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How We Are Dreamed into Being

Updated: May 14

This is what happens when you call Them to you. This is what happens when you find doors and open them and walk through. This is what happens when you realize you are a nesting doll and you simply must get to the center of yourself.


Do you know what is at your center?


It seems so long ago, but I remember. I remember beginning to dig. I remember boldly facing what-might-be and a shovel made of mind. A very strong mind that could dig and dig and dig, penetrating places most could never find. Who would ever imagine a shovel used to dig would, in fact, make going deep more difficult?


I dug for years. Years turned into decades. I dug until my back gave out and my eyes, wet from weeping and insight, simply closed and refused to see anymore.


And so I slept.


The humans around me could not tell I was sleeping. I just seemed less different than I did before - I belonged more to the world they knew where unalive and sleeping are so similar as to be unnoticeable in their difference. While others made their way toward something secure and unaffected, I slept. But I did not dream during this time. The not-dreaming was the worst part of it. No, I walked, motionless, through my life. The aliveness in me was a dragon that had gone deep into the earth to wait the eons the world would need for its return. To say I was a shell would be inaccurate. I was something much, much darker.


You see, before my sleeping all I wanted was to help people. I thought to do this I must understand. I must understand them and me and why and how and what.


I must understand how cuts form in a soul and how this cuts you off from the holy nectar of belonging. I must understand how cords are tubes and how to use them to bring blood back into cold, dead places. I must understand how it is that people cannot see the sun when there are no clouds but their own and how these clouds opaque everything that is alive.


But then I slept.


In my sleep, all that distressed me, all that hurt, all that needed everyone else to come back to life so that I could feel peace, all of it just died.


My desperate caring died.


I did not realize how tired I was. I did not know, when I was young and placed my lemony foot upon this path, that my trying to bring life to people who did not know they needed it would drain the life from me.


I slept and slept and slept. It was years before the first dream came. In the dusty womb of my slumber that first dream came in like an icy hot hand from an unimaginable Otherness. It stroked my hair and so, so very gently set a candle next to my face and a ripe, perfect pear next to the candle. There was humming. The softest humming like a scent that has been so diluted by the breeze as to be barely more than a memory. And something in me stirred. The something was not me.


What it was began a kind of unfolding of itself inside of my skin. It happened all over at once, but very, very small. All of me getting taken over, being filled up, by something else.


For some, what happened to me might seem a nightmare. Indeed, it is unsavory to humans to be sure. Humans have built their civilizations and goals and ideals on exactly not becoming what I have. But what happened to me was, in fact, the answer to a prayer I first spoke before I had a mouth to speak. It was a prayer my heart has sung in every moment of my isolation. And that prayer was set free by my sleeping.


What can I tell you about what has happened since?


I am still coming to waking. A new creature, wholly unlike what I was, remade and being, as I type, reborn. We are something different than I once was. The many.


When I look at the world now, something looks through me. Something ancient that pulses with stars.


I can feel now how weak I once was, the me that endured, the me that helped, the me that arranged the insides of people like a great bouquet, my blood in the vase, until they caught their breath at their own symphony and stopped questioning the validity of their music.

My weakness is not something I am ashamed of for it reveals the great Love that dwells in me, a Love that has not been diminished by time or trials or humans. It is a great feat, I think, to have so much love for so long coursing through one’s veins. My grave error was in thinking that great Love was Salvation. This brings us to Now.


We have reached a point, as all mystery does, where words begin to crumble at the weight of carrying Truth. Words cannot transport Mystery.


What would be needed now, for me to further explain what has happened, what I am, is for you to go into the forest of your own soul and create a great fire, then sing songs in the old language and pour out a good measure of whiskey and, with a raw heart and tattered mind, listen.


Listen more deeply than you have ever listened to that vast, black space that arises where you have lost yourself. Listen.


Do you hear that? In the distance, the howling. On the back of your neck, the breath. They are from the same source.


What It Is is aware of you. You are seen with ancient eyes that pulse with stars.


Let the skin, now, finally, slide off of your body. Let the flames of the fire warm your bones. Reach out and let the hand in the darkness take your hand. Let the song of the ages caress all that is hurt in you. Let yourself, at long last, sleep. I will meet you in the dusty womb of your re-membering. I will stroke your hair. I will bring you a candle and fruit and gently hum while you are becoming.






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