond.

Perspective brought me that ground in my body when I became the veil.

For a time, I was the wall. I could not see the way we ordinarily see. I simply was. I could feel the body of Joe pass through me, and my own hand as well. I was ancient. And steady. And more weighted than I might have expected the veil to be. Somber, serious.

A neutral guardian, as old as time.

This guardian gave me ground.

Perspective also gave me back the joy of maternal love. Viewed from my waking reality, the dream loosed the shearing, stabbing pain of grief that is so deep and on fire it evaporates the tears before they can break the surface. But when I re-experienced the dream from the perspective of maternal love, the concentration of grief eased. The expansiveness of the love took precedence.

This is what the room taught me. For a time, as I became the room, I saw myself playing with my son. I witnessed his mischievous delight. The room itself was a container of mother energy, the divine mother, holding the space of her compassion. The room was the embodiment of my own heart.

So, the room gave me back the maternal love my grief had eclipsed.

But truly, it was the orange eyes. I did not understand them. And so, somatically, I became them. As I delivered my consciousness to their celestial center I heard a voice, Joe’s voice, saying,

“See it this way.”

I remembered, of course, that Joe was telepathic, and had a very active third eye. Every time I nursed him, for eleven months when he was an infant, I saw visions in my third eye; from the moment he latched until the moment he let go. At first, I did not know what was happening. Then I became accustomed to it. And one day I realized it was not me; it was my son. I was experiencing how he perceived this world, lightning fast, as if he had access to infinite information.

When he was older, I was able to ask him how he processed, how he saw things. He described his visions. I was able to ask him questions, and perhaps even give him language for how he perceived. I miss his incredible uniqueness, his authenticity. I miss our deep talks.

More than anything, I miss my son.

But the dream is a gift. In becoming the eyes with orange hues, and hearing his voice saying, “See it this way,” my third eye, for lack of a better word, exploded. Still, as I write this, it is wide open.

And this, truthfully, is what helped neutralize the grief. Still, he is teaching me from beyond the veil. He says, see through the third eye. Feel the truth of infinite love. Accept the ground of being here on this earthly plane. The ancient ground, which is solid, holds space.

* * *

Perspective is the healing elixir.

First, we are present in what we have the courage to feel. Feel what there is to feel. Then we find another vantage point. Not away from the feeling, but beside it, the way an owl sits with a whole field in view. We stop being the emotion and become something that can see it.

What happens in that space I cannot say. It is not the same for any two people. While a true gift, insight is never the goal – space is. What arrives there arrives on its own, ours to claim.

Today I remembered the ground, the love in my heart, and the vision of the third eye.

The dream gave them to me. The class gave me my body back. The guide gave me somewhere else to stand.

Becoming the embodiment of these helped me to coalesce, to hold my little boy in the dreamtime and not dissolve in the grief that is so much a part of being here. Instead, I am sipping at my hot coffee and listening.

“See it this way.”

In love,
Christina

As we honor oursleves,
We honor one another,
and all of our ancestors
and relations,
And we give thanks.
Blessings.

 
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