Since my return from
St. Johnsbury VT, typically, I am down by eight or so, awakening by
dreams, some four or so hours afterwards. I then either write them
down and/or weave back and forth between quotes and the dreams; often
finding affirmations/definitions of the dreams content.
This time/date I
forestalled recording the dream. It was serial, about the
Southwestern Desert lands concerned with Native American funereal
symbols representative of various people and their past lives in a
museum setting. Disconcerted to discover several new and some missing
from previous dream visits. It has been and remains a mystery to me
and part of my attraction to New Mexico, for me, a place of
significant spiritual power specifically.
Where normally I would
work through to dawn, I felt sleepy and returned to bed, where I
dreamed another sequence. Actually two: one for the second time and
the other a third. Both equally disturbing. The first I am employed
scraping gunk from peoples lungs—emblematic of myself since I
continue to smoke cigarettes. In the second I am late for an
appointment startled to realize it was a test given by a superior; a
scolding man who bowed to my indifference, which in reality is my
terror of being proven an idiot and unworthy of life. Humiliated I
folded my arms refusing to comply.
Apparently I am
undergoing traumatic change, struggling to adapt and move forward
towards a surprising, actually astonishing new life, formerly
unimaginable to me. Possible or probably only in the literary sense
of a created ideal scenario. Add that my method and memory reminds me
there were, throughout yesterday, numerous omens and portents that I
considered briefly. Which it now seems primed the pump of my dreams,
which seem now more significant than my brief summarizes would
indicate.
Throughout history
there have been people inspired to record their dreams; acting
between ordinary and extraordinary time on the cusp of creation.
“Out of sleeping a
waking, Out of waking a sleep.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson .
. . indicative of my sense of integration between a chaos of
indifference and sanity . . . or should I say joy
and equanimity? I often
think of my heroes and their experiences and conclusions. What they
gave that we, you and I, or the all of us, might fully live, versus
merely exist.
My greatest joy in the
ordinary of life has been to discover the talent/genius of others and
nurture it, if only by affirmation . . . sometimes merely the
attention I give in silent awe. Rapt and reverent. In this process
have discovered a desire to follow no one, individual or system of
their consequence in history. but seeking and finding, I believe,
what they sought.
I could record/annotate
the flurry of quotes affirming my sense of purpose, but will not bore
you with them. For I remember too well my confused abandonment of
their potential meaning being too conscious of my fear that I was
unworthy of what they implied. Yet now see potent within all, even
those who persecute and assassinate what is inconvenient to their
truths. For which, I at one time, would have been equally guilty.
In gratitude for these
thoughts, I sense myself obligated, for what was freely given, to
pass forward the possibility implied. Fully aware that where I go
will be better, different in kind and degree, influenced by the
affirmations of she toward whom I return.
I am incomplete and in
order to grow I must move forward, leaving behind much of what I once
thought would complete the process. The process itself seems to
indicate that it is well, what I do. And to whom I go. Wringing out
all the fears I knew nothing about previously. To fail this is to
fail my essential self.
I own nothing, save
myself, finding it unremarkable, this that writes, attempting a
self-exorcism. Aware better now, better tomorrow, the energy or
personality listening to me is available to all; the Thou, as in
I/Thou.
130622 MDT 05:13
conflicting dreams
©
2013 by Jack Spratt—All Rights Reserved
