Odin

I’m in a small, bright room like a lounge or cafeteria.  There are chairs and tables, and people are sitting and talking.  Although they look entirely ordinary, I intuit that these are spiritually advanced beings, and I am awake enough to seize the opportunity to ask the question that has dogged me recently.  I walk over to one man and say, “I know I’ve fallen down a lot and ignored guidance, and I have a problem finding the discipline and focus to do the things I know will bring joy, and you are probably all tired of hearing about this, but is there anything more you can add that will help me now?”  Pointing out a man at another table, he says, “You should go ask that guy.”  The man he has indicated is talking with some others, and as I approach and excuse myself, he looks up and I see that his right eye is missing.  There is only an empty socket, and I can see all the way into it.  He is a small, slender and light hearted old man, with a very short haircut and plain garb.  He tells me he is very happy to be here.  As I wake up, I reflect that this must be the norse god Odin, who according to the story, gave his right eye for wisdom.  He is plainly telling me it was worth it.  I further reflect that the right eye is connected to the left side of the brain, the logical/analytic.  It is the eye that looks outward, while the left eye is connected to the right side of the brain, the spatial/relational/creative, which looks within. To sacrifice one’s right eye in this context would mean to stop looking outside one’s self for answers. The implied question is, “What will I give for wisdom?”

In May of 2010, I went into the television studio of the Community Media Center of Marin to record a discussion, moderated by my friend and fellow Dreamer Eleanor Barrón-Druckrey, with two other artists who take inspiration from the world of dreams – Mamacoatl Chantiko and Diana Marto. Stu Rabinowitsh produced and edited the piece, and we are all grateful to him for the wonderful opportunity, and for all his hard work. The video’s first public screening took place at the ROOM Art Gallery in San Rafael, California on September 17, 2010.

Dreams, Sacred Gifts, and Artists as Mystics can be viewed in a higher resolution on Vimeo.

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, in the next instant 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.”

The Black Monk

I am confined, along with 2 other male companions, by bad guys in a detention area. We are lying on narrow tables in the large, brightly lit room. The bad guys have already killed one of us. I see him lying on his side on a nearby table, looking very peaceful, more like he is sleeping than dead. His appearance is quite striking. He looks like a black monk. Every detail of his costume, skin, hair and features is a deep, satiny black, like waxed ebony, and his dress and aspect is that of a monk.

Two of us are still alive, lying on our backs on the narrow tables. The head bad guy walks over to my remaining companion and informs him that he is next to die. He stands over him and aims a tremendous blow, resembling a karate chop, at his solar plexus. My companion, thinking fast, deflects the blow with his arm, leaps to his feet and runs out of the building into the surrounding city. When he does so, I run out after him thinking I need to help him, but I fail to catch up with him. I am tracking him visually, but in a blink, I lose sight of him and do not see him again.

Interpretation: At first, I didn’t know what to make of this dream, other than I’ve felt threatened by a reoccurrence of my depression lately, in the context of preparing to appear on TV, but Alex had a more interesting idea: The bad guy could be a healer in disguise, about to strike the solar plexus, the power center. So these “bad guys” are trying to awaken my power, and I feel threatened by this, and want to escape. Part of me wants to stay small, remain in my comfort zone, and not grow into new levels of awakeness and therefore involvement, which is Responsibility, a word my parents ruined for me, to the point where I rejected it wholesale. They were in denial about my PTSD and depression, and continually blamed me for my failure to thrive. Small wonder I got sick of hearing about Responsibility. Now, as I seek to take full responsibility for my creative gift, the old demons make another appearance as healers.

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:

Original Entry for Hanging Crow

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.