Tag Archives: healing

All movement is right


Retrospective from 2013

A series of dreams ends with this:


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):

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.

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

Children and men allies.
Mending a special quilt.

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):

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.

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.



Matriarch you are wanting.

You are wanting control and the best for your children as you know it.

You are wanting, but your want is above clarity, above and beyond the clear seeing with only your concerns, your wringing concerns that squeeze the joy and spontaneity out of life and lives and children.

God, you are beautiful even at this age and regal, but not so warm and not so smart as you think because your children hide themselves from you and so you don’t know them and you don’t know the facts of their lives and so you don’t know the foundation of your creation, this family you have brought to this place.

Matriarch, if I love you, if I can (and do I have to?), I wonder if you deserve it.

I would want beauty to blossom with age instead of this flourishing pallor of control in the skin of your face.

You are a juggler of beauty and control, but neither can win because something will be dropped and perhaps both.

Crash the control and the beauty is – oh – there is more beauty there in your surprise, in the ecstasy of your sorrow as you think it’s all lost now.

Face is lost, but your face is found.

Matriarch, you are wanting, but your wanting would change from this ring, this ring of children standing around waiting to berate and condemn and make to feel guilty the one who broke the rules, who wrote, who went away and wrote things down and lost the noose of obligation and did not grieve though he needed to.

Matriarch, you are wanting, but where is your love?

The magician in the square was talking about you, wasn’t she?

The cover is almost blown.

You are a myth.

Yes, I know, happiness is not guaranteed and sometimes all you have left is your dignity, but is there no faith in love?

Your writer son has tried to have faith in love, has drunk the wine to forget that the mother of his love on earth, his matriarchal heart needs a healing he has not imagined in all his letters, in all his lovers – he has not imagined the scene, the atmosphere, the blossom of what particular tree that would satisfy the wanting, would return the colour to the face of the mother.

Matriarch, your arch, your rule is informed by a shame that goes back so very long, that goes back to a longing misplaced.

Maybe it was a unique event, a girl woman’s walk across a square away from the gaze of the men who were on alert and she wasn’t expecting it, but she woke up and went stiff and kept walking and then the men wanted something they could not share and so it began.

The frugal distribution of affection and flirtation to keep the peace, to keep the honour, to keep the status, to keep the estate, the wealth, the access to the money, per year and all for what?

Can you count that up for me and send me the bill?

(Response to dream of 2013_05_08)

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.