Category: Denise

(Sunday, August 18, 2013)  Very short dream from a night full of dreams: I walk down a long corridor of wooden doors (maybe walnut) in a public building. One door has a small sign that says “Confessional.” The door is new and pristine. I open it and place another door that I have been carrying inside the simple, wood-paneled closet. The door I have been carrying is also handsomely constructed, new and made of dark wood. Affixed to the door is a small pastoral landscape, painted in a realist, nineteenth-century European style. It’s an artwork I created in a past life: spreading green trees, rolling hills, placid blue sky.

Day notes:

I’ve been reading an old astrological chart I had done in the 90s. The astrologer said a planetary placement indicated at least one past life as an artist.

This dream reminds me of my Joan of Arc dream. The two dreams seem like doors to the Akashic Record.

I spent most of the weekend in my clay studio. I’m happy with the way the new Mermaid piece is progressing.

(Saturday, August 3, 2013)  I’ve spent a little time this week reading Mary Ziemer‘s alchemy website about lucid and clear light dreams (click link on Mary’s name or see the Dreamsters link page). Also learning about Tai Chi breathing: the instruction is to breathe in from the abdomen, and then “dissolve” with the out-breath.

Last night as I was lying in bed, preparing to sleep, I fell into a moment when I had no thoughts, no images at all in my mind. No body. Just awareness. With my eyes closed, the inner light was clear, not black. This morning I awoke again with vertigo, but not as overwhelming as the episode I had this spring.

(Thursday, August 1. 2013)  I am in Hollywood, but standing on the beach. I am aware that this makes no sense: I know Hollywood is in the hills. I face east, and the ocean is to the east, as in Virginia Beach. Again, awareness of no sense.

The locals are talking about how the ice just went out for the season. This is another physical impossibility.

A small wooden railroad trestle reaches out into the sea. In my gut I “get” the incongruity of a bridge able to span the breadth of an ocean. Yet I can smell the creosote in the old, heavy timbers.

A smiling dark-haired woman appears and stretches her left arm gracefully over the water. Very relaxed, like a move in Tai Chi. As her hand and arm extend, I see another, much larger wooden bridge magically begin to appear, flowing from her fingertips like pixels in a CGI movie. Her arm is a visual reality paintbrush. She is playing, delightfully, at the edge of the sea of the unconscious.

She says, “Oh look at the saba grapes!” A green vine, full of grapes, clings to the dark, spicy wood of the trestle. “You don’t have saba grapes in America.”

Where am I?

Day notes:

This dream offers a multitude of opportunities for lucidity. It’s as though I am being teased by incongruity.

I had never heard of saba grapes. I looked it up: it’s not a variety of grape, but an ancient Italian recipe. Grape must is slowly reduced over heat to become a thick, sweet syrup.

Saba is also the smallest Dutch municipality, an island five miles square, in the Dutch Carribbean.