Category Archives: Dreams

About actual dreams, and maybe associated dreamy stuff.

Those Thieves Who Wake Me Up

Rather than being overwhelmed by the number of writers writing their hearts out
I could join them in this hang gliding,
this trench digging,
this tree trimming.

Rather than be jealous, or fearful, which are the same thing, like fraternal twins,
I could pull together these years of punctuation like flotsam on the river in spring breakup:
Ice flows are temporary and edited by seasonal heat
and riverbanks
and each other
and the lake at the mouth churning milky, milky brown.

This trimming happens at night, too,
when I dream of desperate lads stealing my hard drive
and wake up remembering I have an external back up.
Maybe the back up is the love of others for the punctuation and other signs of life.
Back up is remember.
Love does remember me.

My heart is climbing to my throat.
The green place in my throat where my voice purrs quietly waiting
is married to the green place in all the other throats.

The spring heat is present at night when it is still cold but not freezing.

I love those thieves who wake me up to what I forgot I had.

Baby laughs: Breaking Sticks

photo

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.

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.

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.

Old Technology

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Being creeped out, I prefer to leave the man who might be a murderer, in the open concept but dark house in the trees, to the conservative, neat and tidy woman who would sleep with him.

I now have to deal with the weirdness of having a third breast on my shoulder, a prominent location on my body, vulnerable. Something our father has put here has grown to this. It reminds me of Celtic armour, and Janet Jackson. It seems to be getting attention for making a statement – but not my statement. I am wearied by the hassle of dealing with it and sorting out the mystery of it.

A travelling friend, a Scott, may not have time to join me for a swim in the lake before getting back on board. Maybe it’s too far or he doesn’t want to be wet while travelling.

A wooded area, the side of a small mountain.
A technical man at the top of a pole where three things hold it up – maybe to receive or send messages, or to be able to intercept something incoming – an attack?
He’s part of our team, he, another man and I.
Up a small hill – open rooms like a bunker – cement pads – layers resting on something.
Decomposing or turning into something else – partly made of mushroom/fungus.
Combining organic growth with planned structures.
An old idea left to develop on its own without certainty that it would turn out.
Developing on its own from neglect or time passing.
Old radios lit up – repurposed – one is a large upright console – almost moving with the energy coming through it – receiving something, part of a relay, with light moving out of it diagonally.
This is a room of concrete set aside for such things, all this action, defence and military and communications, set away from society, in secret, now maybe of use.

[From Apr. 26, 2012]