The Stir of Possibility

The unexpected gift of blooming crocuses was found yesterday when hanging laundry

I don’t know why I am feeling it. There’s no rational explanation. Yet, there it is, the feeling of possibility stirring the cells into the flutter of excitement. Perhaps it is the quickening pulse of Spring that vibrates within my being. The Earth’s re-awakening becoming my own. It is, after all, the time of growth and movement. But not all moments are like this one.

Today has no set agenda for me. This morning, after I ensured that my daughter had a hearty breakfast and everything she needed before she headed off to take her SATs, I checked my phone and realized it was unlikely the call would arrive. Today, it seems, I am not needed outside of the home. I have started subbing at the middle school in town and usually the call for assistance arrives by 7am.

The day spreads before me a promise only I can fill. Some days this might bring the feeling of unease. The unknown agenda pressuring the need to be useful. Even though I am a Virgo, the mutable element of water flows strongly through me. I find grounding in routines when life feels uncomfortable, but there is the ever-present spark of magic waiting to be ignited.

There is something wondrous about a day unfolding without knowing what each minute will bring. Time is freed up to capture and weave together an infinite number of patterns of creation. It becomes the choice of the seeker to choose which path in this labyrinth to walk. We become poised, ready to receive what awaits. And how we navigate this spread of possibilities is also up to us.

When we open to the agenda-less, we allow that spark of magic to be ignited within. The outer world responds to our desire to be awakened into joy. We learn and discover in subtle ways that reveal to us their immeasurable value. It need not be, and often is not, a radical offering that awaits us. Most days we do not win the “lottery.” Most of us never will. How many people who do receive an over-load of abundance all at once know what to do with it to find true joy?

It is the offerings that may, at first glance appear tiny, that reveal the hidden gems that spark the life within us. Overload often brings overstimulation and chaos. The body and mind can only process so much at once. Conversely, one silken moment threading into a new one, nearly invisible in its form, can become something exquisite. One step into the unknown day leads us into a possibility offered without the force of our own creation. It becomes a gift, an offering to unfold.

As I sit here with one dog on either side of me, and no middle school classes to cover or yoga classes to teach, I hear the soft rhythm of breath mixing with the hum of the artificial life of my refrigerator. Choices unfold before me, but only a few have been revealed. The cat who fears the dog calls out to be visited, and I have decided that I will choose his offering first. But what is offered next, I am content with not knowing. It is the possibility that sparks the quickening, not the knowing.

“Oops:” A Matter of Perspective

Image by Steve Buissinne from Pixabay

It doesn’t matter who says it these days. As soon as the expression escapes someone’s lips, the dog comes running, filled with the promise of a dropped morsel. “Oops” is all it takes to make her feet race with joy as quickly as they can carry her into the kitchen. One person’s mistake is another [dog’s] victory.

When my husband dropped a few grains of cereal this evening, sending the dog running to the kitchen to clean up his mess, it got me thinking about this simple cause and effect conditioned response we have created. It did not take long for our Zelda to learn that an error for us meant a reward for her. She’s a smart dog, highly motivated by food.

Food pretty much rules Zelda’s life. She’s an opportunist, ever-ready for the chance to snatch up a meal, whether it be her own, or the remains of someone else’s. When my husband dropped some of his evening snack, I got to thinking about how subjective the meaning of “Oops” can be. Even, you might say, for the person who utters it upon impulse.

In this example of food lost from one mouth, only to be retrieved by another, the idea of a loss equalling another’s gain seems quite simple. But, most of the time what is dropped in our kitchen and retrieved by the dog is mere crumbs and is not really missed by us. The dog, in this case, is doing us a favor by sweeping the floor with her mouth.

At other times, though, the loss is greater. A quarter, or even a half of a meal might be lost with a careless swipe of a hand, resulting in the dog’s gain becoming more of a costly indulgence not just for us, but also for her health. Then, perhaps you could say the “Oops” is a genuine oops.

But I’m more interested in the subjective nature of the “Oops” and how the impulse to utter a word of mistake can, upon deeper reflection, become a gain for the person who might at first glance be thought of as a victim of circumstance.

When an event occurs that disrupts the status quo, it is in our nature to react. Our reactions determine our emotional response to the outcome, and sometimes it is unwavering. For example, if we return to the instance above, the dropped food may be perceived as a careless action that results in self-reprimand. No thought for gain may be considered, aside from the dog’s.

Yet, when we take the time to consider the cause behind the cause and the result beyond the initial result, we might arrive at a different conclusion. We might take a moment to realize that maybe our thoughts had influenced our carelessness, causing the food to be dropped because we had not been fully present and invested in the present moment, or task at hand. Therefore, the dropping of the food becomes an opportunity to reflect and pause. We can consider what has caused us to be distracted and why. We can make a choice to let it go and become more mindful as we carry out the rest of the meal preparation that is underway.

A mistake, then, becomes an opportunity to learn and to grow, even one as simple as an “Oops.” As we do this, the amount of “Oopses” by nature decreases, and the opportunity is seized not by someone else (or the dog), but by ourselves. The reward becomes our own to retrieve if we choose to. And, most likely, with enough exploration, we will find that the gain outweighs the perceived loss.

I chose the above photo as an image for this post because it reminded me of a big “Oops” I recently read about regarding the writer Ernest Hemingway. Early on in his literary career, his first wife, Hadley lost his entire collection of unpublished manuscripts. Deciding that she would gather all of his work to bring to him while they were vacationing, Hadley misplaced the briefcase containing the contents of his creative work on the train. The briefcase, assumed to be stolen, was never to be recovered. It took months, if not years, for Hemingway to realize, with the help of a writer friend or two, that perhaps Hadley’s “Oops” had actually been a gift. His writing, you see, had only benefitted from his loss, becoming stronger and more refined because the page, like our floor, had been whipped clean by a perceived mistake. He had no choice but to start over with nothing to lean upon. Hemingway’s creative hand took not only adapted to the loss, it grew from it.

Sue and Ani at Wayland’s Smithy #writephoto #suevincent

Sue & Ani

Thursdays were days when Sue Vincent would post a photograph writing prompt challenge. In honor of this ritual, I have posted one of my favorite photographs of Sue, which I took two years ago during a shared trip to Wayland’s Smithy. It’s a photograph I hold dear. Filled with memory, magic and love.

I’m not sure if Sue knew I was taking this photo, but Ani sure did. The presence of these two beings made this afternoon extra special for me. Although I can count on my two hands the number of days I have spent with Sue, they rank among the very best of my life thus far. Sometimes you are lucky in life to encounter a teacher/mentor/friend who takes you under her wings and guides you in that gentle way to open your awareness to the magic that exists, but is not always acknowledged. I consider myself one of those lucky individuals.

I can’t tell you exactly when I first met Sue, or exactly how. But, I can tell you she entered my life just when I needed her presence. That is often the way these types of relationships occur. The teacher mysteriously finding the student, the student, the teacher, just when the moment is right…

If it were not for the internet, perhaps we would not have met, but I believe when there’s a will, there’s away. If you had told me twenty years ago that I would meet a woman named Sue who would lead me into the magical landscape of the soul and also the living lands of ancient Albion, I would probably not believe you. Yet somehow, one day, our paths intersected through our blogs, and the rest is our brief history in this lifetime together.

A lifetime that, I believe, stretches well beyond this one, to a far distant past when magic was not so extraordinary…

The photo featured in this post was taken just over two years ago. It almost didn’t happen, but somehow Sue managed to arrange an afternoon, packed full of magic, to take myself and a friend to Uffington. Here, Sue sits with her beloved dog Ani on the chamber of Wayland’s Smithy. It is, for me, a precious photo. The winged soul and her guardian canine in a place the bridges the realms of corporeal and spirit.

It is, most likely, our last day together in this lifetime. And somehow even though I’d like to have more days with Sue, it was fitting and perfect. As much as we may wish to, we cannot control the length of time we have with those we love and hold dear, yet when we review it, we often find that its length was perfect in its essence.

When I first learned of Sue’s illness, I cycled through the emotions of impending loss. There were moments when I decided it was wholly unfair, for Sue, for her family, for all those who love her, and for, selfishly, myself. Our adventures have only just begun.

But who am I to say how long a lifetime should be and when it should end? It is, instead, a choice to accept what one has been given and to realize the fullness of the gift wrapped in this temporary form. Knowing, at the same time, that infinity lies beyond the temporary form. For me there is peace in this knowing. When I look at this photograph, uncertainty disappears and faith takes its place. Although I may resist a plan that is beyond my control, with the surrender there is a doorway to the beauty of truth.

You can see it here. In the place of stillness, it opens. The winged soul bending down to touch the Earth, never truly leaves.

I wake to a cardinal singing at my window after a semi-existential crisis dream #cardinal #parenting #midlife

Image by Chris Chow from Pixabay

I had been dreaming about being at school. That is not unusual for me. Last night I was back at Bowdoin College, but it really wasn’t anything like the Bowdoin I attended nearly 25 yrs ago. Instead, it felt foreign and strange. I was enrolled in four classes, yet hardly even attended the lectures. I couldn’t seem to remember where my classrooms were, let alone the room number of my dorm room. The dream was filled with angst, reflecting the, well, let’s just call it a semi-existential crisis I’ve been battling these days: What the heck am I doing here and where the heck am I going with my life?

Yep, I know that sounds extreme and dramatic. And, quite frankly it’s something I circle back to from time-to-time. I’m now at the stage of life when my kids are nearly ready to head off to college. As they get ready to embark upon life outside of their childhood home, I can’t help but think about what that means for me.

Once again, I’ve found myself circling back to the idea of returning to school, myself. It doesn’t matter that I’ll be 50 in less than three years, I seem to have a passion for life-long learning. The only thing that tends to hold me back is the money. Which is an underlying block in my current semi-existential crisis.

School seems a foolish thing to think about for myself when my own two kids will be heading out the door in just a few short years. Even though our household income is higher than most, it’s not enough to pay for 4 yrs x 2 kids’ college tuition costs. When my husband recently announced our current rate of college savings and how he had hoped that I would have been able to contribute more through my meager income, I felt a wave of panic and guilt set in. Every dream and hope I had for my life, and our shared life as a family of four, began to dance in spectral forms around me.

I don’t mean to be dramatic here, but I wonder how many other stay-at-home-parents feel the same way and are haunted by similar ghosts of a future that could have been, but never was…

Even though I wouldn’t trade back my time at home with my kids, if I could do it over again I would have a plan in place for this time in my life. I would have thought long and hard about a career that could be picked up again after a long absence, or one that could be nurtured part-time as I nurtured my children full-time from home.

I don’t life in a society that makes it easy for mother (or fathers) to return to the workforce after long leaves of absence, at least not in careers that honor higher degrees of education beyond the high school level. Nor does it assign monetary value to the work that is done by a stay-at-home-caregiver. It is, for the most part, an unpaid and thankless job.

Yet, despite this, I would not trade in my time with my children. I also know they are grateful for my presence in their lives. As the saying goes, it’s nearly impossible to have it all. So we must instead as ask what is enough?

In my present state I have come to realize that I tend to define my own worth too much by monetary values without allowing myself to accept how much value there is to the unpaid work that I do. That’s where my friend the cardinal comes in.

After a night of struggling with my inner-demons, I woke to birdsong. Mind you, it’s the middle of February and temperatures are below freezing when I wake most mornings, including this morning. I am not used to hearing birdsong in the middle of winter outside my window.

At first I was a little annoyed. I rather liked the idea of a few more minutes of sleep on a day when an early rise was not needed. But there was no further sleep to be had. The bird was insistent, and soon after I pulled the plugs from my ears I had a good idea of what type of bird it was. I wasn’t, though, quite expecting it to be so bold.

The cardinal was the first thing I saw as I pulled aside the curtains. Its crimson coat, a bold contrast to the snow-brushed hemlocks as it peered back at me and sang. It was eye-level. The only bird in sight. The only bird singing. Fine, I told it, I’ll look you up in Ted’s book later.

I should not have been surprised by what I read, but somehow I had not recalled that particular bit about the cardinal as a messenger. In the last sentence of Ted Andrew’s description of cardinal in Animal Speak, you will find these words, “…remember that everything you do is of importance.”

I am sharing them here, because if I needed the reminder, perhaps you do too.

A Saturday Musing on Sovereignty Spurred by a Myopic Meme

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Merriam Webster defines Sovereignty as:

1a: supreme power especially over a body politic b: freedom from external control AUTONOMY c: controlling influence 2: one that is sovereign especiallyan autonomous state 3 obsolete supreme excellence or an example of it”

Simply looking at the above definitions of sovereignty one can see that its definition is, at its essence, both complex and subjective. On one extreme, sovereignty defines power and dominance over others, whereas on the opposite side of its spectrum, it reveals the individual’s right to “freedom from external control.”

Hmm, it makes one pause and reflect, does it not?

Sovereignty has become a popular word these days, used to define individual and group rights, as well as the sovereignty of animals, plants, and other life forms. I have been thinking a lot about sovereignty since I responded to a meme on FB yesterday that claimed that pro-choice or “anti-life” groups do not care about life. In essence, the meme was defining sovereignty in terms of the first definition, “supreme power over a body,” while also defining the importance of the said body as such: the woman’s body is less important than a fetus’s. A domineering political/religious body has the sovereign right to delineate this said value.

As someone who defines herself as both pro”life” and pro”choice,” I found offense to this definition of sovereignty. When we try to define and impose restrictions on the sovereignty of another being, we impose the will of the ego’s striving for control and power. We also place limitations and restrictions on the very complex nature of life itself.

If one takes the view, which I strive to, that all life is sacred, one must dance with the complexity of how to define life and where to impose the individual’s will (or group’s will) over another life. The individual who posted the meme happens to define life at conception, when a sperm fertilizes the egg, yet she also limits herself in this definition, excluding, one can say, the rights of the sperm itself and the life-force potential of the eggs that will never get fertilized by the billions of sperm that will never exercise their rights to that fertilization. Then, there is the ego’s imposed definition of when that said “life” really begins. Science disagrees that it is at conception. And so do many branches of spirituality that say the soul does not enter the body until around 3 months after fertilization. Who has the right to define this life?

This individual’s belief (defined by her religion), in its inherent assumptions, is also limited to human life. She represents a section of humanity who abides by a specific religious indoctrination that defines sovereignty by one specific set of edicts. This sovereignty is also imposed on the populous that does not adhere to these edicts, sending their children out with their holy books in the attempts to sway others to their definitions of sovereignty. Which, again, limits humans to being holy beings and not other other life forms, ranking through a patriarchal hierarchy of the holiness of life that excludes animals, plants, the living planet, etc.

Again, this begs us to question, if we do value the sovereign rights of one “life” over another, why that is so? Who has endowed us this sovereign power and right?

The very definition of life, when reduced to the simplest of its complex form, reveals to us that life is cyclical and never ending. That life, in essence, is both the potential and the active. It cannot repeat and continue itself without sacrifice of other life. Therefore it becomes a question of how we define what is holy. Is the potential more holy than the active? Is the unformed more holy than the formed? And, is one life more valuable, holy, or sovereign than another?

In the meme that spurred this musing, there was an implication that the life of a fetus is more holy than that of an immigrant child.

It also implies that the mother carrying that developing life is less holy than the fetus her body may or may not be able to support. This post is not intended to dive into the complexity of carrying an unwanted or planned pregnancy, but it is worth spending a moment (or more) contemplating the complexity of what this means in terms of sovereignty. Considering, as one does, the will and sovereignty of the rapist, along with the sovereignty of those who strip away the sovereign rights of mothers while refusing to support them after their children are born into poverty, incest, abuse, etc.

If we are going to be emphatic about imposing limitations on sovereignty, should we not also explore the origins of our beliefs? Should we not question whether our definition is really about power, or whether it is about freedom? Should we not question whether we truly have the right to say that one life is more sovereign than another and what this sovereignty really means to Life with a big L?

When Influencers Become Haters Give Yourself Permission to Leave the “Room”

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

“She’s a hater.”

Three simple words hitting the head of the nail with precision. Driving the thought I had been avoiding bringing into articulation into the stark light of truth. “She’s a hater.” Even though she touts herself as an influencer of positive change.

I had been following her for longer than was comfortable. To be honest, I lost comfort from the first post I saw, but since I was trying to open up more of my awareness to BIPOC issues, I kept following. And, to make it worse, I kept liking her posts. I even responded to one. That’s when the hammer finally hit the head of the nail. Bang. Reality check.

Although my post was not hostile by any means, it was immediately returned with a hostile response based upon unfounded assumptions about the white writer who had written it. That would be me. I went further with one more response, again devoid of hostility, but with a slight bent towards defense. Another flurry of hostility came my way.

I liked the response anyway, but declined comment while I made the decision to wait for one more of her posts on Instagram before I decided whether to unfollow her. Three swipes through a barrage of hate memes, ending with a literal “f-you” to all the folks who did not see life the exact same way the influencer thought they should (aka just like her, I sealed my decision. Goodbye.

I am sharing this experience not for pity or defensive purposes, but to hopefully bring some awareness to the damage that can be caused by people who place themselves (or are elevated by others) into a position of influential power. In this particular case, I couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the former POTOUS, who managed to amass a huge (cult) following of sheep-like followers drunk on his power. Drunk on his hate.

Hate=Hate. It’s simple math. Even when you are trying to be an influential voice of positive change. I can’t help but thinking about Amanda Gorman in comparison. A bold, strong, beautiful voice of truth spoken with poise, compassion, and grace. A voice of light.

There is a huge difference between an individual who is working to bring the light of enlightment to the world, and one who becomes drunk on his/her own power while thinking that being angry and judgemental is a path towards the better good. One is living from the place of the heart, while the other is trying to thrive through the self-righteous ego. The divide could not be wider, even though the mind might think the goal is the same.

I find it deeply disturbing that these types of people rise to positions of power by others blindly lifting them up. Liking their posts. Sharing. Applauding. While not taking the time to pause and say, “Is this really such a good thing?” “Am I really contributing to a cause that feels authentic and true?” More disturbing, of course, is the lack of self-examination by the person who is in that position of such incredible influence…

Anger is okay for short time. It spurs action. It is a yang force to drive the latent yin into doing rather than just thinking. Yet, anger becoming the constant driving force is never a force of good. Anger begets more anger. Hostility begets more hostility. To be a true influencer of positive change, one most inspire through a voice of truth and love. One most model the change one hopes to see, but from the place of empathy and compassion, and the knowing that there are as many experiences and viewpoints in the world as there are people.

When we close our ears to all voices but those who echo our own words, we only hear ourselves. That, in essence, is living in a vacuum. It is not opening our hearts to light. So, while I am now following the beautiful voice of Amanda Gorman, whom I had regretfully not heard before the inauguration, I am no longer following the influencer pumped up on her own myopic power. And, I feel good about that. I’ve given myself permission to leave the room of the bully. I’ve given myself permission to find further enlightenment not in the voice of hatred, but in the voice of beautiful, powerful, compassionate truth.

Trimming Trees #givingthanks

Image by congerdesign from Pixabay

It’s that time of year, again. At the end of the driveway, the machine is parked. The man who drives it has had to move it twice. First for my daughter on her way to class, then for my husband on his way to work. Each time the bucket descends and the engine roars back to life. It’s now blocking the entrance and exit, again. Parked at the end of the driveway it has better access to the maple whose branches are threading the electric wires.

Who was there first? It doesn’t matter. We humans have taken over time and place to claim them both as our own. I have been reading a lot of nonfiction these days. Books about the land and our relationship to it. Gathering Moss by Robin Wall Kimmerer took much longer than its short length would insinuate. It was not an easy read, just like Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass was not. The words both beautiful and heart-wrenching, reminding us that we are a part of this living land. Stewards, if we choose to be, but always Earth’s children.

I can see the workers outside the dining room window. They lay their tools on the snow bank. A red metal can holding gasoline lifts to fill the chainsaw. I can hear its whine getting ready to work. I recall Sue Vincent once remarking, “I like to think of it as a haircut” when trees and bushes are being trimmed. Her comment was filled with empathy, but also reason. When we take away the guilt and the sorrow, we can move into the space of gratitude and abundance. Limbs grow back, just as hair does.

Yet, we also know that plants, in their own way sense pain. They send out warning signals to their neighbors when they are in danger. Their energy spikes into a wavelength that indicates panic. We cannot truly know what a tree feels. We can only guess. We can take scientific readings of chemical reactions. Infuse our own emotions upon their bodies.

And, we can always move into the space of gratitude and love. Science has shown us what we already know, that all life responds to love. And so I find myself residing with intention while the maple outside my window is getting its branches trimmed. I am thinking of the tree, but also of those tasked to trim it. They are both worthy of my love and gratitude. Working, in their individual ways, to support life. I am grateful it is winter here. The live force within the maple less active than during the growing season. Hibernation, I hope, is a type of anesthetic to the cut. And, perhaps, so is my love.

First the Dog, and then the Cat #mynight

The dog

The rain must have started in the wee hours of the morning. I can’t say for sure because I was asleep. It must have been magnificent. The entire heavens above our house letting loose in great balls of moisture to pound the rooftop and release the icy skins of snow that still lingered. It must have been magnificent because the small-to-medium-sized dog called Zelda who is not very brave broke through three barriers to wake me up.

It was not quite 4am. Despite ears plugged with foam, I heard the ruckus downstairs and in my half-awake state knew what was coming. First the door to the crate was pried loose. Next, the wooden gate at the end of the stairs, followed by a mad stampede of feet rushing to the second floor to shove open the bedroom door and catapult the said dog onto the bed.

Just in case I had somehow slept through her breakout, the not-very-brave-dog then promptly proceeded to nudge her nose in my face a dozen times before she settled down beside me. Safe at last. Within fifteen seconds she was snoring. Full-tilt. Out like a light. Naturally, I was not.

I checked the earplugs, only to find they were still snugly in place. There was no escaping the snoring of the dog unless I got up. So, I decided to relieve my bladder, checking the clock on the way to the bathroom to ensure I was not remiss about the time. Sure enough, it was just past 4am.

My bladder now empty, I reclaimed the tiny corner of the bed that remained, giving the snoring dog the slightest of nudges 😉 as I did so. Within seconds the snoring had resumed to its most robust tempo. My mind wandered over the day and the dreams I had already dreamt before my rude awaking, which didn’t help me drift into sleep, as keeping the mind busy never does. It sailed over the snoring dog to contemplate the husband on the other side, still as a monk in meditation, presumably asleep. Lucky bloke.

The Cat

That’s about the time the cat-named-Millie decided to join the slumber party. Never one to miss an event, Millie also made a (more graceful) leap onto the bed and somehow landed, like the dog, nearest me. After checking out the dog, she began trotting around my side of the bed to find the most optimal place to spend the remainder of her night. Apparently the crook in my bent legs was not good enough, and she was soon on my pillow.

“Oh good,” I thought, “At least she’s settling in.”

Mille, like many felines do, has an uncanny ability to read minds and this evening was no exception. As soon as my thought had been released, she captured it like she would a mouse. I can only be grateful my eyes were closed.

The paw stretched past my hairline to tap my face, claws extended. Then retracted.

I took a breath and willed myself to focus on sleep.

There it was again, the paw, ever-so-slightly tapping the tender skin of my check bones.

Sighing, I reached my own arm out of the covers to stroke the feline’s head.

It wasn’t enough. Our little charade continued about five more times until Mille won the battle. Up went the covers and in went Millie.

Dream musings #dreams #symbolism

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

There are dreams that you wish you never woke from and those that leave you grateful for the exit from a nightmarish realm. I’m not sure one is more valuable than the other if you seek to learn from their teachings.

Our hidden, or not so hidden, terrors often take the form of nightmares. They can adopt fantastical and gruesome visages, leaving us breathless for want of air when we wake. Sometimes our voices scream us out of their grasp, and sometimes our words strangle our voice into silence. The voice, then, becomes our key to opening their mysteries.

Although it can be equally terrifying to journey through the dream realm, as it is to unravel its symbolism, it’s well-worth the effort. Even the seemingly nonsensical dreams can make sense if we are willing to look into why our minds chose to play their forms.

If you don’t tend to remember your dreams, there are techniques you can use to train your brain to recover them. One of which is simply telling yourself before you wander into sleep to remember what you have dreamt. When you do this, you may find you start to wake up after each dream. I tend to do that a lot, which can be both an inconvenience and a blessing.

Instead of transcribing my dreams after I wake from them, I’ll often spend some time mulling over a dream I have woken from before my mind succumbs to a new one. Although perhaps not has valuable in some ways as having a written log of the dream, this allows me to observe patterns, themes and symbols, as well as gage my emotional response.

Symbols in our dreams often reoccur over and over again. For example I quite often dream about water and stones, both of which hold a lot of interest for me in the literal sense, but also quite often teach me about where I am residing on an emotional level. I also dream quite often about bathrooms, and going to the bathroom, which inevitably leads me down the exploration of what I am holding onto or seeking to release, as well as personal struggles with exposure and privacy.

Themes, patterns, and symbols in dreams are important to notice if you want to learn from them. Equally important, I believe, is how you feel during and after you wake from your dreams. As well as how you felt before you fell into the dream. For example, I can go to bed feeling pretty good about the day I have experienced, only to find myself falling into a fitful dream world. When I wake, I feel significantly more unsettled than when I fell asleep. Unpleasant, yet revealing. When I examine the dream I find the clues to why. Although I had thought I was feeling emotionally balanced, there was a hidden aspect of my self that was calling to be revealed. What our dreams unearth for us are often opportunities for self-examination that can lead to both healing and release of the emotion tucked away inside of us.

Some people believe we can dream other people’s dreams and travel to other dimensions and realms. I tend to agree with these theories based upon my own experiences. If this is the case, and we feel we have dreamt a dream that is a bit “outside” of us, what does it mean? Perhaps we have traveled into a past of future life memory to retrieve valuable insight. Perhaps we have dreamt another person’s dream because our energies are too intimately intertwined. Or, perhaps we have traveled to another realm to learn something about “Life” on a larger scale.

Entire books, poems, inventions, and scientific discoveries have been gleamed from the realm of dreams. I find it nothing short of remarkable how our minds can form such complex and vivid scenes in the dream world which always, I believe, point to a deeper truth that begs to be explored.

Each dream, when examined, becomes a puzzle of the hidden, or not so hidden, self. Some, I admit, are so crazy at first glance that I cast them aside for later, hoping that their cryptic nature will reveal themselves overtime. For those of us who enjoy a good mystery, there’s no better place to explore than the world of our dreams.

At the moment, I’m still mulling over last night’s dreams, and dreams that I dreamt many nights ago. Through them I thread the lines that join symbols and take note of the patterns that are formed from them. Sometimes I chuckle at themes captured from TV shows or lines I have recently read, wondering why until the emotional symbolism is revealed. I marvel at fantastic forms and how far the mind can stretch reality until I realize that the limits are always self-imposed. Anything, absolutely anything, is possible in our dreams.

Horus tries to teach me the subject of death, reminding me I’m not so good at it…

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Today I met her guardian. The falcon stood in wait over her sleeping form, holding the liminal space. Waiting. Watching. Guarding. When I asked to see more, I was brought to the sands of time. Golden specks slipping through the hours, reminding me that I can get stuck inside the glass. Made up of the same elemental substrate that holds that ephemeral symbol of life, it is also an illusion of the mind. “You have seen the expanse,” he reminded me as the sand became that golden light forming a bridge to the stars, expanding out of the false container to spiral into infinity. Yes, I have seen it, but still I resist.

I am not good at Death. It is not a subject I have come close to mastering. I’ve got a history of stumbling through its lessons. When experienced the loss of my first grandparent to death (aside from the one that died before I was old enough to remember), I didn’t cry. Instead I felt the torment of our troubled past. Rocked into my armor, I listened to my mother announce the news through the corded phone like it was an annoying aside she had to pass on before she could talk about better things. Beside me, my college roommate looked worried, and later shocked when I told her it wasn’t a big deal. I would be fine.

Well I wasn’t.

A year before, my husband’s (at that time boyfriend’s) own grandmother had passed away and when I told my mother the news, she gave me a funny look. “You really cared about her, didn’t you?” Surprised by the tears stealing into my eyes. I couldn’t explain it if I had wanted to. We experienced only a handful of brief encounters together before her passing, yet in that brief time my husband’s grandmother had seen a truth inside of me that some who knew me since birth would never see.

Years later, death found me sitting in my office chair at work. Once again, the news was passed on by my mother, who was sitting beside death at her father’s bedside. Weeks before I let her convinced me I didn’t need to go with her. I wouldn’t recommend saying good-bye to a beloved grandfather from an office chair at work inside a cubicle that offers no escape into sorrow. That day there was no avoiding tears or pain. Or regret.

Years later, my grandfather tried to show me the impermanence of death’s form. Coming to me in spectral form, just once, to part the veil of dreams. It was enough, but it wasn’t.

When my beloved Daisy died on the 11th of February six years ago, I knew it was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. Six months before, while walking together in the woods she told me she would soon be moving on. Wrapped in aura of violet light, my canine guide’s spirit shined strong and true. It still does. Two days ago, during a tough night, I saw her curled at the end of my son’s bed. Rarely now do I feel into her presence, yet she is still there for us when we need her. I have gradually loosened my hold over the years since her passing, but I resisted her leaving the corporeal world with a hold so tight I knew she lingered longer than she should have.

No, I am not good at the subject of death. I have fought with its teachings. I have failed its tests, and I have struggled to embrace its release. Now I find myself counting, once again, those false hours. Wondering if time will allow me a real goodbye. Horus turns his head to stare at me with eyes the color of night. His wings ruffle annoyance. “Why,” he asks, “after all we have shown you?”

For a moment time slips away and we fly back to that sacred chamber that holds a bridge to Earth. Wrapped in a copse of guardian trees, the light filters from the beyond. Once again, I see the white horse, waiting. Memory weaves light into my cells. “Was this not enough?” he asks me.

It should be. But I’m having a hard to accepting it. There are things I’d still like to say. Arms that still want to hold a temporary form. So many adventures that won’t be shared.

“Ridiculous human sentiment,” he scoffs at me and turns back to his guard. “Your perception is clouded by those human eyes.”

So I allow the salted waters to bathe them in their warmth. Cleanse, I urge. Clear my clouded sight.