Following the Salmon and the Story

On September 1, I blogged about a dream in which the word "apayo" came to me. It led me directly to the artwork of an Alaskan woman who introduced me to the Pebble Mine Prospect, one of the most controversial development prospects in Alaska's history (see blog: Where Does it Hurt?). Salmon figure prominently in her work, and were on my mind, fleetingly, the night I had the dream. The title of the first painting I saw on her site: "Our Agreement: I Will Nourish Your Future Generations as Long as You Protect Mine." 

In that same dream, I was at a retreat. While I was there, a powerful storm blew through and knocked out the power. After it passed, we went outside to gather plants and flowers for the retreat leader's "Bridge of Flowers" project.

As it turns out, on Aug. 28, 2011, the Deerfield River was flooded by Hurricane Irene and engulfed the famous Bridge of Flowers in Shelburne Falls, Mass. The bridge was declared safe on September 1, a year to the day of the dream.

When I found this info on Google, a "related topic" that came up was the Salmon River, in Idaho. Thinking it an odd association, I clicked on the link and learned that the Salmon River, also known as The River of No Return, has been home to people for more than 8,000 years, including the indigenous Nez Perce tribe, which relied heavily upon the river for its abundance of salmon and other wildlife. According to Wikipedia, "The Salmon River historically produced 45% of all the steelhead (salmon) and 45% of all the spring and summer chinook salmon in the entire Columbia River Basin. The Salmon River Basin contains most (up to 70%) of the remaining salmon and steelhead habitat in the Columbia River Basin. Despite the abundant salmon habitat in the river, these fish have been declining, in large part because of the effects of four federal reservoirs and dams on the lower Snake and Columbia rivers."

The Salmon River was the site of one of the gold rushes in the 1860's, which caused a great clash between the gold prospectors and the native people who lived in the area. This is not unlike the current Pebble Mine prospect in Alaska, where wealthy corporations want to develop a gold and copper mine that could have dire environmental repercussions, and is being fought by the native and non-native Alaskans who want to preserve the Bristol Bay area from the mine.

For me, the weaving of this story through dream, research and synchronicity, is an illustration of how everything is connected across space and time. 

It reminds me of the law of action and reaction, and of the myriad ways, places and species in which our actions are negatively impacting our world today and for the future. 

Perhaps it is instructive, asking us to look to the mistakes of the past for solutions to the future, and to avoid making the same mistakes again and again, while expecting different outcomes; the time is near when it may be too late to undo much of the damage we've already done (The River of No Return). 

Perhaps it is a foretelling of our fate if we fail to care for and respect the tremendous gifts and resources that have been given to us to pass on into the future (Our Agreement: I Will Nourish Your Future Generations as Long as You Protect Mine).

And it reminds me to pay attention to the dreams, to look beyond what appears on the surface, to follow their threads and wisdom to untold places (including Alaska, Idaho, Massachusetts!) and information.

Ghost Cat

It is estimated that there are somewhere between 3,000 to 6,000 snow leopards left on earth. Prized and poached for their beautiful coats, they survive in some of the planet's most challenging terrain. Due to deforestation and dam projects, they have suffered a signficant loss of their natural habitat and food sources. In countries where they live, such as Pakistan and India-administered Jammu and Kashmir, armed conflicts have further imperiled the cats, with a disregard for species preservation among the fighters and the flourishing of an illegal fur trade.

Snow leopards, also called "Ghost Cats", can hiss, growl, wail and chuff, but unlike other large cats, they cannot roar. I met this shy creature in a dream, and the poem below is in honor of its arduous and endangered existence, and its historical associations with the gods. 

For Snow Leopard/Honoring a Dream                                                     

From the crest of the god’s head,

you traverse the craggy ancient spines

of the Rock People.

Vertebrae by vertebrae

you carry down the sky.

Its frigid white breath tears through the air

like rapacious fangs

and howls at the impassive, stony faces

that bear the brunt of its fury,

with you,

the sole and silent witness

to its brutality.

Your green eyes blaze

with inner light but offer no warmth.

There is none to be found

in this timeless, unyielding

Otherworld.

Here, survival is a story

of wits and of will,

of stealth and of strength,

where hunger and beauty can kill you

as readily as any man.

Dreamy crystalline blankets

yield to one-way trap doors beneath

the novice foot,

and the lies we tell ourselves

to carry on

are sheer as the ice that freezes closed

our frightened eyes.

The spirits of this land

seem cruel

and harsher than they need be.

Or perhaps safe passage

before their steely gaze

requires each soul to speak its truth

deep into their brittle bones:

How much do you want your life?

Ghost Cat,

you alone know the razor’s edge

where land meets sky

amid the blinding haze,

where antlers mark the graves

of those who offered or renounced themselves

to you.

Down from the mountains you came,

the hunter and the hunted,

survivor and survivalist,

earth-bound immortal,

nearly extinguished by our greed.

You met me in the East

in a humid summer dream, 

with a dare

to journey North,

to follow into unknown terrain

your mysteries cloaked by snow,

made treacherous by ice

and marauders

that might drive me from the trail.

My fierce and exacting guide,

your patience is as thin

as the arctic air,

your mercy as scarce

as easy prey.

I struggle to gain purchase

in your sure-footed wake,

to trust that I am held

when I cannot see the path,

or hear the approach

of what will feed me next,

when I cannot smell the fire

that draws me

toward an indecipherable horizon.

Met only with your stoic silence,

I stifle the tormented cries

I yearn to hurl

against the shrieking wind.

Your coveted coat

reminds me

how to walk with shadow

when daylight deceives,

when reason fails and I have no use

for words.

I am imperfect and I am afraid,

but I am willing.

Ghost Cat,

teach me perseverance and courage,

to ascend to the heights you know by heart,

unbound from illusion,

to converse with the gods

by way of the earth.

 8.16.12

I Ride My Buffalo to Remember

One recent night in the dream world, I rode a buffalo bareback to get a bit of ice cream. We traveled down a busy, tree-lined street, and not a single car or truck so much as slowed down as we passed. I caught sight of my reflection in a glass-walled building: sitting astride my four-legged chariot, my hair streamed down my back, unbound and untamed as her mane; but instead of buckskin, I wore a sky blue Talbot's tee shirt. 

Talk about straddling two worlds. Our entire journey was rich with contradiction and metaphor for the tension that exists, that we've created, between the natural and industrialized worlds. In my waking life, I inhabit primarly the latter. Traveling with buffalo, I can remember that which came before, and that to which I can return - both in and outside of my dreams. 

This poem attempts to explore the messages and spirit of Buffalo, and to honor the dream in which we traveled together, unseen by the waking world.

I Ride My Buffalo to Remember

I ride my buffalo to partake of the feast,

to indulge, until sated,

in the pleasures and treasures

before and beyond us.

The perfumed relief of open air,

the languid summer breeze on our faces,

the brief, sweet respite

of a lone shade tree,

the company of a kindred soul.

I ride my buffalo to remember,

to feel remembering in my bones;

the dissolution of boundaries

between beings and being,

the solid support of her broad bare back,

sinew and blood,

muscle and bone.

The smell of sun-warmed fur

fragrant with sweat, grass and loam

returns me to myself

in an instant, 

for real and for good.

I ride my buffalo to inspirit my prayers,

to give thanks for the abundance

that both carries and is carried 
within me.
My path has been blessed,
each breath,
every step,
and I have never traveled alone.

I ride my buffalo between the worlds,

the one on the surface

and the Real one beneath.

Skimming the skin of the outside world

from this perch atop my ancient kin,

I peer over her brow at the horizon

scrawled with the horrors

and hopes

of my fellows.

They do not see us 
though we pass within the distance 
of a breath,

do not hear us 
though we call out 
in a single, resonant voice,

Return! Return! Return!

I feel myself grow heavy upon her back

and my cheeks, my chin,

her neck

are baptized in a salty torrent.

With thundering hooves and heaving breath

we pierce this flimsy membrane,
plummenting through and descending 

down to the heartbeat

of the world,

where beneath perpetual sky

and upon boundless land

we eat, sleep, dance and dream

with one heart, one mind

around one circle of stones,

one eternal fire.

Ringed by the ancestors,
enjoined by the spirits,
buffalo dances with wolf,
bird and fish unite,
black embraces white to form
a silver plume 
that ascends beyond sight 
to tickle the stars, 
an invitation to the dance.

I ride my buffalo to remember,

to feel remembering in my bones.

8.10.12/Honoring a dream

Communion

Shortly after hearing about the shootings in a Sikh temple earlier this week, I had a dream in which a stranger came upon our property and shot two deer, a mother and her daughter. For me, the deer represents many things, among them peace, gentility, grace and benevolence. 

As I listened to radio reports about the shooting, including interviews with members of the Sikh community, it seems their world view also embraces these tenets. 

It is shocking and horrifying to think that swift, sudden and violent death could be visited upon a community gathered in peaceful prayer and yet, it happened. Happens. The sacred is violated, both in the breach of holy space and the willful, thoughtless destruction of life. 

And the deer comes through in the dream world, a messenger, perhaps a guide. How can I take her message into my heart and honor it, live it, learn from it? I begin to explore these questions in the following piece, and know that if I continue to carry them and the images from which they spring, more will be revealed in time.

For The Deer/Honoring a Dream

They stand, heads bowed

side by side, as if in prayer,

then lift in unison

to partake of this morning’s communion,

young green leaves from the weeping cherry

still moist with dew.

They eat hungrily, happily.

The daughter’s movements

follow her mother’s by a breath

like a shadow,

or an echo,

like this, like this.

Learning by watching.

Learning by doing.

So much to learn,

to see, to taste.

The bumblebees hum in the honeysuckle,

birdsong rings out across

the yard.

Squirrels chatter and give chase

up and down the oaks,

and each life lends its voice

to the hymn.

A clap of thunder from the pristine sky.

It must be lost,

wandered too far from its own

mother,

meandered over many mountains,

now crying, trying 
to find its way home.

Another.

Death arrives at my door

on the shoulder of a man,

his white shirt

criss-crossed in the color of blood

and partially obscured

by the dark figure slung over him

like a sandbag.

He does not know he carries the weight

of The World.

He acts as though it is nothing,

mere baggage to be dropped and left

until he finds a simpler, easier

way to manage the load

that weighs him down like lead,

like the very lead

with which he filled his cargo,

precious cargo,

though he could not see it

through his dark eyes and prescription glasses.

A sprig of green leaves

hangs at the side of her mouth

and her still-open eyes are empty in their frames

of long black lashes.

Beside her, the future lays still

and growing cold.

The daughter’s movements

followed her mother’s by a breath

like a shadow,

or an echo,

like this, like this.

The fur at her new and narrow throat is mussed and red

where the blood on his hands

tried to return to its

source

when he handled her so roughly. 

He took them both

because he could. 

Two,

the number of kindness and balance,

of duality and

choices.

Without warning

the false thunder arrived and

struck like lightning.

No time to run.

No time to hide.

No time to teach the little one what 
or how to fear.

There was only time enough

to teach her peace,

and how to live in harmony

with her surroundings,

how to love the earth alive beneath

her feet

and in the rocks and trees,

sky and water,

flowers and

Every Living Thing.

But I am still here,

still learning.

 8.7.12

The Deer Mother

In a mid-summer night's dream, I pull into the driveway and get out of my car. On the way to the house, I pause to look up at the night sky. It is very dark and I see a constellation, a tight cluster of stars, that form a small, thick cross. 

Toward the house, I hear rustling by the front door but can’t see what it is. It sounds large, and I feel a tightness in my belly. Something approaches me and I stand very still.

It is a very large, antlered animal – almost like a cross between a deer and an elk. It is not terribly tall, but it is broad and solid. I gasp. Its antlers are large and very ornate; they are not very thick and there are many of them, woven together like the branches of a tree. The animal's back is dark and covered with many small white spots that seem almost to glow, like a magical sky full of stars. It is beautiful and breathtaking. 

The animal brushes gently against me. Holding my breath and still not really moving, I hold out my left hand, and it sniffs me. It allows me to pet its muzzle. I am filled with awe and know this is very special. I do not feel afraid, but I am not sure what is happening or why. Suddenly, down by my knees, I see another face. There is another, smaller animal - a baby - looking up at me. Its face is beautiful and open and sweet, and it sniffs and nuzzles my right hand as I hold it out. My stomach is fluttering with excitement, and my heart feels full of joy.

In Siberian Evenki mythology, Khelgen is the Cosmic Elk. She is associated with the Big Dipper and travels with her calf, who represents the Little Dipper. During the day, Kheglen and her calf disappear into the heavenly taiga and return at night, when the movement of the constellations recapitulates a great hunt. She is associated with the cycles of life, her great antlered rack connected with the World Tree, or Tree of Life. Kheglen was revered by the reindeer herders of Siberia, whose culture dates back thousands of years. Today, these people find their way of life, and their reindeer, in danger of being wiped out by overdevelopment and significant shifts in the global economy. 

This poem is in honor of Khelgen and her calf.

For Kheglen
(Honoring a Dream)

The Earth moves
as she moves,
her gait heavy
with intention and the fullness
of this moment.

Between each step,
a pause,
pregnant with the wisdom
and stories
she bears across
her star-strewn back
and in her crown
of antlers,
branches grown from the World Tree
beneath which all Life
begins 
and ends, begins again.

Across the divide
of life and death
she has journeyed with her progeny,
the smaller constellation
reborn in her mother's
shining image.
Ancient
and brand new to me,
the eye of my heart
takes her in more easily
than can my thinking vision.

Yet her breath is on my hand,
her broad belly brushes my arm.

She is here.
She is real.
I am witness
to these goddesses and star-painted
messengers.
Behold!
Behold!

And in the full night sky above,
a constellation
of the Cross beams bright
as if to say,
By whatever names you call Me,
I am here.
Behold.

7.18.2012/honoring a dream

You May Say I'm a Dreamer

When I hand things over to something larger and wiser than myself, sometimes, I am astounded at what gets handed back.


I recently wrote about entering into relationship with the Unknown, with What Is. My dreams have been sending me all sorts of reminders about this commitment, in all manner of metaphor. Most notably, there has been a series of unfamiliar and transitory locations (hotels, conference halls, rental houses and cottages) and water (bathtubs, pools, lakes, the ocean). 


Yes, the Universe seems to be saying - you're on a journey whose final destination is not clear. Soon you may be immersed in change; at times, you may need to navigate choppy waters in unknown territory. At times, the best course of action may be to flip onto your back and let the currents carry you to calmer seas. 


In my dreams, I've been called to meet the many faces of Fear as it appears in my life; to clarify what is and is no longer important to me; to acknowledge the deeply entrenched habits, traits and unresolved "stuff" that will continue to trip me up, unless I deal with them.  The variety of images through which these patterns make themselves known seems infinitely creative, and have I learned that if I am not getting a message, it will continue to shape shift until it arrives in a visual package that I can recognize, open and appreciate. 


My mentor, Susan Morgan, is helping me learn to work with my dreams, to develop what she calls dream "literacy." 


I love that term, because that's how it feels. I am gradually learning a new language rich with imagery and metaphor; I am challenged to look beyond the simple, surface interpretations of things and am being invited to explore my own deep associations - as well as more universal associations - with the images and stories that emerge in my dreams. 


I feel more connected to my intuition and inner knowing, and that I am supported in my quest by something much greater than myself: Something mysterious, benevolent and generous; something that is willing to provide guidance and insight, if I am willing to engage with it in relationship. 


Piece by piece, my dreams and I are weaving the story of my life. Old wounds that have gone untended are rising up to say, "Here. This still hurts." And I must ask how I can acknowledge, honor and integrate them into the broader tapestry of my story. Repeated dreams of masks and theatrical events invite me to question what illusions I may be carrying, what I may be hiding behind, what is a performance versus an authentic living of my life. 


This past weekend, my mentor said, with great passion, "The greatest gift each of us can give the Universe is our authentic Self." 


And in the work-a-day world, I am sometimes challenged to do this. Whether the challenges are internal or external or both is something to which I am trying to bring greater awareness. But carrying that mandate, to live an authentic life, is work worth attending to. My dreams are quick - and getting quicker - to tell me when I'm succeeding and when I'm not, and to elucidate those things that may be getting in my way. 


The idea for this blog came to me in a near-dreaming state. Perhaps it serves only to give me a means for putting into words the questions and revelations that are surfacing for me at this time in my life. And that is fine. That is good. Because it focuses and attunes me to those aspects of myself and my life in a way that I would not otherwise be.  And that feels like one way of honoring the guidance that comes sometimes during the deep night and sometimes, during a brief day dream. I have learned that honoring my dreams with action is an important part of the process; it's a "thank you" to the Universe and helps keep the lines of communication open. 


So as I try to walk the path of the Unknown with mindfulness and integrity, I am grateful to know that as long as I am paying attention to my dreams, I will not - cannot - get lost. My inner GPS is linked in to a wisdom far greater than my own, which is both a relief and a blessing. 


"You may say I'm a dreamer..."


And you'd be right.