Tuesday, November 8, 2011

The Reluctant Walk

All at once I realized who the two parts of me are. It came to me. Clear as day. I am on a cusp, I realized, of a HUGE life transition. I have always known it was coming, (but sometimes secretly hoped it would pass me by, "Middle age need not apply here!")


I realized she, my missing other half, is revealing herself, and in a somewhat reasonable manner. Still, I try to push her away. I need to ''marry'' my two sides together I think.

Who is she, my other half? She is the wise woman, and from what I can tell, she is willing to speak clearly, and often. But am I willing to listen?

I try. Though sometimes my chattery, squirrel voice tries to drown her out with a mantra it squeaks, "You will never have enough, you will lose your store, don't stop, rush, rush, RUSH!"

I think that is why the wise woman held me back in this dream when a raging river and and sawed off tree came barreling for me; this was no place for an impudent squirrel to dwell. One must have their head on straight when dealing with natural forces, let's face it.

I am always amazed by the number of pieces a dream can offer up. My favorite book on dreams, Healing Dreams, comes from Marc Ian Barasch, a magazine editor turned author. He wrote it in 2000 . Before writing the book he discovered that he had thyroid cancer. It was being overlooked by doctors yet he knew, based on his dreams, that he had to be the voice of the illness that was taking him over and requiring attention, now.

Barasch talks about dreams having at least 8 layers, and he made it clear that ALL of the layers are significant and have meaning. ALL of them. And, if there is a layer that speaks to the present, you might want to examine it. Fortunately, examine can sometimes just mean heed the dream message. All the better then, listen!

I am not suggesting looking at your dreams is an easy path, at least not at first, delving into the ''person'' who resides in the hidden layers feels precarious to the point of wanting to retreat and call it a day sometimes, or run like hell, even. But the path is rich and is has more color than any human eye, even those not trained to see, will ever even imagine in their life time--if that makes sense.

Yesterday I walked...a short walk...a reluctant walk. For me walks are dreams. I fashion them that way. My dream was a brief one, yet vivid enough as I trudged along a frozen path, no wider than a foot, and snow covered on both sides, shaded by the mountain, and unfazed by the 60 degree fall sun.

I made my way to a leave covered patch above, that received light, where I stopped, no less awed by the beauty of the forest than I ever am. There stood the trees--my sisters, my family; they didn't seem concerned that I had been gone, they knew they would see me again. And off in the distance, a squirrel. In a flash it is up a very tall tree, a tree missing much of its bark and most of its branches...