White Horse Pilgrim

Dreaming with Jana

Over the past few weeks the course of my life - in which Freud and his disciples have become welcome guests - has led to an explosion of dreams. This, I am told, is quite normal. Hence stories flow out too: cathartic, exploratory, the quenching of a thirst to talk and share. It's true too that I feel a conflict between the rigours of work and what a colleague calls 'me-time'. There simply do not seem to be sufficient hours in the day. I miss having enough time to write. I long too for more awakening time when I may luxuriate in the subconscious, the waking dream state inhabiting the veil between conscious and unconscious.

Anyway, back to the world of stories. This one fits in chronologically after the previous two. I suppose that it might sit a decade after Jana's story, a tale that both disturbs and enlightens me. But the protagonists are growing and so am I. So let's start...

Dreaming with Jana

But lately had I returned from a long sweeping journey through the mountains. Faithfully had my horse carried me from one remote village to another visiting accustomed patients and being introduced to a few newly in need of my skills. Now I was tired to my core, worn out by leagues and climbs and storms. No longer was I in the prime of youth. I felt nearly beyond age as people commonly describe the perception of passage through life, surely symptomatic of emotional maturity yet also a sign that the years had slunk nevertheless upon my frame. However I had promised to take the ever eager Willow on a trip, a journey of learning through which we might meet a few unusually interesting and intuitive patients. The youngster had begun to show skill as my pupil and her impatience to learn was matched by mine to teach. Besides until her blossoming my concern had been growing that none might step forward to embrace the learning that I had amassed, and perhaps that too was a sign that many summers had lit my life.

I had slept long and deeply, a slumber awash with dreaming. Then half-awake my subconscious luxuriated, savouring the fringe of that dream world, endeavouring to carry memories beyond the veil and into the waking land. I recalled walking barefoot across the field accompanied by my horse, reaching the lake below the pasture, stepping ankle deep into water that was pleasantly warm. The lake seemed ever so clear and blue and wide, indeed the distant mountains seemed very far away, further than reality, almost beyond reach. The big roan horse walked past me and stood knee-deep drinking. Ripples lapped back from his four stout legs and my eyes followed their expansion back to me. The hem of my dress touched the water and the ripples wet the autumn-red fabric turning the bottom fringe of the garment into a dark ring mirroring the ripples. But I laughed: it would dry in the sun. A voice called me: ‘Hawk, turn around’. I obeyed and took a few steps to reach the grassy shore. Tall and thin, greying hair blowing a little in the breeze stood my mother Jana. Suddenly I felt sleepy. Walking over to the older woman I flopped down in the grass and curled up, closing my eyes. Jana must have knelt down for I felt her strong arms around me, her cheek against mine. ‘Sleep’, she whispered, ‘rest as much as you need.’ I relaxed upon the soft sward, warm in the sun, warmer in her embrace, feeling safe and secure. She continued to speak: ‘Hawk, you have travelled enough, circled enough mountains, swept into sufficient valleys. Now look after yourself. Rest sufficiently for you have poured yourself out and now you must give time to your own needs.’ Those were the words that I held in my mind as I trod the misty path towards wakefulness, the words that I clutched to my breast as wakefulness claimed me that they might not slip from me as water through fumbling fingers.

It was warm on the balcony as the sun neared her zenith. I had awoken disgracefully late according to a self-imposed ethic then crept out guiltily to embrace the remains of the morning. Jana met me there radiant with tranquillity. Leading her here was the best thing that ever I had done. She had been swept from the Outland practically at the last possible moment before that border closed then placed in a safe quiet place where she might heal and then thrive. How I loved her tanned face and arms, her piercing eyes, that greying hair that lapped her shoulders. Best of all we were friends deeply bonded. A mug of warm milk Jana gave me with a smile, then sat down beside me. In lieu of conversation I let my fingers absorb the gentle heat of the earthenware mug knowing that Jana understood my morning silence. Words might emerge when the soul was ready to verbalise. Meanwhile we sat on the long bench, sun on our faces, our green and brown dresses yielding us elegance not quite in keeping with our professions: travelling healer and retired outlaw. Indeed we must have looked quite normal.

At length and gently my mother broke the silence. ‘You’re tired, Hawk, your face is lined.’ We were such good friends that banal pleasantries had become redundant. When we talked, Jana and me, our words exuded meaning. With that Jana reached out with tender hands and encompassed my face, fingertips gently resting between eyes and easy, soft palms against my cheeks. She didn’t tire of touching me and nor did I object, the legacy of our separation for the first decade of my life.

‘I’ll take Willow on the next trip and then rest’, I replied. I did have my word to keep. Besides the youngster’s training meant much to me: pride perhaps slyly crept in but altruism played a part too. My mind wandered and I reflected on how much had happened since a youthful stubborn Willow encountered me in a far valley as I dozed. Ever, I thought, is that woman destined to drag me away from rest.

Jana looked thoughtful and spoke softly. ‘Willow can learn much here. Ever do you travel and often that is good yet also stillness is beneficial. Let me show Willow to meditate.’

I wondered how my mother had developed such an esoteric disposition of late. Perhaps it was so quiet gathering mushrooms and firewood that her mind had expanded laterally. But she seemed, to be frank, quite enlightened when it came to meditation. Then there was the booth that she warmed like an oven with hot stones, throwing water on them and sitting semi-naked in the steamy heat whilst her mind wandered far slopes and shores. I put down my empty cooling mug and wondered what to say. Jana’s soft fingertips cradled my temples as if her tranquillity probed my mind washing away fears and worries. So I did not speak. Instead I burst into tears.

How long we hugged, my tears rolling down our close pressed cheeks, I do not know. However I shall not forget quickly the sense of refreshment that I felt. At last I choked out a few words. ‘I’m so tired. I do want to stay here and rest. Can you teach Willow? Do you think that she will be disappointed that I’m not taking her?’

Jana hugged me tightly and laughed. ‘Look’, she whispered.

Rubbing my red eyes with the sleeves of my dress I looked about me. There was Willow approaching with a good armful of twigs. ‘Hawk’, she cried with accustomed enthusiasm, ‘Jana will teach me to meditate. You should come too. You’ll be able to relax and unwind.’

I grinned and turned to Jana. ‘How did you persuade Willow?’ I asked.

My mother smiled. ‘Willow asked me’, she replied simply.

The youngster replied, ‘I saw how tired you are and decided to ask Jana to help so that you could rest. This kindling will light the fire in the meditation chamber. Are you disappointed that I went behind your back?’

‘No, Willow’, I cried, ‘not at all.’ With that I stood and sprang down the stairs, running over to Willow where I hugged the surprised young woman. She dropped her load of twigs and I hugged her more tightly. ‘In fact’, I continued, ‘these past days you’ve become clearer sighted than me.’

Imaginings of the depths of Autumn

The clocks have changed and rejoicing a leaden sky soaks prostrate earth with a sheet of drizzle. Thus veiled each pasture seems small, every curtained highway finite and the leaf clogged lanes now lead nowhere.

Seasonably repressed one may seek a little pleasure through the intellectual process of finding threads of beauty amidst the dismal vistas. Or one may follow the way of the masses, masking un-pleasure (how crudely these German psychoanalytical terms translate) with intoxicants - alcohol, television, football or some other opiate.

As Becky says it seems as if Christmas has come early in my household. We have been blessed, and I feel a little guilty when so many are losing jobs around about for no fault of theirs.

But we experienced hard years too. We have talked enough about that. Now the focus is upon the good that is enshrined within the past, as I enjoy the leaves that are bright even on a dull day. This life and these days are as melancholy as one makes them. Or as interesting as I wish them to be.

Two nights ago I dreamt of a return to my former village. Yet it had changed and so had I. Unlike previous dreams no-one was trying to pursuade me to restart my old riding business nor was I tempted to try. The village seemed to have been split into two parts and this time I climbed the opposite hill (westerly it seemed) that did not exist. Easily I climbed paths that might have been steep in real life, and was welcomed into a clean house of curious (almost anthropomorphic) design. Yes, and I was welcomed as a traveller, resident of a far place who had long train journeys behind and before him. There were a few familiar faces, but now accepting, understanding, forgiving. Blame has fled and all have risen above petty things. In truth I think that it is my unconscious that has accepted, understood and forgiven. (Are those three in the right order? They seem intertwined.) So I may move on. I wonder what destination appears on the carriages of that train?

It is a sign to move on, and Brena will give the opportunity to step out and record the trail.

Tangent of solitude

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.

Unusual territory for me, Walter de la Mare, but rewarding.

I've given up knocking for I love solitude.

Anyway my horse has taught me that, when he tires of company, off he will go without a moment's regret. Faced by such a proud satisfied beast as Doru, who has the right to demand company?

The last homely house has occupants though. I saw them in a dream. We were planning to renovate the old place. I suppose that suggests a clearing out of junk in the company of friends. Or growth that embodies all aspects of my diverse character?

That poem seems like a dream. How much does it tell, and that from how little.

Why did he ride there, does the poet remember? Was the forest floor soft, were the moonbeams bright? From whence have you come and wither shall you flee upon your beast? How the material-centred mind craves to know more.

But a hoary old house at night may tell many a tale, and those accounts are of the world within. It is a rich dwelling of the imagination.

I love solitude but I may knock nevertheless for there are fellow travellers who share my passions, my hopes and fears, my lifelong quest.

Dreamtime

After eight hours in bed I rose exhausted, forced to tear myself unwillingly from my subconscious.

This is a good moment to define terms. Too often the word 'subconscious' is used when the speaker means 'unconscious'. (I have been told off in the therapy more than once for that error.) The subconscious is that place just below consciousness where one may be in a waking dream. It's a familiar spot.

So I exited the heavy yet tranquil realm of the subconscious after another dream filled night. Goodness knows why every night lately has been crammed with dreams one after another? Perhaps it is because I have a way to unburden myself of them through grasping their meaning. Hence my unconscious has learned to throw out this material for eventual scrutiny in the light of day.

Each seems to have a meaning. Yesterday I posted a little about an unusually vivid dream. There was more meaning beyond the basics that I set down in words, too much for the time and space available, detail that deepens into a quite personal space.

But I am addressing past life, by which I refer to my own contiguous life and not those of the imagined ancestors of genetic memory.

I've seen a curious dream where I locked up my bicycle, the one that I built myself, at a railway station. (This is something that I never do.) All sorts of parts had been stolen from it by the time that I returned. But I just observed without much anger or sadness - an unlikely real life reaction.

That is my unconscious signalling that I may be ready to let go of bitterness at what was taken from me in Transylvania. With much effort, imagination and passion I built a special thing there. It was snatched away by those too short sighted, greedy and jealous to tolerate the success of another. But now at this distance in time there is no need to be bitter, no value, no gain to be had from negative emotions.

 Last night I dreamt at great length that I was travelling through a suburban area asking questions of people. I was almost like a detective however it wasn't a crime that I was seeking to solve. Indeed I cannot quite remember what I was inquiring about beyond that the subject was complex. No-one seemed to know the answer. I had to keep moving on.

So perhaps my unconscious is reminding me of its desire to be self-sufficient. Maybe the message is that some questions can only be answered from within (which does not exclude revelation).

In a sense buying Brena is an example of trusting my judgement. I was not guessing but mixing careful choice with intuition. That seems like a safe enough approach and I no longer fear making a decision.

The lesson of open-eyed decisiveness laced by responsibility has been well learned.

These are strange days, tiring and enlightening. It is as if a quest is taking place covering much ground without geographical travel.