Hastings House

(Wednesday, January 3, 2018) moon waning gibbous Leo / tarot queen of cups reversed

The dreams keep coming! This one is lucid in its sensual, visual aspect. The level of detail feels infinite. Layers and layers of images, colors, textures. It mirrors my recent manor house dream in several ways.

My husband (who, as in the manor house dream, is not present) and I have purchased a house. This one is south of Hastings. Minnesota? Britain? I enter the side door with my grown daughter. Immediately I am reminded of a house that has recurred in my dreams over many years. I call it my Osseo house. Osseo (waaseyaa) is Ojibwe for “there is light” or “son of the evening star.” But this is not my Osseo house, this is my Hastings house. I think Osseo enters my consciousness because both houses contain karmic, past life information.

My daughter and I inspect a few rooms. It is not a huge house, not a manor house, but it is packed with furniture from several generations. I open a wooden cabinet in the kitchen and a stratum of wallpaper and sculptural decorations are revealed. Fascinating, amusing to us both. Archeology.

My attention shifts to concern for my daughter’s comfort and well-being. She is searching for her own place to live, so I convince her to stay awhile with us. I offer her full use of the lower level, and she accepts. We head down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs we enter a cozy room lit by a blazing hearth. I am struck by the lovely design of the fireplace. And then I am shocked to discover that a grim, dark-haired woman and her four small children are camping in sleeping bags and on rollaway beds in front of the fire. I don’t know if she is a granddaughter of the passed-away former owners, or if she is just a squatter. She has no intention of leaving. I sense the ferocity of her nature and I do not equate it with maternal protection. I am afraid she will harm my daughter. I clasp my hands around the woman’s neck and insist that she and her children leave immediately. I don’t dangerously squeeze her throat or shake her violently, but she gets the message. She departs with her offspring.

When I awake from the dream I am confused by my callous treatment of this homeless family. In waking life I connect their dark energy with pain and suffering. But in the dream I am satisfied that they are gone. My daughter and I continue to explore the basement.

Next to the fireplace are three floor-to-ceiling windows like those in my manor house dream. I look out and see several campfires burning on the lawn. People are relaxing in outdoor lounge chairs. Some kind of community celebration is underway, and this makes me happy.

I hear my daughter call with excitement from a bathroom in a far corner of the basement. It is a room like no other I have ever seen. Simple. The bath and shower have chrome spigots but no sliding doors or curtains. Open. The floor-to-ceiling tile is shimmering glass and the grout or mortar is made of sparkling gemstones. No cabinets. No towel racks. No visible toilet, maybe just an opening in the floor. The space has almost an alien, angelic atmosphere. Purifying. Starlike.

I leave her to enjoy her healing water source. I search for a workroom because I know my husband will want such a refuge for himself, and I find one in another corner of the basement. The ceiling is low, as if the room has been tucked beneath heat ducts and plumbing. The far wall has a row of painted wooden cabinets along the floor, and the cabinet tops are piled with hundreds of books and scientific papers on physics and UFOs. I understand that the creator of this hideaway was indeed a physicist: the books are very worn and full of handwritten margin notes. The titles are all obscure. I quietly soak in the residual wisdom of this amazing environment. My heart is gently activated.

Then I turn toward the hallway outside of the shop. The narrow corridor is lined with classic Danish style desks made of a wide variety of woods. The grains of the woods are deeply worn. With pleasure I softly caress the ribbed surfaces with my fingers. It’s like having access to the age rings of trees. In fact, mature wood panels cover the walls everywhere in sight. My eyes feast on the color and patterns of the myriad genetics of wood.