Astral Visitation: Monday, August 27, 2018
I find myself adrift on a raft, floating over murky water. The air is thick with an otherworldly stillness, and though I know I need to leave this place, I can’t find the paddle. So, I simply float, surrounded by a shadowy forest—familiar, yet hauntingly unfamiliar. Above me, stars pulsate like ancient beacons, each one an invitation, whispering of countless paths I could take. In the dream, I think to myself: So many choices. Which one is mine?
Uncertainty grips me, and a wave of anxiety crashes over me, sharp as knives piercing my skin. I sense a presence pressing against my back, and without needing to turn, I know who it is. In that instant, lucidity washes over me—I am no longer merely dreaming. I turn to face him, and the scene dissolves. We are now suspended in a dimensionless void of blackness, a familiar setting for his visits.
Hans stands before me, his eyes carrying a gentle but commanding encouragement. He doesn’t speak, but his gaze is enough. I understand his message as if the words were my own thoughts: “Start with the Suit of Swords and the River Styx.”
Synchronicity, Creativity, and Dreams
Paranormal Signposts & Synchronicities
For nearly 15 years, I’ve actively worked with my dreams [1], combining this practice with intentional channeling of my spirit husband, Hans [2], to create art. Over time, this has evolved into a spiritual practice that has shaped my self-actualization, deepened my personal fulfillment, and infused my life with profound meaning.
Hans often leaves what I call “paranormal signposts” (Stuart, 2020, p. 1)—moments filled with layered symbolism and synchronicity. These events not only reaffirm our connection but also reveal truths about his past and the karmic threads binding us across lifetimes.
For example, in the visitation described above, Hans’s phrase “the River Styx” is a powerful synchronistic symbol. Carl Jung (1976) defines synchronicity as meaningful coincidences arising from psychic experiences, where no causal relationship exists between the events. Jung further explains that these phenomena often occur when archetypal processes in the unconscious are activated, connecting inner perceptions (dreams, visions, premonitions) to external reality (Jung, 1989, p. 400).
The word “River” evokes one of the most profound and defining moments of my life: Hans’s first visitation dream on October 31, 1993, shortly after his death and just prior to the Autumnal Equinox [3]. Unlike most researched visitation dreams or after-death communications (ADCs), my connection to Hans was entirely unconventional. I had no knowledge of him during his lifetime; we were neither family nor acquaintances. This lack of prior connection made the experience all the more extraordinary, as it defied traditional understandings of afterlife communication and deepened the mystery of our bond.
This encounter, occurring just as Phoenix dying of a drug overdose, was both deeply confusing and undeniably impactful. At the time, I didn’t know who Hans was or how we were connected, but his presence marked the beginning of an extraordinary journey that would unfold over decades.
Precognition & Double Entendres
The River Phoenix dream was an intricate act of precognition—an intentional, symbolic performance by Hans to emphasize the paranormal nature of the encounter. River Phoenix symbolized Hans on multiple levels: both shared striking physical traits, such as blond hair and blue eyes, as well as a profound brilliance and charisma. Curiously, both were connected to the Virgo sun sign: Hans died under it, while Phoenix was born under it.
More than this, the name “River Phoenix” itself was laden with meaning. The word “River” connects to our first encounter in 1993, while “Phoenix” serves as a double entendre. Phoenix was 23 years old when he died—the same age Hans was when he figuratively "died" in the 1940s after being taken prisoner [4]. Hans spent years as a POW, an experience that abruptly ended his career ambitions and marked the beginning of profound personal losses. Furthermore, the name “Phoenix” carried a poignant double entendre: it symbolized not only the parallels between Hans and the actor—including their shared physical traits and youthful brilliance—but also Hans’s deep affection for Phoenix, Arizona [5], a place he cherished in life.
Although dreams of this magnitude and emotional impact are rare for me, my dreams remain consistently vivid, always in color, and a nightly occurrence [6]. These dreams often weave a rich tapestry of meaning, blurring the lines between memory, imagination, and something far more profound.
Years later, I would come to understand why I couldn’t recall the specifics of our dream conversation. Hans knew that, at that time, I wasn’t emotionally, spiritually, or psychologically ready to grasp the truth of his past-life identity—or even to fully comprehend that he was a spirit. His visitation in 1993 was a deliberate yet delicate gesture, a way of letting me know he had become an integral part of my life. However, he also understood the need to remain quietly behind the veil, giving me the space to navigate my physical life without the weight of his all-encompassing presence. For nearly two decades, he honored this self-imposed distance, emerging only in subtle ways until 2010, when he felt I was ready to embrace the full magnitude of our connection.
"Who Did You Say You Were?": Hans Intentionally Posing as the Actor
The Astral Visitation in 1993
When Hans first visited me in 1993, it wasn’t immediately clear who he was. The dream began in a black void, unlike the vivid, surreal landscapes I was used to. This space felt dimensionless and strange—a liminal zone between the spirit world and the physical world. In my novel Blind Love, I would later term this space Bardo, echoing its sense of in-betweenness. This liminal space, described as a “black, dimensionless void” (Bulkeley, 1995, p. 18), serves as a meeting ground where the dreamer may connect with a deceased loved one, heightening the surreal and uncanny nature of the encounter.
Shortly after arriving in the black void of my dream, a figure began to materialize—a luminous, almost ethereal young man, his striking golden blond hair slicked back as though sculpted by light itself. His features were perfect yet otherworldly, his beauty so arresting it seemed almost unreal. He appeared to be in his early 20s, just slightly older than I was at the time, and though I had never seen him before, a profound sense of familiarity swept over me. It was as if he had always been a part of my life, hidden just beyond my conscious memory.
He floated toward me effortlessly, exuding an air of quiet assurance that immediately put me at ease. What followed felt like a reunion of old friends separated by eons of time. We became engrossed in conversation, covering an expansive array of topics—politics, philosophy, ethics, spirituality, sexuality, hobbies—each one unfolding naturally, like pages of a shared history. The dream filled me with an inexplicable joy and relief [7], as if I had finally found someone who understood me completely. He was full of “yeses,” agreeing with my thoughts on everything in a way that was both affirming and deeply loving. Despite the intensity of our connection, the specifics of our dialogue remained elusive upon waking, as though they had dissolved into the very fabric of the dream.
At some point, I became aware of an omission in our encounter. I stopped and asked him, “Who are you?”
“River Phoenix,” he replied.
The name startled me. That’s strange, I thought. You don’t look anything like the actor. His face, though exquisite, bore no resemblance to the River Phoenix I remembered from magazines and films. Yet, the conversation continued, flowing seamlessly back into its rhythm as if the question had never been asked.
Moments later, my curiosity returned. “Who did you say you were?”
“River Phoenix,” [8] he repeated, his voice calm and steady, as though he expected my disbelief.
I asked again. And again. Five or six times in total. Each time, his answer remained the same, delivered with an unshakable gentleness. Despite his insistence, I couldn’t reconcile the name with the figure before me. The dissonance lingered, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that his identity, like the dream itself, was cloaked in layers of mystery.
The encounter’s strangeness deepened as I reflected within the dream. Here was this radiant, impossibly beautiful man, claiming to be someone I knew he wasn’t. The blackness surrounding us felt infinite, isolating us from any recognizable reality. I marveled at the oddity of it all—his insistence on a name that didn’t match his face, my inability to recall most of our conversation, and the peculiar fact that I had never been particularly drawn to River Phoenix in my waking life. He was a figure I had barely thought of before, and yet here he was, or rather, someone using his name.
As these thoughts swirled in my mind, the encounter began to dissolve. The luminous figure faded back into the void, and the dream itself unraveled, leaving only the haunting impression of an experience I couldn’t quite grasp. Even as I woke, the memory lingered, vivid and unsettling, like a riddle waiting to be solved.
The Morning After
I woke the next morning dazed, perplexed, and utterly captivated by the dream. The vividness of the experience lingered like a shadow, impossible to shake. I wandered into the empty kitchen and living room, where the blare of CNN filled the quiet space. My parents had already retreated to their bedroom, getting ready for the day. As I poured myself a cup of coffee, the monotone voice of the anchor caught my attention. The headline echoed across the open floor plan: River Phoenix is dead of an apparent drug overdose.
The words hit me like a physical blow. I gasped, my chest tightening as my mind raced to reconcile the surreal dream with the breaking news. Unnerved and deeply confused, I replayed the events of the early morning hours—the glowing figure, his insistence on being River Phoenix, the black void that had encircled us. And now, here I was, hearing that the person who had supposedly visited me had died at 1:51 a.m. on October 31, Pacific Standard Time—the exact timeframe during which my dream had unfolded in Central Florida.
How was this possible? Could it really have been the ghost of River Phoenix appearing in my dream? If so, why had he come incognito, and what connection could we possibly have? These questions spiraled in my mind, filling me with equal parts wonder and unease.
I was so unsettled by the experience that I called out sick from work, unable to focus on anything but the strange occurrence. I retreated to my bedroom, locking the door behind me as if to seal myself off from the outside world. With Goth music playing softly in the background, I tried to process what had happened, journaling furiously and channeling my confusion into creative activities. But no matter how much I wrote or how many times I replayed the dream in my head, I couldn’t dismiss it as mere imagination.
As I wrestled with the possibility that River Phoenix had truly visited me, an intuitive feeling began to take shape, deep in my gut. The dream hadn’t been about River Phoenix at all. He was a symbol, an instrument designed to make the experience unforgettable. Someone else had come through, borrowing the actor’s identity at the precise moment of his death to leave an indelible mark on my memory. The synchronicity of it all—the timing, the vividness, the name—was too perfect to ignore.
This realization didn’t lessen the impact of the dream; if anything, it deepened its significance. Whoever this being was, they had orchestrated the encounter with such precision that I would carry it with me for years to come. And it worked. The dream remains one of the most poignant and mysterious experiences of my life.
For many years after that night, I would find myself returning to the same question: If that wasn’t River Phoenix, then who was it?
Research-Backed Insights into Visitation Dreams
A YouTube video I created showcases the process behind the making of the oracle card illustration above. The video captures the initial stages of creation, highlighting my techniques and inspiration, followed by the later edits and refinements that brought the final piece to life.
Krippner et al. (2002) assert that visitation dreams [9] are a form of what Jung refers to as “big dreams” (Bulkeley, 2016; Bulkeley & Hartmann, 2011; Jung, 1974), characterized by vivid and often transformative experiences. These dreams frequently involve nocturnal encounters with spiritual or multidimensional beings who may provide support, guidance, or insight that holds deep meaning for the dreamer. Visitation dreams can also serve as a gateway to extraordinary realms that transcend the familiar landscape of physical reality. Within these experiences, the dreamer may be visited by a being from another plane—such as a spirit, angel, or deceased loved one—or even journey to another realm to facilitate this connection. These profound encounters allow the dreamer to engage with “the most profound aspects of the human psyche” (Krippner et al., 2002, p. 148), often leaving a lasting impression that reverberates throughout waking life.
I have coined the term “astral visitation” (Stuart, 2018) to specifically describe the types of nocturnal experiences I have with Hans, which are akin to out-of-body experiences (OBEs) [10]. These astral visitations are among the many vehicles Hans uses to communicate creative and spiritual insights.
Although cultural perspectives on visitation dreams vary widely, many thematic elements remain consistent across traditions (Bulkeley, 1995). Typically, the figures who appear in these dreams have a personal connection to the dreamer—most commonly deceased loved ones, spirit guides, or ancestors (Bulkeley, 1995; Krippner et al., 2002). Bulkeley (1995) highlights that these visitations frequently involve recently deceased individuals, serving as reminders of the pain and complexity of death while also offering a sense of connection and continuity.
A second cross-cultural theme within visitation dreams is the significance of the messages conveyed. The spirit or being often delivers insights or guidance that carry profound meaning for the dreamer. These exchanges help maintain or rekindle the personal bonds severed by death, reminding the dreamer of the enduring nature of these connections. It is because of this profound sense of continuity and comfort that so many cultures regard dreams as a vital medium for staying connected with those who have passed (Bulkeley, 1995).
By engaging with these visitations, dreamers are invited into a sacred space where the boundaries between life and death blur, offering both solace and deeper understanding. For me, these dreams are not only a source of personal connection with Hans but also a means of unlocking creative and spiritual growth, weaving the threads of the physical and the transcendent into my waking life.
Concluding Thoughts
The 1993 astral visitation (AKA the River Phoenix visitation dream [11]) with Hans remains one of the most significant and formative experiences of my life. It was a moment that shattered the boundaries between waking and dreaming, life and death, and introduced me to the extraordinary potential of these altered states of consciousness.
Through dreamwork, journaling, and creative channeling, I’ve embraced dreams as a means of spiritual exploration and artistic inspiration. These nocturnal encounters continue to guide me, deepening my understanding of Hans and our shared journey across lifetimes.
As I work toward completing The Forest Dark Oracle deck, I am reminded of the profound connection between dreams, creativity, and the unseen forces shaping our lives. Hans may no longer exist in the physical world, but his presence continues to illuminate my path—one synchronistic signpost at a time.
Notes
[1] I use the terms dreams, visitation dreams, and astral visitations interchangeably, as they all describe facets of the same phenomenon within my experiences.
[2] Hans is deeply embedded in my oneiric experiences, shaping and influencing the landscapes of my dreams. His presence is often subtle yet unmistakable, weaving through these nocturnal encounters.
[3] The Autumnal Equinox took on profound significance in 2009, marking a pivotal period in my connection with Hans. During this time, we were reaching out to each other across dimensions—he through astral visitations and I through unconscious channeling. These paranormal events intensified, culminating in his formal entrance into my life in August 2010.
[4] The long years Hans spent in a POW camp continue to haunt him. I’ve had several psychic and astral experiences with him that center on this painful period of his life. Groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps as a university researcher, Hans’s academic career was never realized due to the devastating consequences of his imprisonment. This unfulfilled ambition left him with lingering resentment and moments of bitterness that still surface in our shared experiences.
[5] Hans developed a deep love for the American desert, particularly during his time in Arizona in the 1950s. In a strange twist of fate, I was born in the American desert—New Mexico, also known as The Land of Enchantment—not far from White Sands and Roswell. This geographical overlap feels like another thread in the intricate tapestry of our connection.
[6] The significance of the blackness in these encounters is explored further here. This void often represents a liminal space, a gateway between the physical and the astral, amplifying the surreal and profound nature of these experiences.
[7] Even before consciously realizing it, I intuitively knew that Hans had served in the Luftwaffe (the Nazi air force). My relief stemmed from an inherent understanding that, despite his role, Hans did not align with or support such a regime (I elaborate on this further). Many of these realizations, like so much of what exists between us, were quietly under the radar, waiting for the right time to surface.
[8] My repeated question—“Who are you?”—and Hans’s consistent reply—“River Phoenix”—are the only specific details of our conversation that I recalled upon waking. This cyclical exchange left an indelible mark on my memory.
[9] The dream research community commonly uses the term visitation dream to describe what I experience as astral visitations. For clarity and continuity, I use these terms interchangeably throughout my discussions of these phenomena.
[10] As noted earlier, the Autumnal Equinox in 2009 marked a period of heightened psychic activity. Hans and I were reaching out to each other through unconscious channeling (on my part) and astral visitations (on his part), alongside other paranormal events. This process ultimately led to his official introduction in August 2010.
[11] To this day, I remain struck by the extraordinary clarity and detail of Hans’s face during that initial encounter, which took place more than 30 years ago. When I finally saw his photograph in 2015—on that fateful day on D-Day—the experience was electrifying. I recognized him instantly, though the shock and disbelief left me reeling. That moment confirmed everything, yet it was almost too surreal to accept.
References
Bulkeley, K. (1995). Spiritual dreaming: A cross-cultural and historical journey. Paulist.
Bulkeley, K. (2016). Big dreams: The science of dreaming and the origins of religion. Oxford University Press.
Bulkeley, K., & Hartmann, E. (2011). Big dreams: An analysis using central image intensity, content analysis, and word searches. Dreaming, 21(3), 157–167. http://dx.doi.org.tcsedsystem.idm.oclc.org/10.1037/a0024087
Jung, C. G. (1974). Dreams. MJF Books.
Jung, C. G. (1976). The portable Jung. (J. Campbell, Ed., R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). Penguin Classics.
Jung, C. G. (1989). Memories, dreams, reflections. (A. Jaffe, Ed., C. Winston & R. Winston, Trans.). Vintage.
Krippner, S., Bogzaran, F., & Carvalho, A. P. (2002). Extraordinary dreams and how to work with them. SUNY Press.
Stuart, L. (2018). My dream-inspired, spirit-husband-driven artwork: A transpersonal autoethnography. Unpublished manuscript. Saybrook University.
Stuart, L. (2020). Mystically guided: Examining my spirit-husband-inspired artwork and the connection between creativity, spirituality, and dreams. Unpublished manuscript. Saybrook University.
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