Tag Archives: heights

Where Memories Are Stored

From the Editor



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

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.
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?

Distant memories not so far away.


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.


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.