Tuesday, November 29, 2011
I get by with a little help from my friends
Steven of the beautiful blog The Golden Fish has planted the seed of a notion in my head/heart, that there actually IS a book inside me, one that has been buried beneath chase scenes and espionage, disguises, double crossing boyfriends, Yemeni jail cells and all other manner of intrigue.
This notion brings to mind the dream I had the night before my first initiation in the shamanic arts. I dreamed I couldn't hear very well. In the dream I figure out I've got earplugs on/in. I take them out, but find there is a second pair of plugs underneath. I keep pulling out pair after pair of earplugs, long since compressed into almost solid cubes of dense foam. At the end of the dream I'm pulling out the final layer: stories from the New York Times that have been folded into tiny squares and inserted in lieu of earplugs.
It was the next day I "heard" my spirit guides for the first time.
What an incredible dream, hey? That was decades ago, but I remember it vividly, oh yeah.
Maybe blogging has helped me uncork the well of words I know exists within me, kind of like removing the layers of earplugs in the dream. Maybe 'The Tell' could be seen as analogous to the stories from the New York Times, folded neatly into tiny squares, tucked deep into my ears, into my brain!
Steven's insight, that 'The Tell' was a cleansing, resonates powerfully for me. I'm intrigued. While I wait to see what happens with that, I'm writing a word portrait of Vega that goes deeper than anything in 'The Tell.' I'm filling in some of the empty spaces, about her family; the father, a Cold War era spy, her alcoholic mother who is uptight, shut down, even after a few scotches. I'm writing about Vega's disability.
It's hard to say goodbye to Vega!
Happy Tuesday, y'all. Peace.