Wondering where the singing gecko is? You’ve arrived. 🙂
Many changes flowed from the dawning of this new day, almost all of them quite subtle and light. I felt a breezy new energy toward spiritual things and wanted to read even more, meditate even more, bask in nature more. But we’d bought an older house which needed constant repairs and improvements, and that took a lot of the time.
Just outside our new bedroom window was an old black olive tree that had grown too large for the space it was in. The branches scraped against the roof of the house, leaving scars, and the roots endangered the foundation, but the tree also provided shade from the intense Florida sunshine and a resting spot for lots of birds.
And a gecko.
A loud gecko.
A loud gecko who, every night when I would crawl into bed to sleep, would make a horrible horrible noise, something like >rwaaaaak< >rwaaaak<.
I saw it once and found it difficult to believe the sound came from such a tiny creature!
This went on for weeks. Some nights I was almost in tears, “Please, please stop…” To no avail. During the day I would go online and lean on friends’ sympathy about the gecko, who soon became my daily news and source of humor. I even wrote one night in my journal, “I’m sure he’s here to teach me something if I let him.”
Not realizing that was a prayer.
I don’t think it was that very night, but it might have been. I fell asleep early, deeply, and at some point began to stir, woken by the most Astoundingly Beautiful Music that felt to be playing within and without (not that song, but the sensibility!) — a layered and heavenly chorus that I wished would go on and on forever. Yet as I continued to wake, the song seemed more and more different.
It was… sigh, yes, there it was, the >rwaaak< of the gecko.
I came to myself, realized I was in my room. How could this be? Except that now, I couldn’t hear just the >rwaaak< alone. I could also hear the ethereal chorus, the deep and ethereal ‘music of the spheres’.
And like that, the gecko was gone!
Or at least he was gone from the tree. I never heard from him (her?) again, that I know of.
To this day, when someone is lacking manners, a situation is grating, or when enduring a song in a public place that is not my cup of tea, I’ll sometimes think, “This is someone’s gecko.”
I’ll try to open my heart, ever so slightly, to hear the music in the scene. I’ll ask why if might be there. One might call the process, going lucid, as in a dream.
There’s a lot here to consider inspirationally, but also to see about our minds, and the wonders of consciousness. Here is a fascinating link that showed up in my life later, helping me to convey what I had been trying unsuccessfully, to describe:
“Composer Jim Wilson has recorded the sound of crickets and then slowed down the recording, revealing something so amazing. The crickets sound like they are singing the most angelic chorus in perfect harmony. Though it sounds like human voices, everything you hear in the recording is the crickets themselves.”
Just, I mean, Wow.
One of the richest places for dream or meditative practices, is in what some traditions call the amrit vela (nectar veil). Sikhs call it the ‘hour of God’. It is around 3 or 4 am, when barriers are softer. before we’ve put on roles and agendas. This doesn’t seem to be a rule implemented, but rather to be based on discovery of natural ‘thin place’ openings.
Which touches on hynogogia, and a new word to me: hynopopia. Hypnopopia is specifically the boundary state on the edge of waking, whereas hypnogogia is the opposite, where one is falling into deep sleep, according to Andrew Holoceck.
In my hynopopic state, the gecko transformed from a nuisance that didn’t fit in to my plans and didn’t seem to benefit my life, into a pure blessing, a guide who taught me how to further lower my guard with the world.
The singing gecko gave me ‘ears to hear’.