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…

All movement is right

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Retrospective from 2013

A series of dreams ends with this:

2013_03_05

I am carrying a baby in my arms.
I am aware of how pleasant it feels
to be carrying the baby,

the weight of the child in my arms, 
the grace in the movement.
I feel that when one is carrying a child
and focusing the attention on it

all movement is right,
is meaningful.

These dreams precede the above
(titles and brief synopses/segments):

2013_02_28
young male band may be lip synching, creative woman makes playful ritual work, climb fences, vintage dresses

The young woman artist seems to have made the ritual art
to help me get unstuck and/or to celebrate something –
to remind me about beauty, creativity,
ritual, gifting, unattachment,
trickster energy, young energy,
not worrying about being cool.

2013_03_01
messy apartment, municipal construction, bouncing with men, two cute little children, ride wants me to fix little quilt

Cleansing.
Children and men allies.
Mending a special quilt.

2013_03_02
intervention blocks, dad with blue and gold globe, parties frustrated, hero woman saga

Teen boys could benefit from my father but too risky.
An intervention from my brother contributes
to teen girls not getting active.
It is unnerving to go down a shaft
in iffy buckets with party girls.
Men honour the father who has the blue and gold
supernatural light in a jar.
I’d like to suggest a solution for the damage
that the unaware, entitled friends are causing the host.
I’d like the sad warrior hero woman to let someone
uncover the heritage beauty of her estate
while she is away.
I’d like to convince her that it would be okay
to have a baby in the space.

This one begins the series
(full dream):

2013_02_26
pregnant, First Nations hug, sleeping and breathing underwater

I am pregnant. So is another woman.
I feel young – not wrong that I should be pregnant.
But I am surprised I am as big as I am.
But someone says I’m 40 weeks – or something like that –
but I can’t believe I am – I don’t think I am that big.
Also – some quick flashes of anxiety –
to be about to have a baby and not be ready
– have no foundation set up – a sudden situation.
There are other people around
but they are not necessarily focused on me
or there to help – not there to hinder.
They are aware I am pregnant.
Maybe they are the ones
who reaffirm that I am when I don’t understand.

Walking around a building that is part house,
part gathering place.
Has a grey tone.
Dusk but also the colours of battlements –
and where single guys hang out
Not about colour.
Maybe First Nations guys hanging out.
Single men, various ages.
Events and energy that are not clear
Like they are preparing for an event or altercation.
Patrolling or strolling or pacing along the upper floor outside
– has a view of courtyard and other side of property.
Not about me – I don’t understand.
I see a First Nations man – he reaches out to hug me in a happy way.
Good.

I am below the walkway – in a place like a moat
or a thing that has turned into a moat –
between the outside and inside walls,
really just the main area with water.
I am floating, sort of sleeping underwater.
My feet touch the bottom – soil bottom.
I don’t want to touch it.
I can see through the water.
It is not dirty but I can see things floating in it
as though water is just over the ground –
not a water course – or a body of water or a swimming pool.
But not appetizing or appealing water.
I want to keep sleeping and floating.
I am breathing.
I am wondering about what it means
that I am breathing underwater
Like in utero.
I wonder what that means.

I feel like I might be avoiding something.

 

I feel that when one is carrying a child
and focusing the attention on it
all movement is right,
is meaningful.

Refuge

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The refugees’ movement toward us is triggering our DNA-held refugee stories.
Anxiety can go through the DNA; we existed in our grandmothers’ bodies.
The fears of our fathers are passed down in traditions, body stances, breathing patterns, averting of gazes, hackles rising at the particular trigger, compassion rising and quelling in a complex dance.
You don’t have to live like a refugee?
We do, somewhere in our bones and dendrites, even if it is just about the memory of leaving our mothers’ bodies, our safe water and land.
I imagine wearing a head scarf as a statement of my own freedom – wearing 10 headscarves if I want.
And the confused, angry young man shackled by his conservative three-colour and ball cap wardrobe has yet to embrace the possibilities of self and self expression. Eh.
Trapped in his refugee DNA.
Last night, this morning, I dream the man in the suit is pursuing the aware, sovereign children with the valuables.
This happens in a hotel complex.
The children are not alone, have a team of other children and even adult allies working together though the allies are unseen.
Now in an unusual, lovely cottagey room, beyond the service corridors, at sea level with a sea vista, I worry that the man is coming.
I encourage them to leave behind a piece of the treasure, something gold like a signet ring, hidden to recover later, because the man is getting closer.
In the hotel complex I am disoriented. I find it hard to return to my room.
I will take the elevator to the second floor and start there.

I have been working toward taking back my projection of the male, the masculine.

Here the dream is asking, among other things, “What is the hotel complex?”
Temporary accommodation – supposed to be about relaxation, and also staying here to accomplish business and move on.
And also a place of intrigue because so many lives can intersect.
And life can feel like a hotel – such a short time, with so many going in so many different directions – with different agendas – and no fixed address.

I seek refuge.

I worry about the man.

I rush the children away from the sea vista – the see vista.

A cottage can be a temporary refuge too, where we orient ourselves by the ocean, receive direction from the unconscious source to see more clearly.

Look at all these others right by the ocean and yet hidden behind brick walls!

Maybe the treasure does not need to be hidden anymore. Maybe the sovereign signet ring can be recovered and used – the sovereign seal on sovereign documents, messages, decrees. What that might look like … signify … yes.

Where Memories Are Stored

From the Editor

 

 

First:
Businessmen in tribal masks.
Fearful cell phone call.
Crime or no crime?

Next:
Sleeping baby – inverted – held by a businessman in a ritual – sleeps peacefully anyway.
Dark, little prince.

I dream on:
Miniature fleshy tree.
Attached where the faucet would be behind a sink as in the old kitchen in my childhood home.

I look at the tree over the top of the counter, at child height.
The tree: white and pink, also with a fresh green hue and wrinkles in its surface, somewhat like old bark, but so alive and fresh.
Of gelatinous, semi-translucent material with darkened pink lines along the outer surface of the wrinkles.
Near the trunk of the tree stands a perfect, miniature collie dog, an inch long!
It moves?
I bark at it, one clear sharp bark.
It barks, runs toward me, stops within some energy field of the trunk, waiting, alert.
I am amazed at its minute perfection, thrilled at the wonder of its being alive and real and perfect in every detail.
I can barely take it in – I get to see such a thing – such a thing exists.
My heart and mind full of wonder and excitement.

Around the outside edge of the branches of the tree are fish suspended in an environment attached to the tree in which they cruise around the periphery, as far away from the trunk as is possible without becoming detached.
Sentient, aware, they move as fish do, undisturbed, slowly, not directly engaging, knowing something.

The tree is so vulnerable, no hard shell.
Anyone could reach out and crush its flesh so easily.
That is also the wonder of it – living, vulnerable, perfect, available, delicate, complex, mysterious, visible, in an ordinary place.

This is a gift dream, in recalling it, re-experiencing it and its wonder and pleasure.

Could the tree also be a map of my brain?
Plastic. Alive.

I wonder where memories are stored.

Recently, after this dream, I dreamed in sensual detail of bathing my infant son – sights and sensations in clear presence.
Another gift.
A gate is opening.

Where is memory stored?

Some say it depends on how old the memory is.
Some say memory is stored in individual neurons.
The route to the memory can be complicated, and perhaps changing.

And the collie roams near the trunk of something amazing
and the collie is a callee, and so am I.
We bark to each other.
The bark of the tree is evidence of vulnerability and life and growth and mystery. The collie’s bark protecting my vulnerable bark.

The fish eye me.
They are swimming at the edge of my tree of knowledge.
Peripheral fish patrol.
Peripheral nervous system – ganglia outside the protection of the skull and spine.
Message relay bodies.
Years ago, my son content in my lap, I called dreamy fish my home-defining swimmers – emotion messengers, body to mind – awakening.

A tree, and a dog and fish respond to my fearful cell phone call about tribal-masked businessmen.
My cells phoned.
What offices have I given to my office tower men?
What do I delegate to them to do with the sleeping prince baby?
I call my collie callee.
And spend time at the base of the tree, my ganglia fish swimming at eye height.
I height.
Child-I height.
See.
Relays amid old and young hopes and fears heighten my dog awareness.
I stand in wonder and excitation, my plastic brain growing.

What is this business, man?

Recall.
Distant memories not so far away.

 

Hello Shark

Hello Shark
This is me calling. I see I thought you were gone,
that the past is not also here, that you are not eternal.
(You are, as long as people have imagination.)

Hello Shark
You have never been cute, not even when you were born with teeth and cutting fin.
Your streamline is with purpose; you cut through much description.

Hello Shark
When I was fighting you, I was afraid. How does one take care of one’s shark?
You say:
Swim anyway, but do not expect the water to be safe,
do not bleed senselessly, senseless, needlessly.
Be a shark as well. Sharks do not fear and are capable of ecstasy.
Honour your sensitive receptors – electrical stimulation of the finest gauge, sense blood at a distance.
A caress is overwhelming, causing a swoon and a sinking further into the depth.

Hello Shark
I heard you were about justice, about deserved vengeance – seeking – rightly seeking vengeance.
That is quite a nature! Rather Godly, sayeth The Lord.
But how else may we perceive the teeth of God’s justice except as decisive, incisive.

Hello Shark
I’m not sure where to keep you.
Recently the mermaid was occupying the swimming pool, but maybe you get along; I haven’t visited that chapter.
I keep my shark in the ocean and remember:
The rivers that meet salt water can accommodate such a predator – predating, and pre-dating other forms of hunter by a long shot.
Salt rivers are blood in the body coursing; current events happen here.

Hello Shark
I welcome you o-fish-all-y to my wakening and expect that you expect my tremors.
So, I shan’t apologize for my fear and thrill.
Let me know when it’s time.

Shark

2 Willing Sacrifices

at beach

2 months since a Summer Solstice dream.
At the beach attempting to write blog related words.

Following epic partner meltdown in waking life, the dream comes up with three scenes:

A young wife secretly hoping to upgrade to a better marriage.
Meanwhile her Latino husband returns from the dead.
By his fully engaged, wondrous actions descending the steep, stepped hill of an ancient southern valley, young people follow him – enthusiastic acolytes.
“Maybe,” she thinks, “he’s not such a bad catch after all.”
He does not resent her questioning, moving on, his forward motion too clear to doubt.
I begin the descent, seeing I can do it one step at a time.

Meanwhile the catch – the seafood:
The Inuit shaman shows me how to treat the creature, prepare the creature from the depths – pillow-shaped with big eyes – a willing sacrifice on the table heaped with seafood – gift of abundance to me from the depths.
I must not be distracted by my concern over what to do with the abundance,
or by my fear for the creature, but learn something important here as the man makes a fine, shallow incision across the eye,
the creature still aware.

Then, in the coastal city:
I want the languorous students to return to the room of learning.
I tell the young man I want a world where young people grow up to have critical thinking skills.
In this moment of summer when the sun stands still the young people meander toward the seabus.

And so:
A marriage – 2 willing sacrifices – 2 shamans
– seafood – students – seabus – summer  solstice.

In waking life I have dream friends who point out:
The willing sacrifice is the I/eye – the ego – I of limiting judgement.
Pay attention to emotion as the abundant gift of the depths – water gifts.
Leadership not through instruction and insistence, but through undeniable engagement, after the resurrection, after the willing sacrifice of ego and judgement.
Irresistible enthusiasm after bringing divine knowledge from the heights of sacrifice – to the grounded place of practical application,
one step at a time.

2 months on I am at the beach, having experienced summer adventures, now getting a notion about the see of the sea – ways of seeing.
The brilliance of the summer sun and the depths of the unconscious work together to make me see.

Awakened by sleeping.

Sleep man Wake woman.