The Shadow Saboteur’s Magic Wand

I dreamt I took the kids to a birthday party, and, because I had no pockets, I set my phone and journal on a table while I went about the party. When it was time to leave, the table had already been taken down and put away. I tried to find the hostess to ask her if anyone had seen my things, but I couldn’t find her. Eventually I looked through some things, then went to a basement room where there were rows of stacks of things. I searched through countless items, none of which was mine.

Now, this shadow saboteur bit is getting tiresome. (See my previous posts on the saboteur.) On the face, this dream might seem to be about seeking that which is unattainable, but you can tell that in fact these things are attainable, only the saboteur is preventing them from being mine. I could find lots of things, but it was as if someone were looking over my shoulder, someone who knew all my secrets and weaknesses, who knew just what feature of a thing would eliminate it from the category of mine, someone who held the magic wand, not the one that generates matter in being, but the one that specifies its nature, so that as soon as I have a phone in my hand (My phone is red. Or is it sparkly green?), this one is black. I find a checkbook I wasn’t even looking for, with the right cover, the right style of checks, a winning lottery ticket tucked inside, but the name on the checks is someone else’s. I find a journal, and not only has it no cover at all, but the pages are filled with unfamiliar handwriting.

In the end, I did find the phone, because it rang, and it turned out it had been tucked safely in my cleavage all along. Did the saboteur relent? Or somehow slip up? What do I do with this?

Dreaming Matriarchal Community

I haven’t been inspired to blog lately, probably just too busy to let my mind wander, which seems to be an integral part of the creative process. I have had some moments when everything seemed luminous and magical, but my mind couldn’t rise to the occasion and do anything with that. And that’s okay, because it’s most important simply to experience and notice those moments; elucidating is extra. Then there are times when the push to stay in a mental mode conducive to functioning on the mundane level causes all that metaphysical energy to be sublimated to the dreamworld. There were years when the only writing I did was surrealist poetry, because dreams were the only place I could find material worth writing about. And so, today I’m going to write my Easter dream, the most beautiful and joyful dream I’ve had in years.

I was staying at a sort of hippie coop instead of a hotel, while traveling. In actuality, it was run like a hippie coop, but had a feel more like a modern college campus. It was a place I had heard about a long time ago from an old friend (who in waking world no longer speaks to me). This community was gynocentric and/or matriarchal. The people were open and kind. They solved problems by listening to one another and working together to find solutions. Everyone looked out for all the kids. The group was not without dissent; I heard a man complaining about how men weren’t respected here, yet there were other men present who loved the place and felt respected and welcome.

I was with my children. My husband wasn’t there, but was expected to arrive perhaps the next day. The kids were playing while I talked to other adults, and at one point another woman kindly put my younger daughter to sleep with her children.

Someone handed me a spoon. It was one of the treasures held by this community, artifacts of ancient matriarchal and/or goddess-worshipping societies. He rubbed the edge of the bowl of the spoon, and it sang, sort of like a wineglass might, but not just one note. With one touch, the spoon played a whole song, so movingly beautiful that I wept before it was over. The women surrounding me smiled with love and understanding at my tears. I tried to play it again, but all I could get were short single notes.

I was about to take the kids to bed when someone mentioned that I should pay for our stay. I went to get my checkbook, which was in our room in another building. On the way back, someone knocked me down in the darkness. It was a boy, not from this community. He took a basket I was carrying, another of the artifacts. He said it wasn’t fair, that his bike had been stolen. But I got the basket back and went inside. As I was writing the check, the man I was about to give it to told me that payment was actually optional. I was thinking about how much to give, when I saw through a window that both my girls were outside playing with the other kids. It was full dark, late for them to be up, and I had been sure at least one was already asleep. I’d have to gather them as soon as I gave him the check. I gave him $15, asking if it was enough, and he said that he’d only expected me to give $2.

So that’s that. Hope you all had a lovely Easter, if you recognize it, and if not, that your spring brings renewal and light and hope.

Dreams of lots of rooms

For many years I’ve dreamt of houses, of looking at a house I might purchase (even when I knew I had no money), living in a new house, discovering new rooms in a house I was about to move out of. Most often it’s dilapidated and cluttered with junk, but as I wander from room to room, I find great potential, and am enthusiastic and hopeful that I will get this place cleaned up, fixed up, and enjoy the wondrous pleasure of having so many rooms that I can choose what I want to do in each. This one will be my sewing room. Here I’ll sit and drink tea and read. This room with its trough sink and windows all along the wall would be ideal for starting seedlings and keeping the garden tools. Across the hall will be where the kids study.

I grew up in a house where there were more rooms than people, but, inexplicably, I never felt I could find space or privacy. The house never seemed big enough. I sometimes went into the attic to hide away and read. That was the biggest residence I’ve ever lived in (unless you count college dormitories, and the dorm-like coop I lived in in Madison, Wisconsin). Every place I’ve lived had a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom or two, perhaps a dining room. Every room was designated to an obvious purpose, and to use it for another was always a sacrifice of some kind. There was also a loft for a while, which, naturally, had no rooms at all. At that place I set up a tent of sorts, to carve a massage room out of my designated space. But always, I had the dream. Always I would wake from it and wonder, will I ever have that place, the one with so many rooms I get to decide what I want to do in every one?

I don’t mean to imply that it is something I, or anyone, particularly deserves. I’m well aware that most people in the world have smaller homes than we have here in the US, that in many places, the sizeable room I hated sharing with my sister would have been occupied by a large and grateful family. I do believe that dreams, especially those with repeated themes, can be a guide to a person’s highest purposes. The key, however, may not be to recreate the dream physically, but rather to find what actions and choices lead a person into the ineffable feelings present in the dream. While the physical conditions are more often than not simply impossible, the feelings are always present within us, sometimes waiting to be awakened, when the moment is right.

About eight years ago, we bought a motel. The house on the property was bigger than anyplace Kevin and I had ever shared, with good-sized rooms and a big kitchen. But, it didn’t take long for things to get cluttered, and Rowan was born before the end of the first year, followed two years later by Kiran. As with all our Chicago apartments, we ended up habitually putting excess stuff in an unofficially designated room, which becomes too full of stuff to use. Then I cleaned out my parents’ house (remember that one that was never big enough?), and moved a lot of stuff into the motel rooms that hadn’t been renovated yet. Our house no longer seems big, or to have enough rooms.

A few months ago I woke from that dream, and thought, will I ever have that house, with so many rooms? Shouldn’t I already have the key to whatever that dream means? Where is it? Then I thought, I own a motel. There is no shortage of rooms.

We have all these rooms, and more. Room 1 is at the far right.

I made it my goal for the year to clear enough stuff to make a room for myself. It won’t be all those rooms of the mansion of my dreams, but it will be my space, and big enough to do the things I want more of in my life, to keep some crafting supplies, set up my sewing machine, and to have a good desk for writing. Motel room 1 has no shower (can’t be rented), and it’s full of stuff. That’s my job for the year.

But New Year’s resolutions rarely make it through the end of February, the cruelest month. Dar Williams was spot on when she wrote that song. “The night is long and cold and scary/ Will we live through February?” Besides my getting overwhelmed with massages, writing, being the art lady at school, and being a mom, feeding and clothing everyone every day; the motel business screeches to a standstill, the checks begin bouncing, bills come in faster than I can keep track of. I actively manage my serotonin level. My Clearing and Creating My Space Journal has been on the shelf for weeks.

But the dream comes back, reminding me not to give up. This morning I woke from a dream of exploring all those rooms, finding so much stuff left by the previous owner. A surprising amount of it appeared useful or even valuable, if not to me, then to someone who would like to buy it. It was collected by someone with a neurotic attachment to material things, who then left it for me to deal with. This is raw material for me to transform, alchemically, into what serves my current purposes.

Shadow dream

It was just about a year ago now that I was introduced to working with my Shadow by my dear friend Mary Jo Grant. Mary Jo is in my women’s circle, and has also written a book about use of dreams in healing. http://www.amazon.com/Dream-Power-Dreams-Make-Well/dp/1585010952/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1322846026&sr=8-3 As an archetype, I recognized the Saboteur in my Shadow. Naturally nobody likes the Saboteur, but through this work I came to see that the Saboteur is my friend, acting in my interests, and willing to do for me what I will not or cannot do for myself. In our circle, we wrote poems about our various Shadows. It’s built around a standard form, but I was surprised at the diversity produced by the members of our small group.

The Saboteur

My Shadow wears
an ugly leer
fetid rags
a filthy blanket of shame
and she knows the order of things.
Her hair is like
green slime on a stagnant pool.
My Shadow is a
miasmic disease that seeps in on stale air
a blow to the head
a stab in the back
(who did that?)

I can never turn fast enough to catch her.
The only way to see her is in a mirror.

As I reread the poem, I realize her appearance has changed since I wrote it, as, recently, I’ve decided to make friends with that little waif of a girl. Using meditative visualization, I called the girl, and first thing was to give her something to wear. It turned out to be a funny sort of victorian-looking white dress with lots of eyelet detail, but she was wildly excited to have it. Now whenever I see her, she’s wearing that dress, with her dark hair still flying wild and unkempt. Sometimes I just sit with her and hold her in my lap.

Do I sabotage myself? Sure feels like it sometimes. Now and then I catch myself swimming in negativity or paranoid fantasy, and I hope the Shadow girl isn’t listening. I’ve started, at those times, replacing the negative thought with a more desirable alternative, or an affirmation, and also speaking to my higher self, asking for intervention and protection from the Saboteurs. A couple weeks ago I went to the girl and told her I want to be friends. We can work together. I will listen to her. She can tell me what she wants. We will be partners, and things will work better for everyone. I saw an image of a blue stone, and associated it with the throat chakra, the source of communication and speaking one’s truth. Yes, I need to do more of that. When I got up from meditation, I went to my jewelry box and right there on top was a bracelet I bought years ago, but never wore.  The stone it held was a brilliant blue. I wear a blue stone now at my throat to remind me to speak my needs. If I withhold communication, the Saboteur might well step in on my behalf.

This morning I woke up and laughed at the dream I’d had. In it I was in a big building, perhaps a former bank, with some friends, one in particular whom I admire for her creativity, another whose name is also Rachel. We were working on some crafts. We each had our own special projects, and I was trying with minimal success to operate a sewing machine. I didn’t necessarily belong here, but wasn’t bothering anyone, and everything was just fine. Then entered a woman who was at once earthy and angelic. She had a full figure clothed in a floor-length, flowing white dress, her white shoulders bare. Her hair fell in platinum curls to the hip. She was nice enough, maybe a bit of a busybody, but what annoyed me was that at some point it became apparent that she wanted to steal something, or even take over operations altogether. It was a terrific threat, so when I got a chance, I knocked her down and pinned her. I held her wrists together behind her back with one hand and grabbed her by the hair in my other hand. She didn’t resist, that was good, but what next? Before I could figure anything out, I saw through the window a van full of suspicious people, her minions, no doubt. I asked the others, “Is the front door locked? Lock the door! Lock the door!” But nobody paid any attention. Then four or five men came in, dressed kind of like hipster burglars in black turtlenecks and black jeans and knit hats. They spread out and I saw we were outnumbered. It was hopeless. What could I do? It was easy to sneak out when nobody was looking my way. I felt a little bad about leaving my friends, but if it was that easy for me to get away, they could too, right?

At first I ran, suspicious that someone might be following me. But I lost them quickly, and wandered about the city streets, half running and half jumping, like you might on the moon. I guess I woke up right about the time I realized I could simply fly, and not even have to touch the ground.

Need I explain what I found humorous about this dream? Well, just in case, suffice to say that I had called on my higher self to intervene, like a child asking for a grown-up to settle a dispute with another child. When she came, she appeared as a controlling busybody, to the one I had asked protection from, who was, of course, just regular old me.

Feel free to add any comments, relevant or otherwise, or any stories you might wish to share about your encounters with your Shadow.