Category Archives: Dreams

WAKE UP! Transition to Trump signals time for inner change

There’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. ~ Leonard Cohen

A dream woke me up, as they often do.

It’s the wee small hours of the morning and the last refrains of Rufus Wainwright singing Hallelujah is hugging my heart. I need the sacred poetry of Leonard Cohen. To calm me before I write about my rage and sorrow.

I dreamt an old story of Betrayal. I wrote an article about it for the Vancouver Observer. Read it here. Please share the article. I’ve never written anything more important.

“We must all wake up to the power of the divinity within us, and this takes work. It will be the most important work you will ever do”

This election has cracked us wide open.

58471698 - wake up megaphone message. illustration design graphic

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Filed under Betrayal, Dreams, Spirituality, Vancouver Observer

Dreaming of Forgiveness

I’m in Starbucks ordering a chai tea latte, I think it’s the one on Ambleside down the street from Gyra’s office, my therapist during those dark days full of hurricanes and touch down tornadoes.  Or maybe it’s the one in Caulfield village, in the same plaza as the Safeway where I used to run into her, where we would stop and smile and talk in the cereal aisle, me on my way to the vegetable section, she on her way to pick up bread, or perhaps something from the cold meat section.  She’s a carnivore, I know that.  No vegetarian could wield a flesh cutting knife with as much precision as she.

But I’m allowing myself to become sidetracked.  My Judge quickly backing up my Victim.  It’s good to give them a voice now and again, to let them speak, to hear them out.  To acknowledge them before gently guiding them back to their seats.  It’s my Avenger’s turn to manage the show.

So, back to my dream.  Did I mention I’m dreaming?  It actually begins in that trance world between awake and sleeping, the best birthplace of Active Imagination.  I’m lying on my back in the wee hours of the morning, warmly comfortable nestled under my blue and yellow quilt and I’m barely aware of the early morning dawn birds just beginning their Spring concert.  I’m floating in that magical realm of almost, but not quite awake, slowly replaying the film of my last dream, which must have included elements of my used to be marriage because suddenly and seamlessly I’m in Starbucks ordering my soy, no-water chai tea latte and in walks S., otherwise known as The Other Woman, or during those dark tsunami days (and some days since) as Witch Woman.  So named because even then, even so wounded and full of unrecognized anger I could not bring myself to give her the name that rhymes.

I’ve been here before, in this netherworld of Active Imagination.  In this particular scene.  Always in Starbucks.  Always ordering or waiting for my chai tea latte.  Sometimes with a friend, but most times alone.  And always, always, always unprepared to run into her.  Mirroring my awake fear.

What will I say to her when first I see her again.  After.  After she deceived and lied and manipulated and connived and betrayed.  So many Ands.  After she lived for two years having an affair with my husband while making nice Safeway small talk with his wife.  So many Afters.  What will I say to her?  It’s been six years since I woke up to see the Red Bird of Betrayal flying over my life.  Six years since my marriage blew up and six years since I’ve seen Her.  We live not far from each other, yet since I gave her my husband, I have yet to run into her again.

In all my other reverie world Starbuck encounters, my words don’t come as I want them to.  In that, I mean my shadow self always steps forward and disempowers me by blaming and shaming.  My Wounded Child and Victim join hands crying out and pointing fingers,  “You are a Black Hole sucking energy from everything around you, spewing out toxic free radicals in your evil witchy wake!”

Once again I’m at Starbucks, this time I’m waiting as the barista makes my drink, when I turn around and there She is.  I’m the director in this Active world of Imagination, so she stands silently.   Caught.  There is no more avoiding me.  I have my BlackBerry in one hand, to appear important, supported and needed.  I hold the silent support of all my contacts in my hand, my big, huge team is fanned out invisibly behind me.  My other hand is warmed by my soy, no-water chai tea latte, a symbol of my own self-love, care and nourishment.  I’m standing in Starbucks, where I often sit to journal or to write.  We are on my turf here.

  I turn to her and say, without attachment, as if observing my thoughts as in meditation, “What you did     was wrong.  The pain you caused was overwhelming, not just for me, not just for my four children, but it rippled out further than you can imagine.  You acted without any care or compassion.  You lied, deceived and betrayed.”  I look at her and shake my head, turning to leave, “It was inexcusable and so very, very wrong.”

“Can’t you let it go already?” She demands, “You should learn to forgive and forget.”

This time my answering words come without force, without conscious thought, through a channel of Grace of understanding.  I am looking at her with sadness and compassion, finally seeing that she is buried so far underground that she can’t see the light of Truth that surrounds her.  “You have no idea whether I’ve forgiven or not.  Forgiveness has nothing at all to do with you; it’s something I do completely for myself.  The truth of what you’ve done can live side by side with Forgiveness.  One does not negate the other.”

Then I’m climbing a sturdy, narrow, wooden ladder and with a hammer I have broken through the ceiling so that the ladder can now rise higher and higher through the jagged opening into the sunlight above.  “I’ve broken through!” I exclaim with a smile just before I wake up.

I chuckle as I think again of the ladder leading to my “break through.”  I’ve been searching and working on Forgiveness for years and finally ‘get’ it.  I don’t need to forget the Truth of my wounds in order to Forgive.  I don’t even need to release the pain of those wounds, I need only to detach.  To release means simply to ease out the hook of attachment and let my emotions swim and swill in the swamp with the rest of life’s injuries.  If needed for my work as a writer or actor, I can cast a hook into that swamp and reel it back up.  But this time I’m in conscious control of the fishing rod and can choose which worm to catch and when and where to release it.       

I’m not finished with my forgiveness work and it will remain a daily practice, but now I have a strong foundation to support me.

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Filed under Dreams, forgiveness, Spirituality

Kayaking My Way Through Freedom

I’m driving my son’s slightly beat-up and definitely well used 2004 Honda Pilot, his twin brother in the passenger seat beside me.  Every time I turn a corner the golf balls that fill the pocket in the driver’s side door roll and crash around in a mini thunderstorm.  I can’t stop grinning and that’s taking me pleasantly by surprise.  I look to Braden and exclaim, “Isn’t this exciting?!”  He chuckles back to me, for once more circumspect and composed than his mother.

I stop at the red light, lean forward slightly and peer up through the dirty windshield.  I can just see the tips of two magnificent bows pointing the way home from their secure, roped down perch on the top of the car.  I can’t help grin again.  This is what joy feels like.  I have finally found the way through my adult maze of serious protection and found my child’s inner delight.  Or rather, she found me.

I have wanted a kayak for so long that the wanting seemed to be as much a part of me as my hazel eyes and my fair, quick to burn skin.  The wanting long ago settled in to sit comfortably beside the well watered illusion of my marriage.  In the nest of Those That Will Never Be.

Five years ago the illusion of my twenty-four year marriage was swept away in the tsunami of deceit and betrayal and with it went that well feathered nest.  Although I didn’t know it at the time, this was the beginning of freedom for me.  Freedom from the crazy making constraints of trying to find truth within the prison of narcissism.  Freedom from a marriage I now recognize as unhappy.  Freedom to make my own choices.  It was the greatest gift I have ever received.

And now, sitting elegantly on the floor in my living room, cushioned protectively and lovingly with my son’s childhood comforter, sits the ride of my dreams.  My ship has finally come in and her name is Eliza.  Beside her sits her best friend, Delilah.  Mango and Fire.  One kayak for me and one for a friend to use.

When I’m paddling silently, exploring coves and beaches I would never otherwise get to see, I’m changing my perspective.  Exchanging my upright on land outlook for a gliding contemplation on water.  Eliza and Delilah are so much more than kayaks, they are a long held-down dream realized.  They are the symbol of my freedom.

My mango coloured Eliza kayak sitting on my front lawn beside my Fire coloured Necky kayak.

Eliza and Delilah sitting pretty on my front lawn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Dreams