Skating in the Morning

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Love.
Integrate the research.
The bright shadow man asks a question,
gets an answer
and continues on his way
not needing to be nice
and polite
and stalled
at the intersection.

The top of my coffee is a micro-climate,
a biome of steam trails on the brown sheen.
Hot skaters cut across the dark, circled in ceramic.
I blow them into swirls and then tip them into my mouth.
I can be a morning monster, too.
I can smile and chuckle and swallow.
No one, to my knowledge, is injured
and I can walk with pride knowing I am
the powerful mouth of destiny.
I am a humble monster and say a prayer
of thanks and request:
May there always be more skaters and coffee and heat.

This is the other side of love,
the consuming, the ingesting, digesting,
letting fall away the unnecessary,
discerning what the hell that is.
So many looking for meaning
and I say from my detached brain:
We make our own meaning.
But then am stung
by the dream of the Buddhist yellow jacket wasp
teaching outside the church.
Yes, my dreammaker called that in,
but there is a balance to this meaning making:
a lover’s opening to the facts
and a happy monster’s spitting out bones of the past.
All these monsters and lovers inside the source,
the Great Mystery.

All I want is to feel it in my skater body
and stop grieving for the bones.

When we channel the souls of the incoming
it is a sacred thing.
We need to be clean.
We need to let them choose the best landing pad.
We need to surrender
to our own strength,
commit to serve the path of possible.
The shadow of our human world is resisting the wise
monster mouth and eating all the wrong things,
never full.
Spit out the bones and let them return
to the constellations,
or mountains,
or reefs
of possibility.

At least I feel this yearning in my heart.

I am preparing,
asking for directions,
and walking.

Seed Blossom Bosom

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This morning I dream:
Women are gathering.
Conservative, religious, well-organized.
The men’s gathering is completed.
Gymnasium – no basket for my team to shoot at.
I shoot the ball up into the empty space,
proclaim each of our shots is worth two points,
do not feel I am part of this conservative gathering.
I witness that it is happening
and is important.

This morning:
I consider a previous dream invitation
from the business men relaxing above the Great Lake.
I feel the easy draw,
sense they are demonstrating possibility, balance, power,
while that American tourist woman nearby is so abrasive and ranting
there is no opening whatsoever for change.

A more recent dream:
The man on the other side of the valley – so easy
– so in the flow of acting and relaxing,
of working, succeeding, being present.

Awake I remember the abrasive American woman,
toxic in her experience of life as frightening and restricted,
identity tied to complaint and vigilance and finger-pointing and suffering
and attention-keeping and unconsciousness.
But in the waking life situation a part of North America
politically
publicly
proclaims the way of hatred and intolerance:
My challenge is to put down the complaint and panic identity
for long enough to consider:
I could be served by the fruits of my labours.
To join the men may not be a betrayal.
To embody the balance of work and accomplishment – relaxed enjoyment of accomplishments – is a way forward.

The rest is panic and exclusion –
and a carpet of fear on which intolerance rests and enjoys attention.

 
Cohen.
Leonard,
I was singing Hallelujah this morning for no clear reason – the best reason.
Suddenly overcome by grief for my mother… surprise.
No warning – not quite awake, at the kitchen sink
I had been thinking of her and what could have been:
If I could have had a life that I could have invited her to witness, if not share:
That calm home of child and nurture and balance and security – that I was fine –
that if I had been fine,
then I could have invited her to sit and read to my children –
that she could have sat in the peace and sunlight of words being magic and good.
And that I did not have that,
and that I did not make that,
and that there was no bridge for that,
and that even my longing for that:
my daily fantasy of having some form of reunion with my mother –
of something normal and loving and tolerant and easy
and of the truth of who we were, who we really were …
that the longing was not enough.
Action was necessary, and I was stuck,
and I was too certain that she would drop my child if I handed him to her.
And unfortunately this is the truer picture of that time.
But ‘what about now’ is the question.

In the waking day overhead
the search and rescue plane trains searchers and rescuers
who are released like seeds
while the military profile of the flying thing
is shielded from the vision of the refugees
whose hearts pound unbidden at the sound and sight.
As to a dark sun the raised hand is a blinder.
Walking to pick up the child who might remember the sound
is an exercise in taming the voices of panic and reason
into a litany of comfort and goodness.

So hallelujah for the pain of trying
and hallelujah for the mistakes.
And hallelujah for the godforsaken stories
that are held to the bosom to feed on the heart
of possibility.
And hallelujah for the impossible goodness
leaping like a seed into the soil
and not telling anyone
until it has burst forth in undeniable glory,
even if for a moment
before being plucked by the person
who does not understand its language yet.

I am the seed, and the blossom, and the bosom,
and the hand, and the ignorant, and the longing,
and the future and the past,
and the watcher, and the blinder,
and the hope.

Molecule Model Flower

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My breakfast looks like a tree.

I eat it that way without knowing,
influenced by a child’s appreciation of symmetry:
one bite here, one bite there,
leave a stem to hold the thing,
for stability.

In my dream
the girl child unfolds a creation of both science and art
that comes from exploration
and the space set up to do that.
The space and she are open and bright.

She looks at me as I am watching and wondering at the unfolding
of a complex creation made of layers of paper:
both black and white,
six-sided cells attached by one or more sides
in the form of petals and flowers,
a honeycomb relationship unfurling down and across and down,
both delicate and certain,
seemingly no accident,
but predictable, no.

Kids these days!

I am an arm’s length admirer of origami,
its enfolding of science and art,
but mostly its magical quality
of two dimensions becoming three,
and by wonder suggesting more.

The girl’s cells of black and white combine
to make a delicate, certain network
recognizably organic, yet of discrete parts.
Black, white, yes, no, one, zero, all, nothing, empty, full.
A story and a rest,
sleep and waking.
Alone and together.

But mostly I have wordless wonder
at the occurrence of such a thing
in such a place,
unannounced,
splendid,
and the girl expects no accolades,
but holds the molecule model flower by one petal
and watches it unfold.

 

After the paint dries

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Reveal

I am intrigued by the content and feel of recent dreams and by some of their fragments and titles:
France with Gramma at tidal flats
Woman asserts breasts.
Related to their teacher
The woman is a bottle.
The chrome matrix is understood as a whole.

At this moment the most interesting element in recent dreams is the repeated appearance of  ‘many people busy working to solve a mystery’. The people are competent and accomplished, and while I am fretting and feeling incompetent and identifying as a ‘problem’, these characters are going about their business.

This morning’s dream fragment seems to point toward an impending completion and indicates an action I might take for the moment:

People are working both together and independently to solve a mystery or make something happen. They are taking their work seriously, but are not being serious, just focused.

A man and someone else are attending to something after all the action of investigating and solving.

Looking at the object before me I can see that we have to wait for the paint to dry before we can see clearly. As the paint dries its surface changes so the finished state is revealed only then. Realizing this I respond with intentional waiting. I feel my state change from seeking to focused waiting. I understand this is what is required and it gives me energy so that I am both alert and calm.

In the dream and upon waking it feels so good to be clear that waiting is the thing, that something has been applied in order to accomplish something, a renovation, or building, or installing. And that ‘waiting to see’ is required to discover the condition of the ‘thing’ in order to act again. Far from feeling passive and undirected this waiting has energy and rightness.

And I can’t help but think that those people working away in the background are the productive parts of me I am becoming aware of!

As I write I think of the three stages of creative process: research, production and fallow. I am often uncertain about which phase I am in. In the past months I have ‘felt’ that I am in research phase. I would like to be more intentional in my creative work, consciously identifying and entering phases and using my time and energy in a more balanced way (and not ‘fretting’ about what I should be doing). In this dream fragment the ‘reveal’ promised after the paint dries could be the culmination of the ‘research’ pursued by various characters/processes in the dream state over the course of weeks. Contrary to the idiom: “As exciting as watching paint dry,” this moment has great momentum; the waiting is full of purpose because I can actually see the surface changing before my eyes. At least I hope that’s what’s happening!
Perhaps the ‘thing’ for the next production phase will be revealed.
Well, I shall ‘see’ soon enough.

Baby laughs: Breaking Sticks

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I am breaking sticks, which makes a baby laugh.
I am about seven, the baby about six months.
The sticks are dry, and light in colour,
no bark, old, weathered and no bigger than my baby finger.
The sticks breaking makes a nice sound – pock.
When I see this makes the baby laugh
I get more sticks and break them.
The baby laughs.
I am aware of adults sitting here, one holding the baby.
I am cautious of them, that they might judge my actions.
But I do it anyway.

I am breaking the things that stick and make me stuck. It is very pleasing.

Others’ thoughts:
“When you’ve got the baby you gotta be with the baby – being here now; eye to eye firing mirror neurons of contact. A delightful situation.”
“My seven year old is entertaining my baby, who in turn is encouraging my seven year old, with no interference from my judgmental adults, because sometimes that is what is needed.”
“I am making kindling – kindle.”

Kindle. Kinder. Kinder.

Warms my heart.

Photon Street

DSCN4856.JPGStart at the beginning of now
to deal with the beginning
of the long ago
that got stuck
DNA fear
no refuge found.

And the playing.
The children have truly arrived in the new land,
playing again.

I can ask for help.
I can pray
like this:
Dear divine place and thing and possibility and holder
and dear dear
Dear magnificence
Dear big

Dear microscopic knower of the handbag of the photon
What you got in there?
What you got?
Potential.

Potential in a little photon’s handbag.
Standing there at the little photon bus stop –
looking up at the sun above the little photon buildings
and trees,
little photon birds flying past
like a sweet whistle of a memory.
On photon street, here comes the bus,
here comes the photon bus driver.
Here is the photon bus pass displayed,
that little photon photo ID.

Dear divine speck,
May I feel you,
may I experience the wondrous sensation of your movement,
tiny universal packet of power shooting through me
en route through my little city of wonders,
my gathering of souls of patience
and humour and play.

Birch Mother

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Well!
Perspective is everything:

While I am researching the occurrence of ladder imagery in my dreams I come upon something that quietly astounds me in that it is a giant message of comfort that I have missed almost entirely.
When my mother died I asked for a sign – or perhaps made or chose a sign of connection with her: the birch tree.
Apparently the sadness of separation I had felt from her much of my life was infused into this symbol in spite of itself, perhaps in spite of my mother’s best intentions, and in spite of my desire for a true connection with her. In first reading the dream I missed the promise in the symbol’s bounty.

In 2009 two weeks after my mother’s birthday I dream:

I am at a park or retreat – other people are there – in their 20s or 30s.
Like a chalet.
Nice hilly setting.
Up nestled into the hill I see a patch of huge birch trees – they are gigantic and some are grown together at the base – they are beautifully placed in the side of the hill.
They must be 10 feet in circumference.
I have never seen birch trees this big…
There are maybe 10 trees.
There is something clean and real about them – reassuring – unlike most of the rest of the energy on this property.
It is like they belong to the property from when it was an estate – times of nobility and integrity.

At that time, in my reflection following the dream I note the connection to my mother, but it is not until now, almost seven years later that I feel the loveliness of the imagery and the support it can convey.

To be fair to myself, I also see the strength of the complex that was at play between my mother and myself, and the resulting relationship to my internal mother.
Wordy communication was not our way – more like moods and resulting suppositions.
And it is just so darn impressive how one can keep replicating this original experience of separation over years through the imagination as though it is still in play, inevitable, part of the “architecture”.
The confusion and frustration resulting from living with unconfirmed theories is reflected in the next scene.
The dream points toward the layer (grungy 70s carpet) of the past that is impeding progress:

But in the building the architecture is challenging.
The steps up to the loft that have to be climbed like a ladder are sloped and covered in carpet.
So the age shows – grungy.
Maybe they have been like this since the 70s.
I wonder if this was done on purpose as a psychological challenge.
I think it is stupid.
And it really does make more work and less efficiency and imposes unnecessary danger.

By revisiting an old dream I get to acknowledge having come far enough in mending my mother relationship to be able to see how that carpet of the past imposed such interference!

The above are excerpts from a dream of many scenes. And there are more levels to this dream, but for today I take this as a reminder to check my assumptions and check my old dreams for new information! I know that dreams communicate information for the immediate situation and reveal themselves over time. This is confirmation.

Another repeating motif from this dream that I will investigate later is estate!

Meanwhile back to the ladder research…