Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Filthy...


The Dark Mirror...

I once had a dream of waking up next to a pond.  It was nighttime and everything was infused with inky shadows.  The pond was circled with ropy vines and woven brambles.  I couldn't really see the twisted boundary, but I knew it was there with that omnipresent sight of dreams, a deeper knowing.  The surface of the water was still and glass-like, looking like polished obsidian in the dark.  As I looked harder into the water, I felt dizzy and the planes of reality seemed to shift.  No longer was the pond horizontal.  It was now somehow upright.  It had become a mirror.

I looked into the mirror, trying to find my face, but all I saw was polished black.  Tourmaline, spinel, onyx, and obsidian.  And then I saw tiny glowing red beads.  Two at first.  And then many.  I could feel them tickling my skin as the little red beads danced in some intricate pattern that I could not follow or understand in its complexity.  As my eyes continued to adjust, I realized, startled at first, that the little red beads were not beads after all... they were eyes.

I was covered in thousands and thousands of moths.

The tickling of their minuscule feet evolved into an extrasensory experience; feeling not just the feather-light touch of their feet, but the pumping of their gauzy wings and the weight of their fat, fuzzy bodies.  A sense of revulsion was my first instinct.  I wanted to frantically brush them away, freeing my skin from these creatures swarming over me.

When I was a little boy, I used to have a plastic house.  I can still remember the sweet, powdery smell of the plastic baking in the Florida sun.  I would spend hours in it, pretending to make food (stirring Spanish Moss around in spent margarine containers with a stick) and clean it (by rubbing it down with oil-stained rags my father used to wipe grease off lawnmower parts) and reenact what I thought it meant to own a house.  This basically meant that I would scold my imaginary child for being lazy and for not cleaning and for causing me trouble upon trouble.  I had piles of rocks and sticks that I liked that I would move from corner to corner of the little house with the little chair and the little rotary phone.  My siblings were all older than me and I was a lonely child.  I would conscript whoever would come near into my games.

One day, Hepifanio, a Mexican man who used to help my father in his landscaping business, was called over to my little plastic house.  I had big brown eyes, round cheeks, a mischievous smile and was a cutie pie.  It was not hard to lure my parents' friends and helpers over, to indulge the lonely child... even if only for a few minutes.  One of my favorite games was to pop the plastic shutters open and slam them shut again and scream, "We're not open!"  (Somehow my little house was also a business.)  The day that Hepifanio came over to play, his eyes got round and a startled muffle escaped his lips.  He said something I didn't understand.  Hepifanio snatched me up and set me aside and pressed my shoulders hard.  The force of the gesture said, "Stay."  I stood there, as still as I could, which was a hard feat for a precocious child.  He ran to the gold truck lightning fast and pulled out a shovel from the bed.  He rushed back over and speared the shovel into the ground.

What I had not noticed was that I was not alone in the little plastic house.

My visitor was a venomous coral snake, banded red, yellow, and black.  Hepifanio had plunged the shovel into the ground, separating the head from the body, and had probably saved my life that day.  

I stood in front of the dark mirror, covered in moths.  Instead of reacting to my initial feeling, that mix of horror and panic, I stopped.  I stood still.  I remembered that little plastic house and I stood still the way that I stood still for Hepifanio.  I've learned that if you stopped, stood still, you wouldn't get bit.  If you screamed and jumped around and swatted at the bee, the hornet, the wasp... you'd get stung.  If you were quiet and still, the feral kittens would emerge from hiding and play their pouncing games.  If you stood still, you could be a witness to the beauty of nature, friendly or lethal.

I marveled at the beauty of the fluttering wings.  As I looked closer, down at myself and into the mirror, I could see the patterns on the moths... little skulls on mottled yellow and brown bodies.  And then all at once, the moths released from my skin and took flight.  They flew into what I thought was a mirror, what I thought was a pond.  They passed through what I thought was a barrier and scattered into the other side of night.  And I followed after them.

I thought of this dream and childhood memory as I carved the death's head moth ornament.  (It can also be used as a large pendant, if one so desired.)  Moths are symbols of transformation and transitions and changes.  They are harbingers of journeys, both spiritual, emotional, and mental.  They deliver messages and seek the light in the dark.  Some believe that they warn of death, but what is death?  We are taught to be afraid of death.  We are taught to fear the unknown.  But death is another stage of life, when one thing must reach its end and we must let go of what we thought we knew and go forth.  Just because our eyes can't penetrate the dark of night does not mean it is devoid of substance or activity.  Moths are symbols of mystery.

If you're interested in acquiring one of these hand-painted pieces that I cast in resin, CLICK HERE.

Eight of Pentacles & the Scorpion...

10/18: Eight of Pentacles,  The Wild Unknown TarotScorpion, The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit Deck.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Graceful...


Daughter of Swords & the Fox...

10/17: Daughter of Swords,  The Wild Unknown TarotFox, The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit Deck.

Dreamers...

What does it mean to be a dreamer? In today's world, the word has taken on some rather political and racial connotations.  When I use the word, I can see some of my friends tense up, anticipating a diatribe on freedom and opportunity.

But today, I'm not talking about those Dreamers.  Instead, I'm talking about the everyday person who has aspirations and hopes for more.  Really, they're not so different, but I digress.

What does it mean to be a dreamer? Well, it means hard work.  I haven't met anyone who was a successful dreamer who didn't pour themselves into their calling.  To be a dreamer means that you're picking a path that is not always easy.  Life isn't easy, especially nowadays.  It seems like there's so much hurt in the world, so much division and conflict.  Is there more than there used to be?  Is this time and this place more negatively charged than before?  I don't think so.  We're just seeing it now.  And once you see it, it's hard to go back to blissful ignorance.  Once you know the world is hurting, it's hard not to hurt with it.  To be a dreamer though is to see something that isn't there and make it so.  To be a dreamer is to take the glitter of star-shine and moonbeams and nocturnal ponderings and fashion all those ephemeral things into something you can hold and touch.

William and I are both dreamers.

We've dreamed things that should never have been and yet they came to be.  Something that wasn't became something that was.

I think that we have achieved what we have due to a lot of different factors.  I think there is a lot of luck involved.  Luck in the traditional sense, of having good fortune.  And luck in the way that Oprah describes it as opportunity meeting preparation.  I also think it's because we work hard.  It isn't the same kind of work as being on your feet for hours serving food or mowing lawns in the hot baking sun.  (I know!  I've done both those jobs.)  It's the kind of work that requires you to bend a vision into reality... and that takes many forms.  It takes the form of all-night work sessions until your back is cramped and your fingers bleed, planning until there's stacks of papers surrounding you in scribbled-on piles, plotting, doing dull drudgery, putting stickers on bags, tubing beads, and addressing labels, and always dealing with people the way you would want to be treated.  That last thing doesn't seem like it should be hard work, but sometimes holding your tongue and just defaulting that they are good and kind and deserving of respect and compassion can be tricky, especially when their words and actions indicate otherwise.  Being a dreamer means that you have to be optimistic, persistent, and a wee bit stubborn.

But the real key to our successes as dreamers lies in the fact that there are other dreamers out there who believe in us and our abilities to make the intangible, tangible.  There are other people who have a little bit of vision and a little bit of faith and a little bit of wildness.  They have just the right ingredients, in just the right proportions, to see beyond what is and can make out what could be.  We belong to a tribe of people who believe in tenacity and the power of manifestation.  And those dreamers allow us to reach higher than what we could do on our own.

I remind myself of what it means to be a dreamer when I'm faced with challenges.  I remind myself that we are not alone.  I remind myself that the things that once seemed so impossible are now everyday.  I remind myself of the feeling of standing outside of myself, at the edge of something more, something wild and unknown and brimming with both possibility and danger.  I remind myself of taking risks and having blind faith that is unwavering when there are those that say NO and there are those who would seek to keep things just as they are.  I remind myself that dreamers are fighters and survivors and people who overcome.