Category Archives: Reflection

About dreams or dreamy stuff.

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

Prehistoric Mammal Brain

Sister, Sister

If the prehistoric mammal won its sub-surface struggle with the octopus–like creature (They were almost as long as the boat.)
and if that animal evolved as a result of its struggle,
and if it then appeared as a scruffy lion climbing on board the boat, engendering (I think) naïve praise for its courage,
and if a mangy rat jumped out of the lion’s ear (What a survivor’s survivor!)
and scrabbled across the deck to who knows where,
and then I retreated to the cabin where there is at least organized space
and a door for protection,
should I be worried?

Is the lion my mammalian brain, come to help on the journey, and I just have to learn how to live with it?

Is the journey a short one, we are out in the bay, and are we doing research, or going fishing, or perhaps both?

I am compelled to warn the seemingly naïve shipmates that the lion is a badass.
And that is the word my nephew recently used on my birthday card:

Don’t stop being a badass.

So, my current mammalian brain – all about relating and community and nurturing – is this scruffy, buff-coloured, hunter/survivor, recently evolved from the pre-historic (before I could make my own story) state through struggle, unconscious-to-conscious.

I am of two minds (at least) about this emergent beast.

Badass is good for not caring what people think, which is my recent goal inasmuch as I need to go forward without being hobbled by the namby-pamby voices that block creativity and the good work.

And badass is an attention getter when it comes to making an appearance – clearly this sea-surviving, sea-going lion has made an appearance.

But how to have it not wreak havoc.

Or maybe that is the point.

My naïve research associates are perhaps sufficiently unconcerned about the havoc to allow the emergence,
and I will do my dance of fear and turn to the organized, contained space of the people who run this boat (Yay – someone who knows how to run the boat!),
and get ready for a sea cruise.

Questions:
Is the lion also a lying?
Where is the badass rat?
What’s it feel like to really be a badass (thrill shudder)?
How to do research on the ocean with a lion (and rat) on board…?

Can’t believe this object exists; thanks to artist Vera Balyura of verameat.com.

Can’t believe this object exists; thanks to artist Vera Balyura of verameat.com.

Link

ARCHITECTURE
A unifying or coherent form or structure

I'm going to read three poems

The undulating floorboards of a classroom – gentle moguls of my dream – smooth as silk, worn smooth through use, having been beautifully constructed to begin with. Months later I see the real thing has manifested in Puebla, Mexico, made by Ten Architectos: a park covered in undulating wood. I have imagined that in walking the floor of my dreams one would be compelled to give over to the rolling movement of creativity, of sensuality, dance, of child’s play, rolling over smooth wooden hummocks, lying on these reclines, inclines, inclined to read a book, or roll over and talk to a friend, roll over and look at the new horizon. The floor leads to the outside, does not require a ceiling.

Recently I experienced beautiful dream architecture seen mirrored in huge windows – generous gothic arches – exquisite – detail – materials – height.

I cannot describe these things because they are to be experienced and I know in the dream that the beauty is to be embodied – because how else can we take it with us? I say out loud, “Don’t you just want to take it with you!?” And there is mystery in the reflection. In my awake mind I am wondering if the meaning of reflection in that dream represents projection – the mystery of how we sometimes get it right while coming from the single point perspective of the small human, loving heart. Well, if I could – if I could – if I could share that moment with you, I would say, “It’s like we are young and going forward in that way that young legs propel, and the youthful hunger for experience keeps heading for the possible.
“In the dream I say out loud, “Oh, I will be so glad to finally start!”

Then there are the dream buildings that I am supposed to drop from – just let go:

The condo tower 10-15 stories high. My dead father shows me how – just step off and down he goes into the marina where the huge, black fish is curious about the oblivious diver. I am afraid of the fall and want to take the elevator, but there is confusion about which goes up and which goes down. The young woman is helping me find my ID and shoes to get on the plane.

The old stone structure that is right beside the river. The boy says, “Well,” and just drops straight down into the river, makes himself comfortable in the current examining the bedrock. The earth quakes and there is an exodus of ships leaving the coast.

In another dream there are ships off which the tourists are stepping – dropping straight down into the ocean from a great height.

All the classroom dreams:

The oppressive private school with the pretend magic and the trickster stairwells. One threatens to dump me out the window down to the parking lot. Illusions.

The classrooms that continue to morph with fewer walls, opening out into nature.

The students are distracting me with music and coloured light. By the glass-walled classroom the Maori teacher has all the staff sing me an apology. I feel silly, but it helps.

The young man released from the classroom to the streets brings me back my natural medicines and essential oil that have been opened in such a way that they cannot be closed. He holds them out to me. He is fed up with my dithering.

Let go of the structure, free the students from my angst and resentment and confusion.

Drop into the water.

So much is possible, is happening. Embodying it, taking it with you.

Sky Reflecting

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Listening to the CBC I heard an interview with someone involved in setting up the Biodome in Montreal.

When he spoke of the emotional response of the scientists to the request for their vision in designing the Biodome I was moved, too. Whereas, usually they would be hired to execute an assignment – do the job as described – here they were being asked for what they wanted, what they desired, what they envisioned. And what they wanted was to present nature to the public in a way that would make people see its beauty and want to take care of it.

In that moment an idea coalesced and the words: “Dreams are the poems of science” came to me. This is my understanding of the creative beauty of science – the knowledge of our minds and souls/bodies/hearts – as brought to us via the amazing vehicle of dreams. I wanted to go to the Biodome, meet scientists, ask them their dreams, see the convergence of outer and inner science in the synchronicity of the happenings in nature and the dreams of scientists. Later that day my best friend, the one with whom I have had synchronous dream events, emailed asking if I would like to go on an adventure to Montreal. I said yes, and did and the image above is from the Gulf of St. Lawrence ecosystem, one of four beautiful, contained ecosystems that the Biodome offers. I was in love with a skate and photographed it coming to the surface and turning upside down, showing its mouth and so on. Then it lay on the bottom and blinked up through the water with sky-reflecting eyes.

Dreams are the poems of science. They are singing through us, born of impulses and information that want beauty, power, healing.

Dreams are made of thought, blood, bone and soul. They blink at us from deep down through sky-reflecting eyes.

Dreams are the poems of science

I have a body, or perhaps I am a body, or perhaps a body has me.
In recent dreams I am so much in the body I can’t remember the dreams, events of sensation that pass as soon as they occur.
I believe this is a healing.
I am tired.
No prefrontal cortex need be involved to make meaning from the sleeping experience.
No mammalian brain is stimulated, and the reptilian?
It seems the body has its own brain: the location of body thought is in the cells and perhaps in subtle fields, and wraiths of experience are untraceable, but they exist.
They exist like anything else fleeting and untraced, untracked, registered and gone with no print, a healing trail read only in the better, the good, the relieved, the lessening of pain, the presence of hope and possibility.
We bend our heads, listening, looking, smelling, sensing, to understand and come into alignment with the healed, suspended in a state we cannot understand, and that’s a good thing.