The Barnacles Grow

The barnacles grow on the shimmering rock. The rock is me—
shimmering golden me. The sun. The color of warmth, joy, happiness.

Still the barnacles grow, threatening to cover my sheen—but is it there beneath-- just like the diamonds that gleam in the darkness.

My truth stands firm and will not recede no matter what covers it.

The rocky path—tilting stones—no smooth way for me.
Still I proceed. Still I grow. Still I reach for the sun.

Green—the color of hope and new life—peppers my path.
Smooth stones, sharp ones, flat and tilting.
The mud and sand threaten to pull me under, but still I persevere.

Hope is all around.
Truth lies deep inside. Glimmering with each turn of the sun.

The barnacles grow. They are beautiful in their own right--enhancing the beauty like scars and wrinkles.
My body is weary. My dreams speak of darkness and light.
My essence. My ego. Embracing each.
They are connected like the barnacles to the stone.

Hope lies all around. Seeing things in black and white.
Good and bad. Truth and lie. They cannot be separated.
One cannot survive without knowledge of the other.

Slipping into the mud. I can freak out, panic, worry that I must stay there.
Or I can rejoice in the moment, find the humor and laugh with glee.
“Here we go again.” The silly ego. The beautiful essence.

The battle of my dreams and waking hours.
Black and white. Good and evil.
Still the barnacles grow on the shimmering rock.

photo by lucy 10.25.07

oh painter grand - #2

more dreams...

I am the spinning hay
the air through the trees
fearless bear
golden
hopeful
solid & steadfast
earth meets water
combining. uniting
making mud not mire

I am the fire in the basement
the hidden room
the arc of the sky
going to the highest heights
and plumbing the depths inside
brave
fearless
God is with me
the painter’s pallet is broad and wide

photo borrowed from shelby

oh painter grand

...the dreams continue.

spinning round through fields of gold
the painter by my side
will the convertible transform
or simply take me for a ride?

chains for boundaries—protection or harm
who is the faceless man?
angel bear floats by my side
am i doing all i can?

orange-tipped rose hints of passion
does mud speak merge or mess?
will we grow like the mighty oak?
will we survive this test?

my forehead creases into question
the tree stands by my side
gold prevails and covers earth
while water tries not to hide

oh painter grand with pallet broad
where are we going now?
the golden hues command my life
few droplets here to wet my brow

the road marches on
the path is so varied
must i walk it alone
or shall i be carried?

dream collage by lucy

Journey through the Night

Do you ever have those mornings where you wake up and feel like you have been on a long journey throughout the night? I slept well last night…I think. As I started to awaken, I realized I was dreaming and so I lay there and tried to stay in the dream. It was neither a pleasant or disturbing dream, but it was intriguing nonetheless. I finally sat up, gathered pen and paper to me and started to write the dream.

It was fragmented and I could not find the flow which is much like the dream itself. I hesitate to put too much down here because it feels like a lot of processing is still going on. As I said earlier, it felt like I had been on a long journey. There was a bus ride, a pick-up truck with its bed filled with loads of baggage, a parking lot with only handicapped spaces available. I pitched a tent next to the lot. It was in a huge field of dry grass. My tent poles got twisted up and a woman I know (one that I see as quite depressed, sarcastic and conflicted) helped me realign the poles. There were two other tents in the field, but I have no recollection of other occupants.

After pitching the tent, I was riding along in my little convertible, going through the fields of dry grass. I was standing and trying to climb through the car while attached at the ankles to my husband. No one seemed to be driving the car. (Yikes! I can only imagine the symbolism in that one.) It felt as though I was constantly looking for water. Usually my dreams contain water and ironically while lunching with a friend yesterday, she suggested that I am closely associated with the element of water. Hmmm. Was I looking for myself all night?

There were lots of other unusual little images and symbols throughout the dream. It felt like a very long, foggy journey. Therefore, it was no surprise when I looked out my window this morning to see the neighborhood blanketed in white mist. It feels like a good day to cozy up in bed and see if the fog lifts.

I’d love to know what you think of dreams…yours, mine, or generally speaking.

fabulous new photo taken in whitefish, montana by bill

Compassion

“When the wind stops, the trees still move, the way my heart creaks long after it bends.” --Mark Nepo

Compassion is a word that has been entering my vocabulary and thoughts on multiple levels these days. How do we find it and give it (not just to others, but) to ourselves? Our feelings are like the ripples of the wind. The effect of the emotion lasts long after the event stops whether we realize it or not.

Tess’ “Unguarded Thoughts” highlighted this as she speaks of thoughts that pop out when we don’t even understand from where they may be coming. I wonder if they are the ripple of events gone by. So, again the question: how do we flow with the ripple and find compassion for ourselves?

My dreams lately have been filled with water. Water covering the streets. Water overflowing from the shower. Water surrounding land as if it is an island. The thought I have been pondering is how we quickly want our emotions to be washed away. If we stop to feel them at all, we hurriedly move on to the next thing as we let the emotion slip down the drain. (We don’t take time to be joyous or feel pain deeply.) It is here that I have the image of our emotions running into the sewer and becoming part of the muck and mire—festering and turning into a stinky, rancid mess—waiting to be dredged up. Yuck!

What if rather than pushing the emotions down the drain, we put the stopper in the sink and the covers over the manholes? What if we allowed ourselves to be washed with emotion thus being cleansed at the same time? What if we chose to dance in the rain rather than put up our umbrellas? What if we “experienced” rather than “stuffed?” The water could then take its natural course to the sea rather than man’s forced journey through the darkness of tunnels.

So today I say, let the water flood the streets. Let the shower spray everywhere. There are plenty of towels to soak up the excess. Have compassion for Me. My dreams are telling me to sink into the emotion and feel it, so then it can follow its natural course. I can be washed clean. God of the heavens and earth, the Creator of the trees and the wind, the lover of my heart is with me. Compassion abounds if only I will choose to sprinkle a little on myself.

photo by Mary Jane Hughlett circa 1962