What I have discovered is that listening to fearful and angst causing programs on the internet or tv or radio makes me forget, or almost forget, that there is a bigger field to which I belong - old fashion prayer, meditation, ceremony, song – that all of these belong to my true nature, my larger capacity.  But anyone interested in domination and control, must first make me forget the beauty of the trees, the power of stones, the love of one deer for the other.  Make me reject the capacity of the spirit, my spirit, to reach, expand, know, to see the creatures in no books, to converse with water, hear the song for rain. 

There is another way to think of this.  I spoke in a previous blog about the necessity of leaving behind the victim child, the victim self, that it is the holy and wholly claimed magical self that requires our attention, our service.  In the presence of self-abuse – mentally, psychologically, spiritually – in the home of self-negation – there is no place for the wealth and love of the real parents.   In the fearful child I can be played like an out-of-tune instrument.  Don't think that media and marketing do not know this.    

If you have read other of my blogs you know I am not talking about failure to know our own defenses, those coping attitudes and familiar emotional positions to which the injured child, the victim identity, habitually clings.  We all have these icky places that drive our friends nuts, but we cannot free ourselves from them in the territory where they rule.  We have to move into a bigger self, a connection with the holy.  It is from there that songs have their greatest power, there that we can bring our familiar emotional haunts, our limits, to heel. 

I know songs for when I am “on the floor,” but these are also songs for creation, for pulling on one’s luck, making something new.  (I describe this in Dream Talk).  The spirit opens a door to something bigger and more magnificent, and that "something bigger" is me. 

That which tugs frantically at my skirt to shock me into fear and anger, that reduces life to pain and righteousness and makes me forget that stars listen to the people singing?  Remember that common pattern of pots in the southwest.  On top surrounding the hole is a star, on the bottom the earth.  In between are the people holding hands, dancing with their tasseled corn, linking sky to earth, spirit to sacred matter.  Singing - the people knowing their power, their nature, their work.  

I do not mean that we remain ignorant of what is, that we refuse to see in order to protect ourselves.  Of course not.  After all, I do have an adult on-board.  But I do not choose to make my home in those dimensions.  
Instead I am grateful that someone knows the song for rain.  I hear one now in the trees, the powerful voices of women, the strong drums of men.  On this song my spirit remembers who I am, who you are.  

I have been away for a while, not traveling far in geography, but in the psyche, the mind.  A dream confirmed this to be true by the appearance of a different horse, brightly colored snakes I haven't seen before.  The holy mother put in an appearance, and a judge changed his report. 

The Dream Maker couldn’t do much more than these dreams to announce change.  But, I have to tell you that I am largely inarticulate about what has happened.  Yes, I understand the dreams, but the change for which I have no words is in deep emotion, kinesthetically in the body.  Still, Gemini that I am, I have to try.

Someone has arrived who isn’t quite familiar, yet I know she is me.  Situated, solid in my body, she looks at the world through my eyes.  As if off-planet, a visitor from another dimension, she finds what she sees as good.  She is here now, along my backbone, behind my heart, in broadened peripheral vision.

If I think about the psyche as multi-dimensional, if I remember that the ‘I’ that I usually am, is a small slice of possible residences in a large house, or city, or universe, I begin to have a frame-of-reference.  I can, of course, collapse into the smaller ‘I’ from which I came, but the space is too small now, and I become claustrophobic there. 

Turning to old sacred literature, I see that I am not the first to find myself ‘here.’  As I think about it, in longhouses, on nights of only a few people, a single sentence might speak indirectly to this – not something to be taught in words, but intended to be recalled when the experience comes.   Wise.  If I'd been instructed with words, I'd have tried to find this arrival in the wrong reality.  

As I look back over my life the only thing that has held my interest is the pursuit of spirit, the longing of the soul for its spiritual food.  I could say that first I looked in all the wrong places, but maybe not.  Maybe each floundering was necessary to differentiate food from not-food, hence the dream about the judge changing his report. 

So.  I will follow the new appearance of snake.  And, this newly arrived horse?  It could be that she requires no bridle, that the will isn’t relevant as it only knows the places it has already been.