Moving Through The Alam Al Mithal

The Arabic language is home to words and phrases of extraordinary beauty. My personal favorite — and, it must be said, there are so many to choose from — is “Alam al Mithal”.

“Alam al Mithal” is, when translated into English, “imaginal realm”. The imaginal realm is, if we look at Islamic Cosmology and the works of Henry Corbin and Carl Jung, a realm of living images, stories alive with energy and motion, lands that exist beyond the spell of the sensuous, forms that go beyond shape and symbol; along with far more, much of which cannot be encapsulated within the confines of written language.

It is said that we walk in two worlds. The world of here-and-now, a world that we are all intimately familiar with, and a world that goes beyond states of pure wakefulness. For whenever we fall asleep, lose ourselves in a vivid waking dream, or experience concepts and ideas that go far beyond our assumptions of what is, and is not, true or valid; we experience the imaginal realm, a realm that we all play a vital and intrinsic role in experiencing and, some would say, creating.

A few weeks ago, on this Medium blog, I published a story titled “Beyond The Desert, Beyond Semora”. Every single element within that story is an element that I, personally, experienced within dreams, states of hypnagogia, and immersive visualizations.

The story that you are about to read is similar. Similar, but different, for this story has been written in a manner that is far more direct and to-the-point, when compared to “Beyond The Desert, Beyond Semora”. Because of this, the story that you are about to read is, perhaps, far less poetic than it could be, but my hope is that you enjoy the story and imagery, nonetheless, and that you feel free to create your own wonderful experiences within the imaginal realm!

Moving Through The Alam Al Mithal

In Portland, Oregon — the city I was born in, grew up in, and currently reside in — there is a street known as “Hawthorne”. Hawthorne is a lovely street that is filled with unique shops, aesthetically sumptuous bars, and restaurants filled with delightful dishes and living histories.

For many years, one of my favorite places on Hawthorne has been “Powell’s Books”.

If you know anything about Portland, you know that Powell’s Books is the largest used and new bookstore in the world. No matter what you are looking for, it’s likely that you will find it, during a trip to Powell’s Books.

But, the “Powell’s Books” that sits on Hawthorne is not, in fact, that Powell’s Books. Rather, this Powell’s Books is one of several branches, all of which take up far less space than the vast city block and numerous floors that the main Powell’s Books branch — which sits near the edge of Downtown Portland — comprises.

The Powell’s Books on Hawthorne is, and always has been, my favorite. I am not sure why, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that I visited the store when I was very young, on account of it being relatively close to the house I grew up in, and it being one of my most-visited bookstores.

All of this information is important to note, for the dream that I am about to describe took place right outside of Powell’s Books.

I remember standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the “Powell’s Books” sign. Right next to the bookstore, I could see the pizza place, which has been there ever since I was very young, and the Starbucks right next to that pizza place.

The experience was familiar. Far from unique. But, at the same time, familiar in the best of ways.

I remember finding myself in a place that did not, in any way, resemble the Powell’s Books I knew. Rather, the space that I found myself in was filled with shelves as tall as skyscrapers and a seemingly infinite procession of glass floors, all of which were accessible by taking one of the many glass elevators.

Every single book within this space was free to read and check out. No one told me that but, intuitively, I knew it to be true.

My time in this library was, unfortunately, mostly forgotten by the time I woke up from the dream. All that remained, upon waking, was a single image of a glass elevator that had fallen from a great distance and, while scratched and dinged from the stone floors, remained sturdy.

At the back of the library, there was a series of doors. Each door was made of wood, all of which was filled with creases and cracks. The doors were rather inelegant, when compared to the decor of the library, and they reflected a strong sense of history and age that the rest of the library lacked.

Moving through the door took me to a space with a low-ceiling, made of the same wood that the doors leading into the space were made of, that was filled with shelves and crates. No one was in this space, from what I can recall, and the presence and intensity of light, within the space, seemed to shift in a manner that lacked order and harmony.

Eventually, the sound of running water became present. I chose to follow this sound and, in doing so, I found myself walking through a stained blue and white curtain. The curtain was held right above a narrow doorway. Upon moving through the curtain, the sound of running water became overwhelming.

Right in front of me, there was a small hill going downwards. Along this hill, there were palm trees, black panthers, tigers with black and white stripes, and dogs of many shapes, sizes, and colors.

At the edge of the hill, there was a stream and this stream lead to a small waterfall. Strangely enough, this waterfall was flowing upwards, to the sun, and the stream was flowing in the same direction. But, I never found out where the stream originated, or if an origin point even existed.

My memory of the preceding events is hazy. But, much of what I do, in fact, remember serves as the most significant component of this dream.

Some time was spent outside of the library. Eventually, though, a decision was made to go back in. I do not remember making this decision, nor do I remember why. Much of this dream consists of unfilled spaces that, while meaningful, lack wholeness and cohesion.

Moving through the vast backroom space, and somewhere within the main space of the library, took me to a table. Right by this table, there was a man who, apparently, I not only knew but happened to be great friends with.

Even though it was all a dream and I was, presumably, inhabiting the life and persona of someone else, a part of me knew that the man I was speaking to was not, in fact, a friend at all. Rather, he was someone else, someone from an unfamiliar place who spoke in an unfamiliar manner.

Despite not knowing who this man was, or anything about his relationship with me, we had a nice conversation. I do not remember what it was about, but what I can say is that it was about far more than books and that it may have been related to what happened next in the dream.

My “friend” and I left the table and began moving through a sea of shelves. None of these shelves stretched as high as those by the entrance, but some were as tall as an aged oak tree. Him and I, we were both looking for something, but I am not sure if we found it.

Right by a shelf that was filled almost entirely with books written in Sanskrit and Arabic — many of these books were, if I remember correctly, supposed to be about a train station in one of Egypt’s forgotten jungles — there were two women. My friend and I, we knew these two women, we were friends with them.

I did not know these two women. I did not know my friend. But, at the same time, I did. This is not easy to describe but, it felt as if I knew who the two women were and, by conversing with my friend, I remembered that I knew him and knew just how much he knew me.

None of this makes any sense. But, dreams tend not to make much sense at all, so this may just be par for the course.

The moments that took place right after our “reunion” with the two women serve as the most memorable moments within the dream and, in turn, the entire reason for my writing and sharing this story.

All of us began conversing. One of us made mention of the books, and this lead me to look through one of them. In the book that I looked through, there were black-and-white photos of turbaned men standing by a locomotive. The locomotive was standing on train tracks but, right behind these train tracks, there was a vista of pure space. The men in the photograph, the locomotive, and the tracks it stood on, appeared to be suspended in outer space.

Even though the photo was somewhat blurry, stars and other celestial objects could be seen. The glint of these objects was a minor smear that looked almost accidental. But, the photo could not be more clear.

One of the women my friend and I were speaking to — at this point, it was mostly my friend, due to me being preoccupied with the photograph — took a look at the book with me. She said something along the lines of “Quite beautiful, isn’t it?” I agreed with her.

The woman pointed to one of the smeared stars that was near the top-right of the photograph. “That’s where I’m from”, she told me. I asked the star’s name, but I do not remember what it was that she said.

My friend, and the other woman, came over to the book. Upon doing so, my friend pointed to a star near the bottom left, and said “I came from that star. But, it was so long ago, I don’t remember the star’s name!” The other woman pointed to the same star and said that she, too, came from there. Interestingly enough, she did remember the star’s name, but chose not to share it. I am not sure why.

My friend, and the two women, asked me “Where are you from?”. Even though I did, in fact, know and remember, I said “I don’t remember.” My friend came over and, with a big smile on his face, hugged me.

This hug was realer than real. It felt as if, in that moment, I had woken up and fallen back asleep, entering two different states of intense lucidity. As a description, that is far from adequate, and I do apologize for that, but it was a moment of incredible power and lucidity.

After the hug, he said something like “You do remember. I know you do. But, it’s okay if now’s not the time to share.”

The mood of our encounter paused for a moment. Time seemed as if it had stopped. Eventually, though, it resumed. Upon resuming, my friend gave me a few words, “You’ll be leaving soon. It’s been wonderful seeing you. We may not see each other again for quite some time, but please know, you’re always welcome here, and I love you”.

The woman came over and hugged me, saying something similar. Her hug was just as strong as the hug my close friend had given me and it, too, induced a strange sense of lucid awareness. Strangely enough, though, when I looked over to see her friend — the other woman — she was not there. She had vanished.

I knew that I was going to miss these friends, whoever they were. I know now, though, that I will see them again.

Soon after the moment passed, my body was in my bed, with my cat Blue lying sprawled out across my chest. It was time to wake up and it was time to record this strangely beautiful dream.

Conclusion

In the end, I am not sure what to make of that strange experience within the imaginal realm. Perhaps, it means something of significance. Perhaps, it does not. Regardless of that, I do hope you have enjoyed this little story!