(Friday, March 20, Spring Equinox, lunar eclipse) New moon in Aries / tarot: nine of blades
A night full of dreams that a busy day at work has made dim. I do remember viewing a large TV screen that outlined the process of full psychic development and enlightenment. I simply needed to respond “yay” or “nay.” Of course, I said “YES!”
(Friday, March 13, 2015, Kay Krupp’s 96th birthday)
I am walking along what appears at first to be a concrete loading dock in the Minneapolis warehouse district, but could very well be Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. Warm, salty water flows along the concrete edge in soft, sensuous waves which sometimes rise up over the wharf. The clear liquid is sticky and thicker than water. I think it is amniotic fluid.
Robert W. is teaching a group of us about lucid dreaming. Sometimes the waves pull us out into the Bay and sometimes they just wash over us as we stand on the wharf. The temperature of the fluid is perfect body temperature. Immersion in the fluid is so soothing that one feels rocked in the gentle waves like a baby in her mother’s arms (or uterus).
Metal carts have been rolled out onto the concrete wharf. They are the tall racks stacked full of trays used by potters in busy clay studios like LillStreet in Chicago or the Minnetonka Center for the Arts. I pull out some of the trays to inspect the contents and discover gift bags, colored paper sacks, each sack holding a small egg of white clay. The clay is buttery soft, but the center of each egg holds a little creature formed of harder clay.
Robert is explaining the relationship of meditation to successful lucid dreaming. So during my dream I think it might be better if the clay eggs were all the same consistency, a metaphor for the unifying effect of meditation on consciousness. But a few hours after waking I “get” that the clay eggs hold embryos. And that is important to me.
(Saturday, March 14, 2015) Third quarter moon Capricorn / tarot: four of cups reversed
A quick snapshot. I am wearing a formal white wig, the kind common around the time of the American and French revolutions. Curled hair is piled high on my head but the wig is not as ornate as those worn by the French aristocracy. Yet I am French. My light cotton summer frock is baby blue, without lace or ornamentation.
I am seated in a wooden chair at the bedside of my husband, who has been ill for some time. I am spooning a clear, warm broth into his mouth. I recognize my husband as Christopher, but his name in this lifetime is Louis.
