Of a Dream

Hurried off the bus I did, in such a rush to get to the next one that I forgot a bag on the first. Upon the realization that I had lost something I hurried back on, calling out to the driver. “Just gotta get my bag, sorry!”

 

Dreamwork is not static. It is a conversation and the dream itself is poetry. Part entertainment, part art, part message.

 

The door shut behind me as I got on. The driver put the bus into gear and started going. “No wait!” I called out. “I’m getting off! Was just getting my bag!”

 

The first step to learning how to ‘read’ dreams is not terribly different from learning to analyze a poem. Identifying the difference between symbolism and meaningless chatter. Seeing how those symbols work together to shape contents underneath the surface.

 

As I shouted the bus driver turned her face towards me. She wasn’t stopping the bus. “There is a lesson for you in this,” she said. I protested as any upset passenger would. Of course I did, I could not understand. Not while still being in the dream. Almost crying with anger I turned to another passenger and complained of what was happening, telling them how unreasonable the driver was and how badly I needed to get off. The one I was speaking to showed no signs of sympathy, her face blank as that of a doll.

The fellow passenger spoke, repeating words already spoken by another: “There is a lesson in this.”

 

 

 

Dreamwork

Lately I have felt that it is time I took a more serious approach to Dreamwork. It has always been a talent of mine, one that includes both precognitive and telepathic dreams, but it has generally surfaced spontaneously rather than as a result of intentional practice. That I believe should change. I am to learn more of how to use this talent, intentionally.

So this I wish to say, to you who might be reading: I hereby offer my services as a Dreamworker in training. Eventually I might be in such control that I might actively seek out certain Dreams in order to answer questions, but for now I only speak of interpretations. So, if you wish feedback on what message might lay within your dreams, please do not hesitate to contact me. Just send a message to contactfny@gmail.com and I will respond as soon as I can. Anything you say is of course fully confidential.

 

 

Rambling

I have not been posting often lately, but do not think I am gone. I’m here, still climbing up from this well of misery the latest failed ivf-attempt brought.

 

It’s silly really, how thin-skinned I get. A single word of critique or insult has me breaking down in tears. The slightest bit of stress makes my heart pound at double speed. I’m fragile, so damned fragile.

 

I hate being fragile.

 

I hate a great many things about me, really, but that’s one of the aspects that causes me the most trouble.

 

See now, this post wasn’t meant to be about such things, but here I am anyway. Falling right back into the well of self-pity that I detest so much.

 

Bloody hell.

 

 

 

Actually I meant to write something about faith, and of the path I am called to walk down. I meant to tell you more of She that is the Night Sky, of what She has taught me, of what I see in Her. But I can’t. As I sit down by the computer to write I feel it with overwhelming clarity: This I am not to speak of. You learn it yourself, or you don’t.

 

It’s surprisingly difficult not to speak of. I suppose there is still a childish part of me that wants to run up to mum and shout “look what I found!” It’s the same impulse now, only in a more adult context. Wanting to share what I’ve seen and learned.

 

But no.

 

Ghraourgh.  Enough. It is time for bed, the dreams await. Good night!

Beauty, power, grace

“Come,” the old woman said. “I’m going to show you something. Show you someone.”

I was not afraid. Not even when the colours of the world faded and everything seemed to shrink. No, I realized. It wasn’t the world shrinking, it was me. Slowly falling back, collapsing with my back against the wall and my hands still firmly clasped by the old woman.

We were dead.

“Now we can go and see her.”

Her. I never was told her name. The priestess of Death. Priestess? No, when I laid eyes on her I knew she was more than that. She was the Goddess herself. Hair as black as charcoal reached just below her shoulders. Sunkissed skin was soft and healthy. The grace and seduction of a dancer oozed from her every motion. The authority of a Queen shone from her eyes. Clad in gold and clad in blue, the most royal of colours.

She was beautiful. Painfully beautiful. 

Our spirits like forgettable mice scuttled around the corners of the building. Not to be noticed, not to be seen, just to witness. It was a dangerous game, getting this close. But I was not afraid, only fascinated by the beauty, power, and grace which was hers.

Kosmos Cat (Dream)

 

 

“What is that? A cat?”

It was a cat, it had to be, but also it was not. A black long-haired creature with blue eyes. Those eyes… They shifted, changed size and form. A deep deep blue, glittering like a starry night, pulsated at its chest. 

“What shall we call it?”

Kosmos, we decided to call it Kosmos. 

 

 

 

Dreaming

It is early morning. My body feels numb and my mind is still wrapped up in what I just saw, what I just dreamed.

 

Birds, the largest I’ve ever seen. Intensely black and blue in colour, like nothing native to this land. In fact I can not recall them being native anywhere. 

I look out the window to see them, and in amazement call out for the others. Come see! 

But looking out the other windows, looking out on the other side of the house, the others see nothing out of the ordinary. White birds, like swans or perhaps storks. Large yes, but not unusually so.

In confusion I look both ways. Through one window I see creatures of a rare beauty, black and blue. Through the other window I look up and see what everyone else sees, simple white birds, nothing out of the ordinary. Hidden, their qualities are hidden.

Water, the blue of the ocean, with a surface gently rippled by wind. I see it above, stretching over the sky. A reflection of the water below. I see it below, water covering the ground. Covering the roads and fields, covering all. A reflection of the ocean above.

“How did you become a leader?” a girl asks. 

I frown and shake my head, the question is strange. 

“It wasn’t planned,” I say. “I am no priest, just… There was no one else. No, no. I am no leader. Not like that.”

“Why do they have many arms?” the girl asks. 

“To… open many doors,” I answer. Uncertain not of the answer but of how to word what language does not cover. “To simultaneously reach for many things, ready to open many doors, many possibilities all at once.”

 

 

Chance brought them together. Two girls, friends by accident. They study different paths, come from different traditions, honour different gods. Different but the same. They welcome me as a third.