In a dream, I came across a small dragon—her skin pattern like a leopard’s, yet soft and moist like a seal’s.

When I first saw her, she was resting beside the water inside a large, open concrete drainage pipe. I wasn’t afraid. 

As I approached, I noticed she was tethered by a long chain, secured with a thick metal shackle around her ankles. Several others like her were there as well. The chain was long enough to give her room to roam, but she could never truly be free.

Then, for reasons outside of my conscious understanding, I began running away from her. 

Knowing she was chained, I wasn’t worried that she could actually catch me. She tried to follow, but when she reached the end of the chain, she stopped. Behind me, she cried out urgently:

“Go to the left. To the left.”

When I woke, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I missed that beautiful dragon. Her image remained vivid in my mind. There was no fierceness in her eyes; she was playful, gentle. Yet her call felt urgent, as though she was trying to tell me something important.

Go to the left.

I also felt sadness for her—for how long had she been chained there?

That morning, during meditation, I began breathing more deeply into the left side of my chest. 

With each breath, I traveled deeper into that space. Yet I never felt as though I was filling anything, because the landscape within was vast, dark, and unknown.

Day after day, I continued this practice, directing my breath toward the left.

Mindful breathing is like a small, gentle light – bringing warmth and illumination with every inhale and exhale.

As I sat, an image from the Ecuadorian rainforest came to mind—the rich, dark forest floor filled with nutrients and hidden potential. Even the smallest amount of sunlight is enough to bring that potential to life. A seed begins to sprout, then grows into something vibrant and flourishing.

It is the mysterious union of the soil, water, and light that transforms potential into life.

The same felt true within me.

In the soil of my soul—in my subconscious—lie countless elements or attributes that my conscious mind has never fully recognized. Much of it remains unexplored, unknown, hidden in darkness, yet filled with immense potential. 

As I breathe in and out, I imagine pouring light into that inner cavern, feeling the light circulating through me, one breath at a time, in and out.

As the days passed, I began noticing the effects of this practice in everyday life.

Go to the left.

It was as though I was seeing from a different place—one that allowed me to notice what I had overlooked before, to understand what I hadn’t even realized I was missing.

Standing before my canvas, my brush strokes slowed. I stepped back more often—not simply to look, but to feel the colors, the light, the shadows, and the emotions within the painting.

What am I missing?

What am I really trying to express through this painting?

Life itself also began to slow down.

I found myself simplifying even further so I could appreciate more, notice the subtle flow of things, sense the essence of life more deeply, and recognize the beauty that had always been present all around me. 

Seeing. Sensing. Connecting. 

When life becomes too busy, there is little time or energy left to notice the quiet details that help ground me, nourish my heart, and reconnect me with the source.

“The supreme meaning is great and small; it is as wide as the space of the starry heaven and as narrow as the cell of the living body. The small, narrow, and banal is not nonsense, but one of the essences of the Godhead.”

— The Red Book, C.G. Jung

I continued the practice because I loved what it revealed. I cherished the ability to slow down and relish the moments when I experience “less truly is more”.

Then one day, instead of following my breath deep into the left, I simply rested in the feeling, and held it—the peace, the simplicity of existing, the presence of the moment, the emptiness, yet fullness existing simultaneously, because nothing else was needed.

It was then that I saw my dragon.

She had been there all along, patiently waiting for me.

She was tethered by the many things I had mistaken for my true essence.

Sometimes the chains were forged from ignorance—a simple unawareness that this part of myself even existed. 

Sometimes they were made of fear – the fear of facing what lay within, waiting.

Other times they were created by neglect, as the endless demands of the world pulled my attention away from myself and from experiencing life as it truly is.  Instead, I searched for validation from others, seeking to live a life based on what others say it should look like. 

It just seemed easier that way.

Sometimes it is the heavy toll from constantly seeing life and relationships through the lens of use and value.

And sometimes they were simply the comfort of following well-traveled paths instead of allowing myself to explore my own path.

That is why, in my dream, I ran from her without understanding why.

I looked at her—my own Self, my own spirit, my essential nature.

Then I said,

“You can be free now. Fly wherever you wish. I don’t want to hold you back any longer.”

My conscious mind does not know where I will go, who I will become, or what life will bring.

But that is all right.

I trust my beautiful dragon.

I trust her intuition. I trust her connection with the Tao, because she is part of it.

Perhaps, by setting her free, I too can begin to see things as they truly are—not only their outward beauty, but their essence, their spirit. 

From there, I can learn to live more fully, appreciate more deeply, and become freer—to be with what is, to be with who I am, flowing with life rather than resisting it, and remaining connected to the source.

I know there will be many times when old habitual energy return, when unconscious forces attempt to tether her again, or when I find myself running away from her once more.

But now I have seen her.

And because I have seen her, I know she lives within me—an essential energy reminding me that life is beautiful. 

Sometimes it is adventurous. 

Sometimes it is creative. 

Sometimes it is simply quiet contentment.

Sometimes it can be also disappointment, pain, or sadness. And it is also okay.

Knowing that essence is within me brings me peace and comfort.

Perhaps it was always meant to be this way.

“A father’s possessions belong to his child. As long as the child is young, the child will not possess what already belongs to it. When the child grows up, the father will turn over all the possessions.”

— The Gospel of Philip