*excerpt from my book

 Memories at times anchor one to the past and while the past may have been beautiful, it is no way of living- that is like clinging on to a ghost of you- a shell that is no longer inhabited by anything living and I know this well. All too well. I’ve been living in the past for far too long and every once in a while, I travel back in time, in the memories of yesterday. When I notice myself doing this, I realize, I have had a bad day- and I remember the colorful fish in a pond from my dreams. They are a kind of rare species in this world, and two of them are dead and floating in the crystalline waters of the Los Angeles Oasis which exist only in my dreams. Two of whom I loved and adored and will always love. Blue, Yellow, Green, Red, and I killed two relationships with these rare species. I cut all ties, and I miss them so, as if limbs were taken from my flesh. God knows why, and I probably deserved it. But I have to have faith in the universe, because nothing is more beautiful than that- when all is synchronized, the winds, the ruffles of paper, it is all so magical. Yes, magic does exist, and it is always the hand of the universe that creates the miracles. How then could the desert find a spring? Or the mountain be moved by a mustard seed? Or lightning grow out of pitch black night? Or a rainbow beam through a crystal? And I have faith in that. I do, and I know this and if there is anything I know it is this and only this. 

 

Dreams of the Ocean

I have 30 minutes to try to remember this dream- these dreams. These past two nights I have dreamt of water, the ocean, the shore. One where a group of us flew in by plane, through skyscrapers and city, into the flat horizon of the ocean. Upon landing, there it was, there I was, in my white sleeping gown again, ready to dive into the water. When in that, a wave the size of a large hand cloaked me, moutained over me, comforted me and then just like that, was swiftly gone. My friend, who was with me said, ” It does that from time to time.” And I in awe, turn to look at the vanished ocean turn into a small insignificant pond or puddle of water. But apparently, it does that. I left and turned away but before abandoning the shore, I gave a slight wink of an eye and a hand gesture that spoke without words but said to the puddle of water, “I’ll be back, I’ll be back to play.”

These bodies of water, these shores were playful, joyous and cheery. I couldn’t describe it another way. They were as if there were a child, a free child, wanting to play. Did I forget to mention the pair of black Pheobe birds and flight? The next dream the following day was slightly different.

I was on foot on the shore. It was daytime and all I remember were shark fins in the distance, penetrating the surface of the water and a couple, a distant couple, that I was acquainted with somehow. I sat there and again, the waves were playful. As if they were asking me to join it. The waves, like an outstretched arm ready to greet, stretched toward me asking me to take its hand. And the waves would reach me and envelope me with its playful joy and like that dragged back to its body vanishing before me once more. There I stood upon desolate sand and what was a sea but only its remains, a tiny puddle. But somehow I knew,  that it was pulling a prank, a joke on me and it is bound to return and come back as an ocean.

In neither of these dreams do I allow myself to be overjoyed, to be enveloped by the body of water. I refrain. I hold back, and I don’t know why. Do you?

I fancy the thought that my dreams are my counselors, an inner voice of the subconscious world. They can be teachers if we listen.