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(Saturday, June 8, 2019) first quarter moon Virgo, tarot nine of pentacles

I just finished reading Hillman’s “The Dream and the Underworld.” Bonnie read it too. Toward the end of the book he talks about dreams of excrement being dreams of death. I’d never heard that before. I don’t normally dream about shit, but I did this morning!

In the dream I am high on a mountain top. It must be the Himalayas, because I feel I am at the very pinnacle of the world. Near to heaven. The rise of the mountain is rocky and steep, not gentle and green like the Smokies.

A large non-profit center is located near the peak. They have a wide variety of missions, one of which is to aid women with colon cancer. The director of this supportive drive is a handsome, late-middle-aged man with shiny dark hair. He is dedicated, highly energetic and compassionate. Intelligent. He seems to have a PhD, but not a medical degree.

For some reason this beautiful soul has honed in on me. The dream is filled with sensations of being held lovingly by this man. Every angle, every position—the most memorable aspect of the dream, really. I feel adored. He is obsessed with providing for my every whim, even though I don’t know how to respond. How can I possibly be worthy?

One of the reasons I am here is to hand off my fecal sample so he can send it out for testing. I try to wrap my head around the idea that such a man would put up with human shit, day in and day out. (In waking life I had that same sensation when I met Chris’ gastroenterologist at his colonoscopy last month. The examination failed, and I was touched by the true kindness of his doctor.)

My new friend is called to a meeting of all the non-profit directors. They gather at a large oval-shaped table in a room full of windows, full of light.

I wander away to other areas of the center. In one room I see David M., whom I met at the Earth Spirit Centre in Glastonbury. He is a deeply holy man. Humble. He’s wearing a white hoodlike cap on his head, reminiscent of an ancient religion. Zoroastrian? He has no shoes on his feet. He rubs his clean white socks along the edge of the baseboards. Walking meditation. Purifying the space. He sops up moisture that is slowly draining from the internal walls.

In another room full of women I find Bonnie and Jeanne G. I have come to ask them to drive me down the mountain road. I have driven it myself, but it is highly treacherous, too treacherous to go alone. The road is a huge circle that turns back up the mountainside. A little village spreads down the full slope of the mountain, inside and outside of the circle.

Jeanne and Bonnie are having the time of their lives, enjoying meeting dozens of new people. I’ve never seen either of them so completely happy and extroverted. For a few minutes, I enjoy watching interactions. The large group of women are wearing lovely clothes. Hair, shoes and jewelry are delightfully decorative and playful. I don’t want to interrupt Bonnie and Jeanne’s party, so I go back to find my devoted companion.

Day notes:

Chris and my dad both have colonoscopies next Thursday, June 13. My holistic female doctor lets me just mail in yearly samples, and I did that last week.

Jill Purce is a Tibetan Buddhist. I feel like this dream is about Hollyhock. I hope the joy of Bonnie and Jeanne is prescient of their experience at Jill’s retreat, “Healing the Ancestors.” Healing the dead, healing the shit?

July 1: I fell ill with gastrointestinal issues today, something that never happens to me. At 10:30 my mom sent me a text: she called 911 last night because my dad was having severe abdominal pain and could not breathe. He’s in the ER again with his second intestinal block. He has pneumonia and has been diagnosed with emphysema.

Friday, June 7, 2019

Cindy B. appears in my dream, a writer friend of my coworker Cyndi C., who passed over at 3:30 pm Monday, June 3. Cindy B. joined us as a temp during Jessica’s maternity leave this winter. She’s gone now too: from the office, not from life.

Cindy is showing me the brilliantly beautiful ceramic pots she creates. She works at the master level and her pots have a unique form that I have never seen before, a half-circle structure with thick outer vertical ribs, like very large, empty grapefruits. She coats the interiors with gold luster overglaze, and shows me how she does it. In the dream I call it “poin lustre.”

Day notes:

Most people misspell Cyndi’s name as “Cindy.” I think this dream is about Cyndi’s next incarnation, because, for me, there are two memories of Cyndi/Cindy in the dream. In her recent life Cyndi loved to make stone and tile mosaics.

In the dream, I think “poin” is French but it is not. I can’t really find it on Google in waking life. Maybe I am misspelling “poin.” Pain? Paint? Point? Pawn?

The pots are shaped like breasts. Cyndi died of metastatic breast cancer. The new Cindy lines the interior of the breasts with shimmering gold. That is an alchemical aspect of the dream, because luster glaze needs to be fired before it turns to gold. There was a karmic need for Cyndi to experience breast cancer?

Cyndi/Cindy: i and y change order. I, why?

(Friday, June 7, 2019) waning crescent moon Leo, tarot page of swords

I had two intensely emotional dreams this morning, full of detailed physical elements and storylines. The bulk of the second dream has slipped away.

Dream 1: My husband and I live in the most immense house possible. It is the size of a skyscraper, with an uncountable number of floors and huge, spacious rooms, devoid of much decor. I don’t remember seeing any paintings on the walls, but that may be because I am so profoundly shocked at the size of my dwelling.

The structure of the levels reminds me of a dream I had at least a year ago. None of those floors or these have a consistent geometric flow. Some rooms rest at levels halfway below the adjacent room, or halfway above. The striking construction feature is the infinite number of staircases that connect room to room to room, like a drawing by M.C. Escher, or the cover of the recent book I read by James Hillman, “The Dream and the Underworld.”

My spouse looks like an icy-cold version of Jerry Garcia. He has long, thick, curly white hair and his girth is a bit wide. An old hippy. He is busy with his own dry-bone preoccupations, completely uninterested in sharing anything with me, especially when I start to scream at the top of my lungs.

I have been searching for Lola with no success. My heart is shattered. I wail and wail and wail at sonic-boom volume. The usual quiet-me has exploded into the most vocal human on the planet. I have never experienced this kind of despair in my life.

I look down the staircase that leads to the outside, a cavern of steps with no visible bottom. Suddenly I see Lola struggling to rise. I see that the chiseled stone stairs are too tall, causing her aging body pain and tremendous effort. Still, she makes it to the top, causing me relief and joy.

Day notes:

When I wake up I feel the passionate pain in my heart inspired by the perceived loss of my beloved feline. I feel guilty that I have not refilled her Cosequin, an animal joint supplement.

Saturday, June 8, one day after the dream, I take Lola to Blue Pearl veterinary ER. She hasn’t had a UTI for almost two years but has one now. I brought one of her litter boxes upstairs so she doesn’t need to climb up and down all day long. She’s in too much pain for that stressor.

Dream 2: The fragment that remains is of me socializing and walking with coworkers. We seem to be heading to a large meeting or conference. I am surprised to notice that a tall coworker named John has a secret attraction for me. It feels like deep, subtle love.