TimeIsArt

Sleep is a time of dreams, a time in between the things of reality.

As we know from the stories of Nassim, we know that reality is made of things which rest in the spacetime as resonant holograms. Although made of stillness on the interstitial edges of vast ocean currents of universal energy, reality waves are rhythmic songs of passionate powers. Like all things, these powers are male and female. Twin mirrors, these divine souls are attracted equally to the journey inward toward source and the journey outward toward creation. Mother goddess reveals herself as the light contained inside back holes, colorful rays of energy that abandoned their efforts to escape the density of her attractive force, or were captured by the chaos at the edge of her event horizon. Divine creator reveals himself as all the immortal lights of time, all sparks and stars, all swirls and vortexes, energy rhythms and reflections dancing brilliantly on infinity’s expanding event horizon, seeking freedom in an endless sea of return which we know as memory, and also, God. In these journeys of light in time, beloved creation emerged, and living stories were stored as dreams,

Our lives are filled with the spacetime of this memory. We live them by day, and dream remember them by night. This pattern emerged from our dance with the Sun. By day she feeds us and teaches her ways. At night, we collect the memories, dance around the fires, sing songs of our lives, and dream.

Sleep is a time of dreams for all beings. All beings emerge in the light, and collect their memories in stillness, or darkness. In the mists of morning, the memories are all that is left of the lives visited in the dreams. It was just such a misty morning as this that an ancient being awoke from a very long dream. Her hair and face were covered in sand on the beach where she awakened. Exhausted she watched the sun rise, hardly believing that she had arrived.

Her swim began yesterday in the daylight. She could not wait for another night before setting off, for the fear and hunger that drove her escape would claim her. Defiantly into the water toward the setting sun, she prayed for luck and surrendered to the waves. Intending to go forward, and never to return, she believed in stories of the invisible island. She believed the spirits of her grandmothers knew she was coming and would show her the way.

Sylka learned of the island at the knee of her ancient great grandmother Merka. Gran Merka had dazzling grey hair, and had lost the use of her eyes to her ancient age. With a beautiful rod made of the sacred tree, she kept the fire of the hearth in the gathering garden of her simple home. Although she had many children, Gran Merka lived alone, except for the children deposited there by many mothers in the circle of trust.

Gran Merka’s garden was a wonderful place for children. Kids old enough to help and too young for their adult initiations were welcome to make a place for themselves, and camp in the garden or a nearby meadow where a stream flowed down from mountain lakes. With gentle instructions from the beloved elder, children learned from her and each other the arts of gardening, fishing, and cooking. Sylka lived there often as a child, along with her brother Syngullus at times when her parents travelled away from their home. These were happy times of freedom, sleeping often under the stars among flowers, waiting the few weeks or months for parents to return from their travels.

Gran Merka told stories to Sylka and Syngullus. Stories of gods and goddesses, magical beings in the woods and rivers. Always Sylka’s favorites were said to be born from the island of dancers, where immortal men and women lived freely in devotion to the arts of memory. Poetics and histories were told in the magic cave theaters hidden in mountains on the island. Dancers, singers, and musicians from this island performed in ceremonies on sacred nights under the starry sky, lit by huge bon fires and costumed in masks and body paints. Scribes and painters assembled on misty mornings and recorded the living stories of time with their arts, teaching these stories to apprentices and visiting scholars.

One dream…

A very heavy baby with the face of an old man barked orders to his parents, directing them where to take him in his little pram. The mother, knowing he was also an elder reborn in the body of a child, instructed the barking baby to first make amends for his crimes of the past, and honor her spirit, and repent for the damage he caused in the past through his demanding ways.

She said to him “I ask that you now honor me, to atone for harms you have caused to me. In the past, I offered my gifts to you freely, but you chose rather to steal them from me, and chose to offer me slavery, and hurtfully took my children from me. Instead of embodying loving like me, you taught them cruelly the ways to be hard hearted, elitist, dishonest, with vanity. You taught them to slavishly build towers of misery. Now, is that still you? This no longer is me. I will no longer live in this world of slavery. If I give you a body, then you must honor me. Instead of ignoring, exploiting, enslaving me, now you must make peace with me. Only this will set us both free.”

In the rest of the dream, a jealous brother teamed up with his friends to chase his sister out of the house given to her by her parents at their death. She swam away, remembering the day that she had left her brother betrayed, angry with him for the way he swayed, preferring his friends to their family that day. If only she had felt a ray of forgiveness, for him, from him, for her, on that day. If she only knew then, as now, to see through his nervous bravado to the soul who, like her, was born as a gift to her mother. When called upon to see beyond his rejection of family and abandonment of duty, to see that his greatest sin was only the longing for discovery and adventure, why had her heart been so hard? In her pain, she did not know and did not forgive the many years of sadness. She did not know and could not imagine how slowly and painfully he had learned their unfeeling ways of seducing, then reducing mens hearts to stray from the solid roots of their mother’s love, teaching him to prefer instead the game of prey, and the dance of love shortened to a single day, when too quickly a faster love is had and cast aside after tasting bad in favor of newer fantasy loves, more novel and more prickly. A game of pain paraded as pleasure, requiring sacrifice beyond measure, numbing the natural senses so only addictions exist where joys once thrived. Petty tyrants pretending to be powerful masters,  the wounded authors of missed destiny cried as the taste of their own divinity denied became bitter amid empty heavens, as truthful wisdom remained unrealized. Yet, finally, her brother, in a moment of tears, when their parents had passed in grief after five years, he rode past his learned fears in a desperate return to her home. And she, seeing only the anger of her heart, deepened the wound and sent him to his merciless consequences.

If beloved, I will keep them. If I not, then I won’t. This will help me find the way to honor do from don’t.