Musings.6: Barbara

Ahh. I welcome this sweet respite in blogland, a pleasant distraction from the chaos of setting up a new household, the approaching holiday, and the sudden, unsettling need for my husband to undergo surgery for a detached retina. Yeah. See what I mean?

'Melissa' and her dreams are ever in my thoughts and I've finally cleared a space in time so I could return to writing about this character and my response to her dream stories as they have evolved.

As I wrote months ago when I launched this blog I discover things about the character 'Melissa' or the creative process as I write these posts. The process begins with a rough sketch of events in my mind. The sketch fleshes out and takes on life as I write. Something about every post surprises me, and this last time it was the surprise of seeing the creative process merge dreams, art, and life.

I was startled when the reference to the Five Rivers Winery surfaced in the last post because, well, that was my experience coming through in 'Melissa's' life. While my dream was not as colorful and detailed as 'Melissa's' I, too, dreamed of standing in a river holding a single oar. Who can forget a dream like that, so enigmatic, so intriguing? Months or perhaps even a year or more after the dream I bought a bottle of the winery's merlot to share with a friend (also named Barb) because I liked the bit on the label encouraging me to "Discover the goddess" at their web site.

My jaw dropped when I saw a graphic depicting a woman standing in a river holding a single oar. I had no idea such a story existed, but there she was and I had dreamed of her. It is thrilling to see something come through from the ephemeral, mental realm into the physical although we are trained from childhood that if there is no hard evidence, nothing in hand, what's in our head and in our heart is fleeting, insubstantial.

Some people like 'Melissa', like myself, like Robert Moss practice attending to dreams. We draw pictures, write poems, take photos, write books. We dream, and we practice and very often we experience physical manifestations of our dreams.

Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche wrote in September, 2005 (www.shambhalasun.com) that 'Practice means "bringing it into experience."' We have been taught that to practice means 'do it over and over and over again until you get it right.' Now we see another meaning. What this practice of acknowledging, noting and contemplating her dreams has done for 'Melissa' is to bring something she has encountered in her mind through to manifest in her day to day life.

For her, and for me, that bottle of chardonnay is 'no more yielding than a dream.' Will Shakespeare composed that line very cleverly. When Puck speaks those lines at the close of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" we nod and agree that the whole thing seemed insubstantial. It has no basis in reality for us.

'Melissa' is showing us that we need to think again. Crops yield harvests. Investments (usually) yield returns, but "no more yielding than a dream." Nothing eclipses the yield of a dream put into practice.

So far 'Melissa' has a bottle of wine, her drawings, and her journal. What more will her dreams yield?

Wings: "Melissa"

Last night I was translated. I was transported into the strongest most dizzying dream yet and the first thing I thought when I woke to hear a crow call at my bedroom window was "Maybe this is how Bottom the Weaver felt after his midsummer night's dream?"

Seriously. As my dream began I found myself inside that warehouse again. There was a searing pain in my shoulders, I could not feel my hands, and I was completely baffled why I felt that way because I was upright. I seemed to be standing so the pain made no sense. (Then again dreams are hardly ever logical on the face of it.) When I tried to move, to shift, I realized that my wrists were bound behind me, against the warehouse wall. I could not understand what held me to the wall as I felt no shackles, no chains, no straps. No restraints.

A hideous evil cackling exploded and echoed throughout the warehouse. When I recoiled from the sound pain ripped again between my shoulders and I heard a thumping or a scraping noise behind me. I willed my hands to work and dug frantically at the wall to grab whatever was behind me. All I could feel were feathers. I took a breath against the pain and twisted to my right, to my left. I saw what held me to the wall. I saw, but I couldn't quite believe it.

Wings. I had wings. They were my restraints. Barely had I realized this when the cackling reached a fever pitch. I picked out two voices, shouting near a greenish glow several yards away, and I tried to identify what I was seeing.

I saw wings silhouetted against the glow. The glow was from a screen of some sort. A rope or a tail twitched on the floor beneath the screen. It sounds crazy but the only way to describe it is to say that the pair of demon-cats had turned "the bitter glass" on its side and "programmed" the labyrinth design from the wall to be the field for a video game they found wildly entertaining.

As near as I could see, their sport was to taunt and torture and obstruct the progress of some character as it made its way to the center of the labyrinth. When my mind shut out the various taunts I began to hear the game character's voice - MY voice! Here I was hanging pinned to the wall, seemingly helpless to stop their taunts, a life-size version of their game.

You know, I am not quite sure how I did it or when I decided to do it, but I did it. With a heave and a howl I ripped myself away from those wings. I felt more outrage than pain - so much more outrage - and I just kept whispering with every painful gulp of air, "People aren't made to be broken. People aren't made to be broken."

The demon-cats were silent at first, stunned, but when I picked a scrap of paper from the floor and plucked a feather from the abandoned wings they stood and began to close in on me. I dipped that feather in my blood and scratched the words I'd been whispering onto that paper. Those demon-cats swiped at me, but I was faster. They howled and hissed and scratched when I dropped my little message onto the mirror and said, "Game over."

Their howls were canceled by the breathtaking sound of rushing wings as the crow landed between us and stood to face them. Somehow I knew I was to climb onto the crow's back. I did and he lifted us out of there into the moonlit sky. We flew forever it seemed. I didn't care at all. The flight was magnificent; the crow's power was formidable. I cannot describe how it felt, after the scene in the warehouse, to be flown through the moonlight. Even as we spiraled up and up and up around the tallest tree in the world toward the crow's nest I felt only wonder. (Imagine that. At my age I felt wonder!)

He watched over me. He tended me once I'd climbed from his back to stand in the nest. I was astonished to see the nest lined with white roses -- white roses from the warehouse! I cannot even think how many times he must have flown back and forth with the roses he needed to do this. Why line his nest so? Why bring me to his nest? Even with those sorry wings I abandoned I was no bird! Who is this crow to me?

The top of the tallest tree in the world swayed in the wind and the crow's nest became my cradle. From under the shelter of his wings I watched the stars swirl above us, higher still. I heard his heart. I fell asleep. He moved his wings and combed his beak through my hair to wake me. He had brought me back to the warehouse. The demon-cats were gone and I smelled the roses at the window. The crow hopped away then back again with a playing card in his beak. He flew to perch on my shoulder. I took the card and he gurgled in my ear before he flew off out the door.

The card doesn't look like any I've ever seen but I love it. My crow - I've begun to consider him mine! - is perched near a woman who is maybe the Faery Queen -- Yes! She is the Faery Queen who fell in love with Bottom! She took him to her bower; the crow took me to his! It is a twisted up version of Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream"! But why? Is my crow meant to be the King of the Faeries? The way he cared for me I don't think he's playing a prank, even though in Native American lore crows are pranksters. I will have to study this.

Maybe if I run through the pieces of the puzzle I have so far I'll find a clue of some sort. I see "the bitter glass the demons hold" maintains the reference to Yeats' "The Two Trees." I think the crow refers to "Macbeth." Maybe the symbolism of the crow's nest in the world's tallest tree is meant to connect to the symbolism of the two trees of Yeats' poem and that of the trees at the end of "Macbeth"? But why the dream play? Why? How does that play connect to any of this? I've seen the play and the movie, I even have a-- Yes! I have a copy of it to check! It was my grandpa's. My dad gave it to me. It's about a hundred years old this copy, maybe older.

Now this is interesting. This is very interesting. It doesn't explain anything - yet - but it is interesting. In the cast of characters of Shakespeare's dream play there is a Duke Theseus. Since the image of myself as a sort of Medusa appeared in the last dream I've been brushing up on Greek mythology. If I remember correctly Theseus, with the help of Ariadne, made his way into the labyrinth to kill the Minotaur. The labyrinth again. The 'fingerprint of a god.' The key to the warehouse. Labyrinth .... warehouse... they must connect somehow.

Wait. I just remembered something else associated with the labyrinth. Daedalus designed the labyrinth and showed Ariadne how Theseus could escape. After that escape the King (Minos) imprisoned Daedalus and his son Icarus in the labyrinth. The only way for them to escape was to make wings for themselves and fly away. Warehouse ... labyrinth ... wings?How am I to understand all of this? What does it have to do with me?

I'm glad I like puzzles. Need to work on my drawing though.