Dream Crones

The pain in my knee sometimes keeps me right at the edge of sleep that eludes me. I toss and turn trying to find a comfortable position. I pray for help and receive a dream born of a restless night.

The dream began here: Enormous in the sky, the full moon cast a glittering ribbon of light upon the dark, black waters of a midnight sea. A voice whispered to me to follow the illuminated path and be willing to dive deeply. Led to the weaver, living on the ocean’s floor, an old woman who does not remember how she came to live among the fishes and coral, sat at a loom weaving the loose weave of nets from seaweed strands brought to her by her by dolphins.

A shuttlecock made from a shell moved back and forth in her bony hand, stringing the weed over and under as the net took shape. When finished, she offered it to me to cast into the realm of dreams. I thanked her with respect and awe—told her I long to gather the inspirations and visions of what might come to be. I asked her kindly, and promised to pull her gifts into my heart, and nurture them with delicate care so they would grow.

From a satchel tied around my waist, I offered her small round stones and sea glass eroded by the undertow into smooth, shiny currency to lay at her feet. Then I waited for her to sing to me; long, beautiful, sad songs. When I do not sleep well, I tell myself I can’t enter my dreams fully, but if I’m remembering her melodies, then maybe that’s not true.

Morning brings a headache, and cups of strong black tea sweetened with honey and cinnamon. How long was I asleep? First, I remember the tossing and turning, and then the old woman at the bottom of the sea. I was not been forgotten.

A deck of oracle cards and a battered copy of Journal of a Solitude sit next to a notebook and pen on the side table. My severely smudged reading glasses, slightly bent were placed where I’m sure they would be found again, even though I wound up searching. I never remember exactly where I left them. Light has entered the room enough that the lamps can be turned off. The day begins and I thank the old woman of the dream sea.

At a threshold of new unfolding, I push and stretch to grow into who I am becoming. Life is not linear, I’ve learned. It’s a cycle, a circle, a spiral, that keeps bringing me back home to myself informing with metaphor, poetry, images and imagination. I love growing old. I have nothing more to prove and time has slowed down enough that the world on the other side of the veil is a place I’m able to visit. I brush up against my personal mythology and for a moment immerse in Oneness – the small snapshot of mysticism, fed by poetic leanings and a fan-girl proclivity for Rumi and Hafiz.

Just a few days ago I was longing for more enchantment in my life, not realizing it could be garnered on such a restless night. Maybe we all toss and turn in order to awaken to our yet un-lived life, the life that continues to unfold and grow us.

Imagine this: What will the dolphins tell you when they come to swim by your side? Will they nip at your hands and feet and push you with their long dolphin snouts, urging you toward your fate? What about the old woman, the weaver at the bottom of the sea — does she have a message for you? Share the thoughts surrounded by magic and let’s have a conversation.

Stephanie

We must never forget the language of enchantment is fed by both our waking and sleeping dreams. Dedicated to my poet friend across the pond, Deborah Gregory , to the woman who sings the Crone’s song, Jody Day and to the medicine woman who dances on the rim of a wound Prajna O'Hara .