Jeanne d’Arc

(Sunday, June 30)  I dream I am binding bits of cloth to cuttings from tree branches, sticks about 8 or 10 inches long. I wind thread around the sticks and the cloth, creating little medicine bundles. At first I think that this is an art project and that the sticks symbolize the spine. With a shock I soon realize that they represent witches tied at the stake, waiting to burn. A bigger shock: I remember being Joan of Arc in a past life.

A Teacher appears behind my right shoulder. I don’t remember his face, but his body is tall and lean; he has an air of stern authority combined with quiet, physical power. He guides me to a two-story building that seems to extend infinitely to my right and to my left. There are no windows but each floor holds myriad (infinite?) wooden doors. One is the entrance to a room that belongs to Joan of Arc, my Teacher tells me, as he points to the second level.

There is no staircase to the second story, so we levitate upward together and float in front of Joan’s door. I am intensely curious about my newly discovered past life. I ask if I can enter the room but my Teacher says I am not permitted to see inside. This is bitterly disappointing. Out of compassion for my sorrow he tells me that the room is full of finished compost. The image of a dark, peaceful room filled to the brim with sweet, new earth feels like a great blessing.

The dream shifts to a large, fertile field I am cultivating. I’m growing three crops, one of which is celery, the other two I’ve forgotten. The field spreads as far as the eye can see, over gently rolling hills, under a “black light” sky. The three varieties are intermingled, with no furrowed rows separating plants. This gives it the appearance of a meadow full of flowers.

Gazing out over the field brings me contentment and joy. I sense the health and life force of all the plants. I harvest a few of the celery stalks while they are still tender. I cut them into small chunks and put them into a clear box (like Tupperware), storing them in the freezer to be later added to “the soup.”

From Leonard Cohen’s “Joan of Arc”

Now the flames they followed joan of arc
As she came riding through the dark;
No moon to keep her armour bright,
No man to get her through this very smoky night.
She said, “i’m tired of the war,
I want the kind of work I had before,
A wedding dress or something white
To wear upon my swollen appetite.”

Well, I’m glad to hear you talk this way,
You know I’ve watched you riding every day
And something in me yearns to win
Such a cold and lonesome heroine.
“and who are you? ” she sternly spoke
To the one beneath the smoke.
“why, I’m fire,” he replied,
“and I love your solitude, I love your pride.”

“then fire, make your body cold,
I’m going to give you mine to hold,”
Saying this she climbed inside
To be his one, to be his only bride.
And deep into his fiery heart
He took the dust of joan of arc,
And high above the wedding guests
He hung the ashes of her wedding dress.

It was deep into his fiery heart
He took the dust of joan of arc,
And then she clearly understood
If he was fire, oh then she must be wood.
I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself I long for love and light,
But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?

(Beautiful video versions available on YouTube)

Day notes:

Two days after this dream I received a stock tender (tender stalk) check from my employer (celery/salary) in the mail, which was unexpected.

According to Wiki, most of the charges against Joan of Arc were dropped. In the end she was burned for the heresy of wearing men’s clothing.

The Maid of Orleans becomes St. Joan of Arc through the consumption of her body by flame (spirit). In my dream, Joan’s room is not filled with ash, but with composted earth, ready to sustain new growth. As I work in my clay studio today, I realize my art form is created by composted earth (clay and wood fiber) that is transformed by fire (the kiln).