Defenses

I wonder if I manifested you out of the chill mist that creeps in during winter. Leftover remnants of a feeling of longing, so familiar, yet so long away. I feel as if I’ll wake to a clear cool morning, this version of a dream god embracing me turning out to be nothing more than my own fancy. But the sensation of this electric schism doesn’t seem to obstruct my view. How can I love an apparition? A shade I feel is just a memory or future chasm of thought.

Is this what it says? Is this the way it was written? Meant to be this abstract and magnetic polarity that has grabbed onto the atoms in my being? Or is it merely a wisp of cotton cloud gliding over the sun’s face?

Do you have a face? Eyes that demand gazing, lips that demand poetry? Are there spiders of longing building webs in your hair? Do your dreams weave with me into a realm of ice and heat and floating orbs? Are the words really present? Is it someone I know breathing twilight against my skin?

I kept the secret of how I built my defenses, how I kept everyone out. And how someone gets in.

My walls were built of blood and bone and ink. Carbon elements as hard as diamond along the perimeter, as soft as graphite in the in-between spaces. Dry, parched paper desperate for a drink of liquid language, and bits of my own neural activity made the mortar. All it would take to break through is observation on the part of the Conqueror. One has but to look at the joints and fissures and cracks to know how to get through. I have but to exist, and the one who knows would know.

Of course, the life I grew inside my body, my womb, she morphed and evolved knowing this already. She helped me build this fortress. She reached up with budding fingers and hands and clasped my soul hiding in the dark, hiding in the swirling nebula of embryonic fluid. She gave me new life, and helped me build the fortifications to keep trespassers out.

And then the dreams became lucid. I saw the unseen, communed with the Mother God of placentas, birthing lava out of the mouths of infant mountains. The dreams became my sustenance, my life force. I became this disc of rotating plasma, entering the world at will.

Still my walls held. Still my armor deflected surges of control, fear, and hated storms. But my light was dim. Weakened by self neglect and self defeat.

And then your words appeared before me, in front of my eyes, demanding I take them all in, take them in and let them build to a crescendo of heat and lightning. I want to come because I can. I want to rend the air with my wilfull voice, I want to know what this feels like from inside my physical spaces, I want to let you in. I want to move against you, a dance that knows what Love is, a dance that does not hold expectation or judgment or betrayal.

I want to trust, and feel newborn stars committing themselves to friction release inside the both of us.

Take me, because I give myself freely. I am here, opened to your poetry, opened to the point of shattering. I will be destroyed. But I want to feel it.

I want you to tear down this wall.

+LJ

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I dreamed this dream of wooded Wilds

I dreamed this dream of wooded wilds, dripping moisture in the grey air. The Earth’s many scents release when the rain drops onto pine needles and oak leaves. The pat-pat sound of the rain on the palmetto fronds is familiar in my mind.

I rise from my bed, surrounded by quiet and the familiar hum of the ceiling fan. It is early morning, the hour of in between twilight just before dawn, and I hear a voice. A man’s voice outside. From deep inside the dark cool trees, his voice travels out to me. I know that voice.

I wander out of the house, at odd morning hours. My bare feet padding down the lawn leading to the edge of the woods. I hear a crow, the rain, and his voice calling to me.

So I enter that wild realm of insects, birds, spirits. The wild god who waits for me.

He calls to me again, his voice warm and dark as fertile soil. My pulse thickens inside my skin. Shivers tremble up and down my spine, but still I long to find him.

I wander with soft steps on sacred ground. The smells inundate me, decay and life and rain. I weave through the thick trunks of ancient trees, winding thickets of brush and bole, over roots jutting out on my path.

And then I find him. He waits for me by a stream. The sounds of pipe and drum hit me then, though he holds no instrument in his hands.

His face is unmistakable, though I only ever see it in dreams. He whispers my name, and I approach his perch above the swirling water.

“Look,” he tells me. “Your strength is in this shadow, buried beneath the birch tree.” He smiles a cryptic smile, as a teacher might to his student who is working out the solution to something in her own mind. There are no birch trees here.

He reaches his hands out to me, and I take them in mine. His hands are warm and rough, mine cold and unsure.

He pulls me to his body, his warmth, his earthly knowledge. He smells of pine and soil and the decay of leaves.

His mouth covers my own, and I suck him in, all the scents and senses, the knowledge and heat.

Then I wake. I’ve had this dream before. It’s as if this vision, this dream message and messenger are begging for clarification. And I can’t seem to (or I’m not meant to) decipher it yet. But it’s always the same, always ends before the best part.

I like these dreams though, when I have them. They’re comforting and mysterious, as if my fate can be divined by some dream Being’s mood swings in the ephemeral world.

 

 

[Featured photo found on Pinterest]

To Dream in Color

A dream is a dream and nothing more; dreaming is the brain’s way of sifting through events of the day to keep or discard information and reset you for the next day…or so modern science would have you believe.

But dreams are harbingers of some of Life’s most important answers…those that are buried deep within your true Self, the Self that is hidden so deep behind this modern shroud that we sometimes cannot detect its presence. This Self is wise, experienced, and this Self is what gives us our knowledge of real Truth…the Truth that connects all things within the worlds of our Universe…and thus within the web of Fate that is constantly moving in vibrations, frequencies.

Dreams can bring you messages of Hope, of instruction, of declaration of something you knew to be true…and they can show us a deeper reflection in the pools of Truth; reflections that we may not like or are afraid to acknowledge. No matter if dreams take the form of “good” or “bad” dreams, we can look to them for deeper insights, deeper meaning, and a glimpse of what our hidden Selves are truly feeling on a viscerally spiritual level.

Prophetic dreams are just that: prophetic. They somehow reveal what I call “the chance of coming to pass”, meaning that the message portrayed within a prophetic dream usually is related to ‘future’ aspects of your life and hidden Self…and to add a teaspoonful of confusion…your hidden Self is your future Self: it is what drives us to evolve/grow, become stagnant, or turn in dead end circles. Prophetic dreams rarely speak in terms we can at once understand, and they are enigmatic at best and dangerously maddening at worst. But with practice, everyone has the ability to dream the future.

Herbs can aid in dream-casting, and when used according to your intuitive needs they can help aid in opening your subconscious fully when sleeping so that you dream to divine what possibilities lay in your future.

Marigolds, sage, and passionflower are some of my Spirit allies when it comes to inducing meaningful and deeply useful “prophetic” dreams. I will ‘diet’ and herb for a few days, by infusion, decoction, fresh, or dried and added to food. After my dieting period is done, I then place the fresh herb under my pillow when I go to sleep.

*A quick note on poison/toxic plants* Obviously I don’t recommend dieting poisonous/toxic plants at all (in fact if you can gain dreaming insight by using a nontoxic/safe herb, then by all means use it), but there are other ways to connect with these types of plants’ spirits: oils/ointments, incenses, constructing talismans from the plant, keeping a potted plant in your room…ultimately these types of plants aren’t absolute or entirely necessary to help tune in to the Spiritual messages of the Universe through your dreams.

The practice part of this process is retaining what you dream–the essential meaning/message–and learning how to decipher it. This is the part that takes the most patience, as keeping ahold of those dream details can be tricky. Dream journal entries within reach of waking hands can aid in this process. While there are all sorts of online references pertaining to dreams and dream symbols/messages, your truest interpretations of the symbols within your dreams will come from the emotions, thoughts, ideas that are brought to life in you; your own intuition’s reading and feeling of your dreams is your first and truest resource. If you do decide to keep a dream journal, make it a point [every morning after a dream] to log the symbols and events of your dream, as well as your first impressions of them.

My best advice though is this: trust your intuitive senses, and you will begin to learn how to read your Self, and that your intuition is the conduit which connects us with the great Cosmic Mother. She won’t steer you wrong.

of Wild Roses and Fading Dreams…

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Last night my dreams took me to an ancient and serene river, where I stood on the bank looking upstream to where the first bend curved to the North. It was warm and calm and I could smell the scents of the forest behind me.

I remained silently standing, frozen in time…watching. A shadow stirred in my left-hand peripheral vision, beckoning my attention. I think it was my sister that stood to my left; her presence was comforting…I returned my gaze to the river, and scanned everything, and I noticed a plastic Ziploc bag floating down the currents toward me…I remember being curious…

The bag flowed on the currents up to the river bank at my feet. I reached into the water to scoop it out and wonder at its contents. I opened the bag and pulled out what looked like old and forgotten papers…papers with my name on them…like I had signed for a package or insurance policy many years before…

…Then I saw the message. It was a message from an old friend. The words so clearly written in his handwriting asked are you content living the life of a soldier?I didn’t quite understand that question, because I’ve never been a soldier…

The dream shifted and I was riding passenger with my father in his old Jeep as we journeyed through primordial wooded wilds. The light was grey, as if this world would hold no color beyond the deep greens of the mysterious woods surrounding our dirt path. We drove for eternity and yet, only a second in time, and finally arrived at my friend’s house…I said something to my father, and then he was gone, leaving me standing alone before an unfamiliar place. Tall and ancient trees surrounded everything.

The dream hazed and turned again, and I was swimming in a pool with my friend. We swam, watching each others’ blue eyes, knowing this would not be the last time we met in dreams.

He said he was sorry, and I embraced him. He still felt the same…I breathed him in, and his scents still held familiarity inside my nose and throat.

…Then the rain fell and we ran inside. His home was unfamiliar to me…two stories with a balcony ringing the whole living room, looking down. It felt…I don’t know…ancient, in a way…The room upstairs held a computer atop an antique stout wood desk, and every piece of artwork I’ve ever created was displayed lovingly on the walls. He said he saved this spot for me because he know how much I loved to create things of beauty.

The dog came to me and he reminded me that she never really took to anyone but me since I went away. She sat down at my feet, smiling up at me.

Then we were in a garden of tangled herbs and flowers breathing in the scents of a place neither of us had been to before. He handed me some seeds that I couldn’t identify, and I planted them at our feet. Wild roses started creeping up out of the wet black soil, seducing us with their scents. He took my hand then, and said he was sorry once more. He told me your daughter is beautiful, just like you. You’re welcome to stay here…I can’t remember if I said anything back…

…I remember being choked with tears, looking into his blue eyes, and smiling sad smiles. We hugged tightly again…

When I woke up from the restless sleep of this dream, it was raining outside. It had been raining most of the night into the morning. I could tell because the steady rhythm was constant, and the scents were too wet to have been a short rain. I couldn’t get his face and voice out of my mind for a while that morning.

No, that rainy morning was meant for lighting candles and sweet incense, and sending sermons and prayers of remembering, of love, of younger days when things should have mattered more.

As we grow older and learn more, it becomes the smaller packages in life that we are most afraid to open and accept…and this small package of mine—a faded dream of symbolic references—I have been afraid to revisit for fear of the thoughts and visions it pulls back to mind.

But Spirit has subtle yet blindingly powerful lessons that adhere themselves to those little packages we are so afraid to accept. Whether this is a past dream, or one yet to come, dreams are mine, and this one does not lie.