I haven’t blogged for a while. I think Trump’s presidency threw me off, but maybe that’s just an excuse. Hillary’s presidency would have also messed with my reality. I’m not a simple person. I don’t even think Jesus could fix things at this point!
But I am back to dreaming — remembering my dreams, and that is a very good sign. A start. Paying attention to my dreams brings a certain dimension of depth back into my life. They show me what my life looks like from the perspective of inside out. But when you are inside, that is, dreaming, you are in the dream and you are in your dream-body. The inside is the whole reality. When you wake up, if you remember the dream, the dream is a memory and you are back in your body-self, which likes to think it’s in charge. You are back in your head.
Our waking life thrives on all of the attention we can spare it. We are committed to living our waking lives on many levels simultaneously. And that seems to suffice when the world is not in crisis, or at least when we perceive that the world is not in crisis, we can focus on our lives, our commitments. Trouble is, as a poetic soul, and a dreamer, in my life, there have been few contiguous years when I can say the world wasn’t in crisis.
I was a child of the 50s (post WW2). That was the beginning of the Cold War. And the nuclear threat. The battle for civil rights was heating up.
In the 60s, our leaders were being assassinated, China was in revolution. Vietnam was escalating, the civil rights movement was in full swing. The working class was being screwed. The living wage was frozen. The environment was going down the tubes.
The seventies were a time to catch my breath, I suppose, even though our government was morphing into a modern Roman Empire, I sat tight. I pretty much minded my own business, reading, filling notebooks with dreams and journaling, trying to grow up, trying to figure out Continue reading