(Saturday, Autumnal Equinox 2018) waxing gibbous moon Pisces / tarot 4 of sparks (wands)
I stand next to my tall cousin Thomas Wolfe at a Wabasha family reunion. Our grandparents Lenora and Ellsworth are long-passed. The humble two-story farmhouse has transformed into the ruins of a large tower with a square footprint. The roof is gone. We explore the ancient, decomposing interior. Within the dream I realize I have been in this dream environment before.
Tom and I inspect the old walnut paneled walls. During our childhood the walls were wrapped in depression-era floral wallpaper. The dream rooms have the ambiance of a medieval British manor house. Windows are open, broken, and no furnishings remain.
Generations of family members, many that I do not recognize, roam about the property, celebrating being in this historical place together. Tom and I head outside, and I walk down an embankment of greens and marsh grasses. I warn others, including a man named Guillermo, to be careful. In my perception of the dream, the slope opens to the sand road, as it did in real life, but to others it may lead to a bed of water. Even the ocean.
We return to the yard. The wire fence is gone. The giant box elders that bordered the fencing for decades have fallen. Their bark is gone. They look like leg bones the size of evergreens in Muir Woods. Because of their giant presence they must be many hundreds of years old.
Giggling groups of children run past us, wishing to play in the dark old root cellar. Tom and I decide to inspect it before allowing access to the double-door that rests in the earth on the east side of the foundation. We are astonished at what we find. The stairs are no longer a few, simple concrete steps, but a deep set of stone stairs that twist, leading to a well-lit group of rooms designed for and occupied by Lenora and Ellsworth. Colorful, charming, casual modern furniture fills the space, identical in style to the royal blue couches on my grandmother’s porch that I dreamt about last month. No grandparents in sight at the moment.
The experience of ducking my head below the low staircase ceiling and brushing away the sticky spider threads soaks into my mind, suddenly making me aware that we are visiting the underground graves of my ancestors. THERE IS NO DEATH. They are still alive, but in a different realm than my daily waking consciousness. Or perhaps moved on to new incarnations in the here and now.
Day notes:
My second tower dream this week. Tom Wolfe reminds me of Black Wolf Romeo, who appeared in my Glastonbury dream, loping across the Wabasha prairie. Prayer-ie as Victoria said.
I awaken with the powerful understanding that life is eternal. The message is quite visceral. It no longer feels theoretical.
As I rested in bed this morning experiencing the memory of this dream, I connected the trees to John Muir. Later in the day I received an email about the equinox that included a quote from Muir: “As long as I live, I’ll hear waterfalls and birds and winds sing. I’ll interpret the rocks, learn the language of flood, storm, and the avalanche. I’ll acquaint myself with the glaciers and wild gardens, and get as near the heart of the world as I can.”
More and more I notice how my morning tarot card reflects not just my day, but also my dream.
A story pops up on Google today about Guillermo del Toro. The Tor is the ancient ruin, St. Michael’s tower, in Glastonbury. It has no roof, and a square footprint. St. Michael’s will be the lighted crown on the head of the standing bear, my next clay piece.
Root cellar, ancestral roots. Spider webs, time lord. Many metaphors in this dream. There are underground chambers beneath the Tor. Sabine visited them and said they are strongly haunted. The more I process this dream, the more I find it related to my Merlin dream. Will I ever get to Glastonbury again?
