I’m in a large church. There are a few others, most of whom I know, scattered around this large space. They are gathered for a special observance for a long-deceased individual, an intimate friend whose life was and continues to be interwoven with mine. I have no feeling of morbidity but rather of an active and energizing communion. Some guest hierophant is set to arrive to conduct the ceremonies which include sacramental oils.

Somehow, however, I am exhausted and despite strenuous efforts to keep my eyes open, I fall asleep. When I wake up, the whole ceremony is done, and the hierophant has vanished. The energies of the enactments seem to be dissipating. But I see that all the vital elements associated with this ritual have remained in place at the front of the church, and I am irresistibly drawn to the sacred oils.

While those few who linger are chattering away, I sneak up to and behind the altar. There are open boxes, packing material, etc. Sitting on the floor, I see a pair of tall, exquisitely shaped, conic glass bottles. I reach down to pick one up, and it is blazing hot. My fingertips are singed, but I know there is something more to be transformed, something to be consecrated. And I am absolutely determined and have no doubts about going ahead.