The Crumbling Book and My Own Voice: A Dissertation Dream's Prophetic Whisper

Years ago, as I embarked on the daunting journey of my dissertation, a vivid dream etched itself into my memory. It was so potent, so laden with meaning, that it's stayed with me ever since – a silent guide through the academic labyrinth and now, surprisingly, as I shape the vision for my new podcast.

Dreams, as we know, often speak in metaphors. This one, in hindsight, feels like a direct premonition of the challenges and revelations that lay ahead in my scholarly and creative life.

The Dream Unfurls: A Reading, A Legacy

I found myself standing behind a desk, preparing to give a reading to a class filled with faces from my past, older persons, and figures who shaped my early intellectual life. The air was charged with expectation.

I pulled out a wooden pulpit, or lectern, weighty and traditional. Across its base, the name "Axelrod" was carved. I ran my finger over it, pronouncing it aloud. Axelrod – the name of two former professors from UCR, one a poetry teacher whose influence I still carry. In that dream moment, I knew: I was inheriting, and would carry out, his tradition. It was a powerful sense of legacy.

Then, I placed a very large and heavy book upon the pulpit. It radiated an undeniable "weight of authority." Its binding was a faded, worn red, speaking of time and use, and though I didn't know the title, I understood it was about a "canon of literature." This was the established tradition of epic literature – the foundational narratives I was engaging with, the very canon I was studying, that I was now preparing to discuss and interpret.

The Revelation: Fragmented Truths

As I turned the cover and the first few pages, I took a deep breath, ready to begin. But as my eyes scanned the text, a jolt: the pages were old, crumbling, and horrifyingly, pieces of the story had been ripped out. Gaps, holes, missing narratives within this ancient, revered text.

I tried to read, but stuttered. The story, as presented in its traditional form, was incomplete.

Then, a moment of profound generosity: students from the class came forward. They offered fragments – pieces of pages from their own crumbling books, hoping to fill the gaps in mine. Their kindness was palpable, their intention pure.

But as I tried to fit their pieces into my own, I quickly realized the futility. It was an impossible task. I would never find the right pieces to tell this story as a whole, to truly complete the existing, fragmented narrative of this epic tradition.

The Pivot: Finding My Own Voice

And this was the turning point. With great care and reverence, I closed the heavy, incomplete book. In that pause, I drifted into a familiar state – a kind of trance, where deep thought and creativity converge. And then, I began to speak.

The students were there to learn, and I must teach them.

I began to articulate something universal, something like this: "That this story, every story, begins with its protagonist who is oblivious to his own possibility and potential, and is put through a great many trials..."

A shift rippled through the audience. Some stirred, realizing I wasn't reading from the hallowed book, but speaking my own words. This break from tradition unsettled them.

Yet, I continued, pulling from a far-off place – a place from which all words and stories originated. I knew I was speaking of the archetypal, that this understanding was my gift. It was my duty to share what I could glean, empathetically, from my own relationship with these deep truths. My own lessons and wounds were in sympathy with these universal narratives, and their soundless voice found form as its essence escaped my lips.

Dialogue, Laughter, and Life's Composition

A discussion ignited in the classroom. My father spoke. Some assented, some dissented. I found myself cracking jokes, navigating the lively exchange. "I know you’re Italian, so I’ll forgive the interruption!" I quipped to my father – it sounded funnier in the dream, I assure you!

The feeling was electric: Congenial, jubilant, at ease—this was my place…

Just before waking, I was speaking of music – the difference between the happy and sad, which accounted for tempo, melody, harmony. And a final, resonant thought: that music was a reflection for the way we compose our own lives.

The Dream's Echoes Today: Dissertation & Podcast

Looking back, this dream is startlingly prophetic for both my dissertation journey and my budding podcast.

• For My Dissertation: The crumbling book, representing the tradition of epic literature, perfectly symbolized the gaps, biases, and limitations I found within established interpretations of the genre of epic. My dissertation isn't just about summarizing what's there; it's about identifying those missing pieces, challenging traditional frameworks, and ultimately, constructing a new understanding from my own unique perspective. It's about honoring the tradition ("Axelrod") while forging my own path, even if it "upsets" some traditionalists.

  
  

• For My Podcast: The dream's emphasis on speaking from my own words and tapping into archetypal understanding is the very core of my podcast's mission. It's about sharing insights that go beyond surface-level information, drawing on embodied wisdom and personal connection. The shift from reading to authentic discourse, the convivial atmosphere, and the idea of "composing our own lives" through narrative and sound – these are all guiding lights for the conversations and stories I want to explore.

  
  

This dream wasn't just a fleeting nocturnal fantasy; it was a profound roadmap. It reminded me that true authority comes not from simply repeating what's already known, but from courageously giving voice to one's own deeply felt truths, even when the old stories are incomplete.

What "crumbling books" are you encountering in your own journey? And what "new stories" are waiting to be spoken from your own authentic voice?