(Monday, November 23, 2015) moon: waxing gibbous Aries / tarot: nine of swords
I meet family members at a square restaurant table, near the Stone Arch Bridge. Alea and Cullan are there, and my two sisters Jo and Jamie. My brother Kurt’s energetic presence is also there, but not his physical body. Everyone is seated on two sides of the table; the other two sides remain open. Alea and I sit on the same side of the table, at opposite corners.
Alea is in such tremendous grief she does not look up when I seat myself and she does not speak to anyone at the table throughout the course of the dream. I discover from my sisters that her father has developed such serious asthma that he is dead or close to death. This is a huge shock to me on several levels. I am deeply hurt that no one has communicated this news to me in the conventional manner. And I am ashamed that I have not accessed the information on my own via social media (Facebook), as my sisters have done.
I step away from the table and walk out onto a grassy field. I fold my hands over my face and sob for a long time, trying to wash away the pain and shame. I am lucid enough in my dream to recognize a bit of ego in this, and when no one pays attention to my tears, I walk back to the table and sit down quietly.
The essence of Cullan is always with me at the table, even as he tries to console Alea. So very comforting to me.
My sisters and I decide that I need to empty my bag, the small black leather shoulder purse that I bought years ago for traveling (it closes with zippers, not just flaps or snaps). I carefully remove all the items and determine which I will save and which I will discard. I’m grateful for this process. It’s a relief to let go. I hand over the empty bag to Cullan. I notice that I am holding a wallet in my lap that my sisters gave to Alea and Cullan as a housewarming gift a year ago. Cullan and Alea have “taken what they need and left the rest.” I hand the wallet to my youngest sister Jamie, who sits to my left, between Alea, Cullan and me.
Then I look up. Bonnie is standing at the left, open side of the square table. She asks me, rather sternly, when Chris is having his surgery. “December 3,” I say. It seems this is the first time I have communicated the date to my family.
Suddenly I am in another landscape, a large park, rather like the Como Zoo, walking around a huge square pit with a young father and his son, holding on to the metal rail with my left hand. Traveling counter-clockwise. Biding time as Chris undergoes his surgery. The pit is full of animals on display. Small fish jump out of a pool and land on the ground in front of my feet. I desperately scoop them up and return them to the square pond. Trying to save them. Trying to give them oxygen.
Day notes:
Chris is having osteo surgery December 3. He thinks these are our last few days together.
I am hosting Thanksgiving, preparing the table for my family.
The area of the Stone Arch Bridge is the oldest area of white settlement in Minneapolis. Cullan works in St. Anthony Main. There once was a limestone island sacred to the Dakota below St. Anthony Falls called Spirit Island. It was mined for the limestone and is no longer visible above the water of the Mississippi. The edge of the river is guarded by iron handrails like those in my dream.
My two sisters are very domestic. Family (their children and grandchildren) is the most important focus of their lives. But they both have cut themselves off from my brother and have not spoken to him in 25 years. The irony of this is quite painful to me. Forgiveness heals not just the one forgiven but also those that forgive.