Above the Abyss

One night in 2006, I put in a long Photoshop session on the image of the eagle, abalone shell & waterfall for the Chicana Dreamer.  Next morning, I was on my way to the wood shop, making the winding drive through the beautiful hills between Lagunitas and Petaluma. In less than the blink of an eye, I was up in the clouds & mist riding on the eagle’s back toward the abyss.  It was as if my art had come to life, & I was inside it.  The eagle looked back over his shoulder, right into my eyes, and said “Don’t be afraid, I will carry you over the abyss.”  Just as suddenly, the next moment I was back in my car driving through the green hills.  I have used several titles for this image, including “Abiding, Indestructible,” and “Above the Abyss.”

Sweating Bullets over the chasm

At a celebration, an heroic rescue is being recounted. Everyone is congratulating me, because I plotted the trajectory for this near-impossible feat.  As if in a flashback, we see the rescuer himself, perhaps the King, sweating nervously on a bed of precious stones, big diamonds and arrowheads, suspended in a box like a simple open coffin, prior to making the long, swinging pass through the deep, watery chasm to snatch the princess off the monster’s boat.  His success is guaranteed, so long as he can physically hang on and perform the deed, because I have plotted the trajectory, length of rope, etc, with precision.  It is, however, a very long rope and a very deep chasm, and the rescuer is mighty nervous. (The flashback ends)

The deed is accomplished, though, and now it is being celebrated and retold. In the centerpiece of the celebration, a double-ended spear or pike, very sharp, swings through the space at the end of a long rope, cutting a precisely-shaped piece of turf from the big lawn. I walk over and pick it up, then hold it up for everyone to see: It is the symbol of infinity, a sideways figure eight, rendered in precision-cut turf, done in one swipe of the spearpoint, as the spear swung by.  The crowd cheers the precision of my design. I almost allow the moment to go to my head, when I realize that credit is due to others in this moment, and not only myself. I point out the weapons-maker and call for a cheer. I try to extend both arms in an expansive gesture, but can only raise my right arm.  The left one won’t come up.  The hero himself seems almost forgotten at this point.

Then, it seems the monster might have shown up at the party, and I duck behind a post. There is an ominous silhouette, but it’s unclear if it’s the monster.

I woke up from this dream, and began making my morning tea. A big black crow was walking in my front yard, and flew up in front of my window. It was a magical feeling. Some interpretation follows the image:

This was my first month in the Glen Ellen cabin. It was in this house that I descended into the full depth of my depression, before I moved to Lagunitas, and my father died. In this context, the black Lab could be seen as the functional part of me, carrying the black crow hanging from the hook – the depressed self. The illustration shows that, after I made tea, and began writing, as was my custom, I failed to remember the medicine man’s name, even though it is pretty obviously Hanging Crow. But there is much more here: The helpful presence of the spirit world is striking, and a way to approach my art-making is suggested.

I am standing at the top of a large auditorium or theater, which slopes steeply down toward a tall screen, as wide as a full-sized movie screen, but even taller than it is wide. The theater is in darkness, and I am alone. I think that I don’t know what to do. A disembodied voice says, “Read the illuminated signs in front of you, and fly.” A mysterious, intricate pattern appears on the screen, and I fly into it.

The scene changes, and, back in the USA, I come home to a modest little house in brighter, more open surroundings. Walking up to the house, I see my room mate, an interesting and likable oriental guy with a sunny quickness about him. Normally, I would walk right by him, pursuing my thoughts, abstracted, but a glimmer of awareness tells me to honor his presence, and I greet him warmly. His response is gratifying, and I feel a sense of connection, almost unexpectedly, as if I’d forgotten how good it is to feel this way.

He is framed in the opened garage door, and his domain begins around the corner to the right. I realize I have never even been in his room, and enter, feeling curious and welcome. Inside, I am immediately drawn to an enormous slanted window to my right, like the classic Paris rooftop artist’s studio. After my 2 right turns, the window faces the direction I just came from, but looks out on a wholly different view. Although the house is set in a gentle green countryside, with a few low houses and scattered trees, the view from this window is of a tall, dense & somber city, curiously silent. The window’s sill is about chest high, while the top might be 16 feet in the air. It is perhaps 25 feet wide. It is divided into a grid of old-fashioned panes, a real artist’s window; seemingly looking out on another dimension, because it certainly wasn’t visible as I approached the house.

Directly facing the window, about a block away, is a tall, old, and very beautiful building, whose curving elegance speaks of of a bygone era, the 18th century perhaps, but it is dark, and all its windows are broken. I get the feeling that this room has a lot of privacy, even with all these windows looking down on it. Certainly, there is nobody in the dark building, and the other buildings in sight turn mostly blank faces, or are placed so that it is highly unlikely that anyone is looking in on us. It is a unique sensation, being able to see so much without being observed. I reflect that, had I not followed the urge to greet my room mate, I would not have seen any of this. I love this window, and its strange view.   

The buzz of conversation falls silent, and the mood in the room shifts. The lights come up a bit, and people are moving around, like an intermission. Katriona, comes over to me and announces that we are on in 5 minutes. It all falls into place in my mind: We are overseas, this is a Biodrama event, and we are about to perform. I suddenly feel very far from home and utterly vulnerable and unprepared. I have no idea what to do, and it quickly dawns on me that I don’t want to do this. I can’t face the stage fright. I say, “NO, I’m not going to do it! If you think I’m getting up in front of all these people in 5 minutes, you’d better think again! No way!” As I protest, I walk down toward the front, and the intensity of Biodrama leaps into my mind and feelings. It was always terrifying for me, that moment when the show must go on, & you reach into the unknown, yet I recall that it always went well. For an instant, I find myself wondering what I might like to present. At that moment, I get in touch with a small, playful voice inside me which says, “This might be fun. You can do anything you want in front of all these people.” I do not listen, though, because I continue to let my fear rule me, deliberately waking myself up rather than continue the dream.

Betty has wandered some distance away, and returns with a pretty, younger Native American woman from the village who has something to show me. Smiling, the woman extends her hands to me. Her right hand grasps my left wrist, drawing me closer, as her left hand places something repulsive in my right. It is a squirming, flat, hairy triangular creature with little ciliated feet on each end of the triangle’s short side. It is wiggling and looks like it is built to suck blood, like some kind of land leech. I don’t want to hold it, but take it anyway, not wanting to appear cowardly in the sight of the village woman who is brightly, enthusiastically proffering the disgusting creature.

She asks what it is, and I say it is clearly some kind of horse parasite, since I have seen horses nearby. I am looking for a way to kill it when I feel a sharp sting in my right heel. Looking down, I see 2 little metal darts, like pins, each with a small feather attached. The thought flickers across my awareness that the heel is a curious place to be attacked. I know they are blow darts, and wonder if some drug or poison is already in my bloodstream. Then, I see a dark, coarse-robed figure aiming the blow gun at me again, from under the dirt street somehow, as if the street has become a web of tree branches underfoot, and my attacker is below the ground. Before the strangeness of this setup can even register, I feel the sharp stings of several more darts, and feel intense fear.

It is then that I see the Shaman, a dark, smallish figure, perhaps the same one who attacked me, standing next to a repulsive, viscous, breathing, talking pit in the earth which looks as if it is filled with organs, membranes and guts. It is a disgusting and terrifying sight. Before I have even a moment to take it in, a voice from the heaving pit asks me, “Do I have your permission to kill you?” I know it is actually the Shaman talking. I counter with my own question, “Is this a way to know who I am?” He says simply, “Yes.” I say, “Yes, then, although I know it will be rough, and I am afraid, Yes!”

I know I am going to have to enter that suffocating, disgusting pit, the entrails of the earth as it were, and endure a terrifying ordeal which my personality will not survive. I also know this is exactly what I have been searching for. I am awakened by the fear of personal annihilation.

Parked across the street is a large flatbed truck with a load of tanbark. The bed has no sides, and I wonder how the loose material survived the trip. The pile isn’t very deep, and in the middle, sitting on top, there is a large, weathered round of wood, like a slice of a tree trunk. It looks very heavy, but when I grab it and lift it, it’s not too bad. I take the round back across the street, and drop it by the trash area, which is underground, figuring I’ll find a place for it later. I notice the hinges on the trash pit lid are badly designed, and think it’s going to be hard to keep it covered neatly. M is very impatient & cuts his fingers on glass two different times in two different ways.

We walk over to the house across the street. As we pass the carport, I say, “This house sitting could become a way of life!” M doesn’t answer. People are arriving, looking bright and colorful, and it’s clear a party is beginning. I am thinking I’d rather go back & fix the computer. As I enter the place, I notice it’s already filling up. Everybody looks younger, and I worry I won’t fit in or enjoy myself. I put on a grimy old silver down coat & wonder why I would pick such an item to wear walking into a party.

I walk down a hall & into a dimly lit room where several women are lounging. The atmosphere is very relaxed and a quiet conversation is going on. Not wanting to bother anyone, I am just about to walk on through to the next room when I hear my name used in a sentence, something like, “It looks like Gary doesn’t want to talk to us.” It sounds like a gentle, teasing accusation, and I stop to see what’s going on. Who is talking about me?

A zoftig blonde in flowing clothing of subdued colors is reclining on the bed. She motions me to lie down with her. Her looks remind me of Lucia, but her energy is sacred; more than human. She draws me in very close to her, more by personal magnetism than physical touch. She invites me right into her embrace. She begins talking to me, her lips brushing mine as she speaks, we are so close. I say, “Wait a second, I am getting a direct transmission from deep inside of you.” What I mean is that the way I feel just being with her is telling me more than any combination of words she could possibly speak. This feeling is Divine Love. I feel so safe and fulfilled. This sacred version of Lucia is telling me I can have all I have dreamed of, meaning Sanctuary, and a clear vision, not to mention love.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, tears spring into my eyes. I tell her I don’t think M could handle this, but I can. By this, I mean you can’t receive Divine Love unmoved, without showing how you feel. I am very capable of showing my feelings. Lucia says warmly, “Well, you don’t want to work (as in kill yourself for money), do you?” Synchronizing my fluttering heart and ragged breathing to her calm, cool being, I think, “No, I only want to live, love, create and meditate in Sanctuary.” Everything about her is telling me this will come to pass. What I manage to say is, “I never get to see you!”.

She says, “I know. Let me slip my hand under your mind & see if I got what I came here for.” There is something erotic about this spiritual connection. I briefly imagine other possibilities for the situation, but it is not so much sexual as simply peaceful. The masculine & feminine are resting deeply together, and it is good. After waking up, I decide to call her Santa Lucia, since her human counterpart was born in Big Sur, and reflect that Lucia means Light.