Naturally, now, I wish I had pulled through the fog of sleep when I first woke, and wrote the scene of events when they were still painted in vivid hues. Here, though, is what I remember:
There was a dress, a brilliant red frilly affair, not unlike the Red Riding hood flock my daughter wore for Halloween, the color of blood when first spilled and trimmed in lace. I had it on backwards, at first. There was conflict, the replay of the past in different form. People I love, but have caused heartache, still lingering in the shadows of the mind. They had come out of the shadows last night, in the eve of the new moon, to remind me of what I still must shed.
It didn’t take long for me to notice the dress I was wearing was backwards, so I righted it without taking it off. I wore if for awhile, through that play of scenes, before I traded it in for another. But let me tell you what else occurred last night, as I try to put the disperate pieces together.
There was another scene, entirely new from the other, and seemingly unrelated as dreams have that way of changing course suddenly. But, one knows really that nothing is unrelated.
I stood in water under a bridge. To my right, the river went upstream, to my left, down. The bridge above providing the option of two more directions, one a path into the past and the option of returning to the scene I had just left.
The water was a beautiful blue, full and strong, and I stood solid in the middle of the crossroads. To my right I watched with longing the tempting play of laughter as boaters paddled the current together. The sun shone high above. The only darkness was over the bridge, hidden through the tunnel of trees.
Here the dream became lucid in form. I knew the bird was coming before it appeared, quick and sure, from an unknown location. I knew I needed to remember her, as she was a messenger from Spirit. She was white, with the hint of brown and gray edging her feathers. A tiny (snowy) owl still in the early stages of her life where energy abounds but wisdom has yet to truly ripen.
My silent messenger of magic stopped her rapid flight in mid-air to balance at the point of my third eye. Our eyes locked, and she lingered long enough for me to remember. I had a choice, which path would I take?
Now, let me take you back out of the water, to that woman in the red dress. Through the course of those night travels she shed that red dress. She took it off, even after she righted it, and traded it in for another, and when she did everything shifted. The troubled scene she traveled through earlier became a place of joy as she twirled into her light in a lavender gown, sure, oh so sure, of who she was. Nothing, it seemed, could hold her back from living the true magic of her soul.
The Light Behind the Story 