Dreams: Your All-Access Portal to the Other Side

There has been a lot of intensity in the last few weeks. 2007 has begn a year of earnest change and revelation, and also a year that focuses on forgiveness, truth, courage and change. I've met nearly uncomfortably strong or intense people that have affected me deeply, and I've also felt danger more acutely. I'm standing on a knife's edge.

A few weeks ago, I spoke with my mentor, and asked her a question to which I already knew the answer. I asked her if my grandmother was with me, intimately. My mystical mentor confirmed that she was, and that she said "hi". I couldn't stop smiling. I asked my grandmother to talk to me, or show herself to me. The last two nights, she's come to me in dreams, in a very intense way. She's different... she's part of me, more. Her body has changed. She looks younger and she's more vigourous, but in the dreams, she's been preparing for death again. She and I both know it's coming, and the dreams have revolved around the emotions that exist surrounding the idea of anticipation of the end. In the first dream, she was getting ready, walking around my maternal grandmother's house, and every chance I got, I was hugging her and begging her not to go. She was preparing the stuff that she wanted me to have. In the second dream, which was just a few hours ago, she was in our kitchen, and we were making food. Her eyes were round and wide and reminded me of my childrens'. She was putting ingredients into my bowl so I could use some crazy noodle-making instrument. I remember that it was her hands. When I saw her preparing the food, I instantly got a rush of emotion and held her in an almost childlike embrace, and kissed her the way I kiss my youngest son. I asked her why she was here, and shouldn't she be somewhere else? To which she responded, "it's going to be so much better when we go to meet Him together, don't you think?"

My dad told me that dreams in which the dead speak, are simply reflections of our own emotions, and that the departed one is a construct of your own making. Or, on the other hand, that God is telling you that it's alright. When the dead do not speak and answer questions, that's when they're really there. I don't know. Why did he say that? Daddy knows some things. But does he know about this? Greeks know a lot about dreams and have a very rich superstitious/occult kind of cultural life, that's oddly braided together with very conservative and rich Christianity. I tend to believe all of it. The issue is, of course, spiritual safety, and what to acknowledge as helpful and truthful. Are these dreams me, working through my terrifying, panic-like response to my grandmother's death? Or are they her, because I asked her to be with me? We have the same name, I was her first girl (my first cousin never bonded with her like I did), and she always walked past me, when I was around her, and told me that there was "something about you that makes you different, special, important." Then she would tell me she loved me and kiss my eyes.

I'm living a life, now, in which I'm permitting behaviour she never would have considered. I don't know at all whether or not she'd be shocked. I get the strong, odd feeling that she wouldn't be shocked at all. I think she's concerned, but she's showing a profound amount of wisdom and love.

Am I going to die soon? I have to start preparing for the end, because I very well could. I'm not off my rocker. I have to come to peace with my life and my choices. I have to be forgiven for a lot, and I have to admit to God my wrongness. I don't, for one second, think I could have avoided the various things I've done. We are imperfect creatures, and we're ruled by our passions (in the classic sense of the word). This is not a romantic notion, and it's not a write-off. We are simultaneously fallen and redeemed. I have to place myself squarely in the nexxus of truth and forgiveness, and the only way to do that is to prepare for death, and wash myself, and dress myself, so that I can be presentable when I meet Him. Even if it's not coming tomorrow, my grandmother is reminding me that it is coming, regardless. Wisdom! Let us be attentive.

Affair with a bed.

I want to find a bed that puts me to sleep. I want a big, nice hotel room that's all my own. No... maybe I want a big bedroom in a house that's mine with no-one else in the house. Yeah. A big bed with a footboard, with a mattress that's long enough to hold my toes when I'm laying face-down. I want a very warm feather duvet and lots of big- fluffy, soft feather pillows, and very soft and clean sheets that smell like lavendar or rain or Downy or all of the above. Then, I want brand-new pyjamas that make me look really hot, and I want to be in them after I've taken a long bath where every bump or errant hair has been smoothed away, and I've been moisturized and perfumed, and my hair has been blowdried and I look sweet and feel warm. A bath, where there were jets, and I sidled up to a jet and it gave me a sweet, hard orgasm. Then, I want to crawl into this empty bed and wait for either a lover or sleep, and I would feel that sweet, hot sinking as I drift away happily.

I'm so cold, and jittery, and itchy and uncomfortable. I hate my pyjamas. I hate that my son is in the bed. I hate my pillow with great zeal. Was it the green tea I drank? The nap I took this afternoon? Is anyone available to take me out for a drink and maybe some kissing? I want to get a call right now and get invited out for chicken wings or pizza and some booze. Or pot. Yeah. I just want to feel pleasure. Warmth, and happiness. Because inside I feel so utterly lost and cold and jumpy and generally worried and sometimes self-loathing. I feel sad a lot, listless, and I can't sleep. This seems like depression, but I don't get depressed. I feel bored with people when they talk about themselves. I'm not bored all the time. Sometimes the conversations are great.

I can't get excited about that wedding tomorrow. I'm not excited about much. I think I'm excited about splurging what little money I've earned on a new dress for it, and dancing with the man I want to have an affair with. Wouldn't it be great if I could do just that in a dark corner AT the wedding? Breaing rules and causing mental chaos is such a turn-on right now.

Then I tuck my kids into bed and relish that feeling of sweetness and remember what it feels like to be happy for a moment. Why can't I hold onto that?

Because I can't sleep. And all I want is a big, warm bed that can hold me.

"Tell me about your mother"...

One more thing. I might as well get it all off my chest while we're here, getting to know each other. This way, we can move forward. I'm not going to waste any time confessing all the old ugliness, so we can get into the newer, juicier stuff.

My mom drives me crazy. Sometimes I love her to death... there were times she came to visit while we lived out of the country, and when she left, I would cry for two or three days. I remember when I was a teenager, and I would sit and her feet while she sat in an armchair, and I would rest my head on her lap and she'd run her fingers through my hair. I remember walking up to her, needing hugs. It wasn't that long ago. I keenly remember her telling me about a movie she'd seen with my dad, and I interrupted her, telling her that she was a great storyteller and that I was so interested in what she was saying, and how she was saying it.

And now, I hate the way she sounds when she eats. I absolutely despise how she deals with the kids. I hate her knotted brow. I hate her depression. I go bonkers when she describes things in too much detail, with way too much enthusiasm. I can't stand how she "suggests" and tries to diplomatically phrase her wishes;

"I was about to show something to you."
"What was that?"
"I pulled out all this yogourt from the fridge. There are five containers (as she's progressively getting more and more agitated). Let's make sure this doesn't happen again. This is such a waste."
"Ok... it's ok. It's not a big deal. We'll just use it."
"It IS a big deal! This is money, hun."

It's yogourt. And I wasn't even home during the day for about two weeks in a row due to work. I'm not the one processing what's in the fridge! And it was my money.

It's all so trivial. This is the stuff that annoys you when you're stuck in a cabin in a blizzard with no communication and limited rations for a week or a month or a year. So. Cabin fever? Maybe a little. More than that, I suspect. As you can likely tell, I'm going through some rather difficult reflection lately. All the things she exhibits stress me, they always have... and I simply have no tolerance for it anymore. I find it hard to even be friendly during the good times. She doesn't deserve that kind of behaviour from me. (I edited that phrase. What I originally wrote was, "She doesn't deserve it." Interesting. Mr. Therapist, please take note.)

I deserved to be tolerated better when I was little. Even today. I deserve forthrightness. I want directness, and solidness. I don't get that from her. I want SPACE. I want relaxed intimacy. I want to feel like... I'm totally alright. Like I'm not doing anything wrong. Like I'm not required to do anything differently, or that I'm missing point 897, subsection a) of the Family Book of Etiquette and Protocol. I want to be ok. I thinkI imagine I'm not doing enough to make life easier or do better in the house or contribute enough. I get a very strong sense that I'm indeed pissing everyone off, all the time. At least I worry that I am. I feel observed and evaluated.

How much will be solved once I finally get out of this house? I shouldn't be so eager to leave... honouring my mother and father is a commandment. I should title this blog, "Commandments, Schmandments". We'll see how many I can break before I'm done publishing.

This isn't major. This is one of those things I can live with, since I know my mother will always be my mother, no matter what. I know I love her, and I know how much of me IS her, and I know it will come and go as the conditions surrounding us change. This isn't like the other stuff. The other stuff changes life inalterably. It threatens my kids and my husband and his family and mine. Wow.

Ok, mom. You're off the hook.

Underneath

I'll model for the University again. I can show my scars that way, I can lay on drapery again. I can be interpreted and brushtips can caress the outline of my curves, bringing me to life a hundred times, in a hundred different ways.

Does sacred mean secret? Does sacred mean unshared? No. Churches ask more and more, and forever more worshippers to enter into the Lord's chamber. They ask soul after soul to come into intimate contact with Love. They commune Love with Lover.

Yet, after all this waxing eloquent about sharing, loving, welcoming and plurality, I get momentarily jealous when my lover loves another. I feel disposed-of. Moved beyond. I'm in an impossible position. I understand that if my "indiscretions" were known to my partner, he would feel much the same way, only worse. Exponentially worse. And I wonder why this is? Is it because, simply, I agreed to a contract with him? Made a(n impossible?) promise? Or is it something more primitive? I feel it too... of, for, and because of people with whom I've never made contracts.

I know there are reams of hypotheses regarding the issue of whether or not monogamy is meant for humanity. I guess this is not a new discussion. Bluntly put, I, like millions of other wives, single women, men, poetic, musical monks, animals and ancient gods, want to fuck many people, in many places, whenever I want. And I can't. It's simply not reality. The Romans tried that, and look what happened to them.

I guess I have to gain mastery over my carnal nature and move beyond. Onwards, and upwards. We're given these philosophical minds for a reason. Freedom and peace come when one climbs that mountain and submits to that mean, old, benevolent Teacher with the long, white beard. Maybe taking Tai-Chi will start me off on the right foot?

I'm happy when I'm simple. Sometimes I have to remove myself entirely from the world, shut my ears and close my eyes, put away that magnetic phone with its marvellous text messages, and in a few days, I'll start to remember that I actually DO like to bake bread, finish a needlepoint, watch a movie and have a glass of wine. Do I like to make love to my husband? I don't know. I don't remember anymore. I'm supposed to. He's the one I'm allowed to have. And I don't take advantage. I don't find solace and peace and release and joy there. I haven't for a very VERY long time. Would climbing a mountain with him to the top, and sequestering ourselves there help?

This mental whirlwind isn't new to anyone. Especially those of you who've heard me yammer before, over coffee and cute waiters.

You know, I've always felt like I was a whore, a madame, in a previous life. I always, since I was a child, identified with it. Maybe a geisha. Something like that. It's odd, but as a girl I would close my eyes and imagine many many partners. I've always known that I wasn't designed for purity. I have this moral absoluteness on one hand... that's been the public part of me. Perhaps, unsurprisingly, it's part of me because the real, seething underpart of me is exactly the opposite. I'm the same as any rabid disgraced clergyman. The strength of my argument for self mastery is only strong because I understand the relevance of it... the only reason it's relevant is because of what I'm trying to fight. And I wish I didn't have to live with this tension.

Sorry you had to see this. Glad you did, though.

There is an increasing schism between my internal world, and the life I've living externally. I need a place wherein I can admit to the boiling, lava-like reality I have, flowing slowly in scalding hot rivers through me. It's not always ugly. But everything here, if told to the wrong person, could result in great pain or difficulty. One day, I hope, I'll be able to live these things authentically, triumph over them, eradicate them, relish them or admit them, without the whole world apparently shifting and breaking open under my truth.

First things first. I'm in love with a lot of people. And that's causing some internal conflict. I don't know what to do about it. I want to be free to love everyone as much as I can, in whatever way I feel. I don't want categories of expression to be exclusive or regulated, I don't want my feelings to be morally metred. I want to fuck people. I want to kiss them. I want to go for coffee with them, alone, for hours, without having to ask for permission or worry that someone will get jealous or offended. I want to offer my shoulder, my skin, my lips, my hand, my dancing, my muscles, my milk, my cooking, my laughter and my need to whomever God puts in my path. I want to spread pleasure around. And this would be ok, if it didn't mean that when I do this, all of these ways of sharing diminish in my homelife. With my husband. Ah yes. This is why it's complicated.

And, I think, if I only had permission... if joy were taken in my love for sharing myself this way, nothing at home would diminish at all. It would flourish. I would be able to surmount the guilt and triumph over it, and the true me could love the true him, and we could marvel at the world together, with honesty. joy and reverence.