Author: Denise

(Tuesday, March 27, 2018) moon waxing gibbous Leo / tarot Tower reversed

This whole dream roils like the ocean. Throughout I feel connected to the tide and the rhythmic power of the sea. It is a lucid dream by the nature of its stark physical awareness. I feel immersed in an ancient, earth-like realm that is a sister to this dimension. Or a twin.

Grey is the color of the sky, the sea, the rocky cliffs. But the mood is not grey. I am a passenger in a car being driven by Peter R. He is wildly adventurous and guns the engine, flying the vehicle over a tall stone shore into a deep bay.

Somehow we are freed from the plunging car before it begins to sink. Another woman, Sara or Bonnie, joins us as we float on the strong, dark, fizzing waves. I am surprised at the soothing, warm temperature of the water. Swimming is a joyous experience, even though the harbor is hundreds of feet in depth. I am not afraid.

The dream shifts. Peter and I are at a large cottage or inn, preparing for a journey on a boat. I need his help with this process, and he is very supportive. At one point my focus drifts and I find myself standing in the story above the bedroom where we have been packing our supplies. An unconscious man lies on the wooden floor, facing away from me. Is he a corpse? He has a cocoon-like aura. He exists in another dimension, and I have to move through a soft, web-filled portal to return to the lower level. I am pleased at how easy this is for me. Relieved.

We travel to the beach and load Peter’s boat with our gear. It’s a small powerboat, a Boston Whaler. He gives me a complex, expensive camera to use to take photos while he captains the little aluminum ship. It is important to him that I capture ocean images on our journey. It is my mission and my gift. I don’t enjoy cameras, but I respect his request. It has a metaphysical component. What?

The sea is active. We ride the large grey waves. It feels like waking life. Real, yet perceptively metaphorical at the same time. The sky is overcast, mirroring the formation of the ocean current. We love being gently tossed by the Creative Unconscious, by the Maternal Divine. La Mer.

I sit behind Peter, beginning to fiddle with the camera. There are a series of tiny dials that need to be rolled into a specific position, a specific measurement. They look almost like little black plastic vertebrae. Spine. I struggle because I can’t remember the exact settings, but Peter is not worried. He believes in my engineering skills.

Day notes:

I have been listening to Peter Gabriel’s “So” album when driving home from work. Nearly every song mentions dreaming. “Mercy Street” is dedicated to Anne Sexton, my favorite poet in my twenties. I stumbled on his award-winning YouTube video “Sledgehammer” on a day that I felt quite depressed. The beauty and humor of the Nick Park animations (creator of Wallace & Gromit) filled me with ecstacy and energy. Then Chris dug up the CD for me. I wore out my copy years ago.

(Saturday, March 24, 2018) moon 1st quarter Cancer / tarot queen of swords

A very busy night in dreamland. A few fragments remain.

I walk alongside a tall, athletic woman with a quick, open stride. We are at the dream conference and she is describing her workshop to me in a highly confident manner that borders on condescension. She is unaware of the ego element that is causing me pain. It could be Susan A. I have had that kind of interaction with her.

I tell her about my clay workshop, and there is a lucid aspect to the dream because I feel I am telling her a bit of a fib. Bringing my tub of paper clay to our Dreamsters retreat is the closest I have come to guiding anyone about clay. Even so, I express my heartfelt belief that clay is an ancient, sacred artform.

I move on to a table full of handmade trinkets for sale. The money collected is donated to the IASD. Bonnie is next to me now. There is an exquisite small clay ornament she has created and I marvel at its perfection. It has a triangular shape, like a teepee or a long, open cape. Madonnaesque. Someone else has made a tiny evergreen ornament. The needles flake off gently beneath my fingers, and that surprises me.

Richard W. and Lou H. meet with Bonnie and me, offering to drive us to my home so I can pick up something I need for the conference. My home is a New York flat with a great room filled with hundreds of small, brilliantly colorful statues and artwork. The era seems like the 60s. The vibe is highly Bohemian, not unlike my real-life black, white, red, magenta and turquoise kitchen full of handmade clay dishes and knick-knacks.

I was not expecting to bring guests to my flat, and it needs tidying up. This embarrasses me so I rush to the kitchen sink to wash the dishes. Lou comes over to calm me, standing quietly by my side. He shows me that the sink basin is made of beautiful carved white stone, not just porcelain. This startles and soothes me.

The four of us hop back into Richard’s car, a 1960s era convertible, maybe an Oldsmobile Cutlass or a similar model. Long, wide and full of chrome. Again I experience a lucid moment. I appreciate the depth and intelligence of these two men. It is a joy conversing with them. I have not had the luck of the draw in my life where relationships with men are concerned. It makes me feel quite alone, abandoned. Unworthy.

Richard is driving us up a steep, sandy road. We seem to be at the edge of an ocean beach. I sense that his car does not have the power to make it to the top. A weak engine. Like heart failure. I am very sad. I grab at the wooden posts that line the roadside in an attempt to help pull us up the hill. Another episode of surprise in this dream: I have some success. The strength of my hands is high in horsepower!

Day Notes:

Pat has the flu and is unable to host dream group on Monday. I am relieved that Peter can host because I don’t have the energy for guests and basement cleaning this week, even though it would not take that long. I am tired from worrying about Chris’ low blood counts.

Toko-pa: “Perfectionism is one of the great pillars of patriarchy, used to stem the rise of the wild feminine … Perfection is a counterfeit form of beauty which, as you’re strengthening your instincts, will ring with dissonance despite its seductive surface. True beauty always contains a delicious dash of chaos.” The Buddhist concept of wabi-sabi.

My paternal grandmother was Bohemian/Czech.

(Thursday, March 15, 2018) moon waning crescent Pisces / tarot ace of wands

I am not sure how to write about this. It’s a dream that seems to last all night, but what strikes me is the level of numinous, delicate detail. Rooms and rooms are filled with intricately carved wooden furniture and decor. Wooden walls, wooden floors, wooden doors. I have experienced this environment in other dreams. The light is softly golden and saturates all elements. The underlying energy of the physical reality is quietly palpable. Like a glowing fire.

One room is a large bath. The tall, white ceramic tub is full of towels stained with puss and blood, which have dried and stained the porcelain too. The body fluids are from Chris. It is my overwhelming responsibility to try to clean up this horror. He makes no effort, and my compassion is overridden by my exhaustion. My frustration and anger.

I move to another room. It is the sunroom from a dream I had last year about the beautiful sea and some shelter islands. This time the room is occupied by an East Indian man I work with in waking life. He is a software engineer with very dark skin, nearly black. The room has been set up with carved wooden shelves, desks and chairs. Golden oak. The style is old, European, but relaxed. I open my arms like a dancer. “This is your new workspace,” I say.

Day notes:

As I write this dream the coyotes make very short howls in the backyard. Almost bird-like.

The house in Northeast where Cullan was conceived had a sunroom. I kept my drawing table there, in the same spot against the wall where the dream desk sits.