A Winters Dream

Preface

I love mantra.
I love music, particularly kirtan.
I love poetry and words.

I often wake myself with my snoring, lol…but on occasion, I wake myself reciting a mantra, or more recently, by remembering and muttering lines from a book, a poem, or a song, as if something within me is listening before I’m fully awake.

Trevor Halls, “I Remember You” was the song that pulled me from this dream. When I woke I knew I had to write down the dream immediately should the dream drift away like sleep smoke. I scribbled quickly in my journal, using the pen gifted to me by one of the friends God has placed at key moments throughout my life.

I don’t usually remember my dreams, it’s rare for me when a dream arrives with such clarity that I take note. Lately, tho’ I’ve been dreaming quite a bit, dreams that feel more like memories traveling backwards through time to find me.

Sleeping, drifting but not lost. I was aware of the bed, the comfort of my pillows and the weight of the blankets. I was aware of my breathing…the cool winters air on my inhale, the softening of my belly on the exhale.

Breathing as if breath itself was the spell of dreams. 

Resting in that liminal world pilgrims know well… the place where the body releases and the sentinels keeps watch. A sleep that follows long days of walking, or seasons of healing, when breath becomes the doorway to silence, stillness, and dreamscape. 

The house in Ojai appeared as if itself was the message.

Hardwood floors glowed with late afternoon sunbeam. Warm starlight speckles traveling through the windows and past the colorful curtains, dancing in the beam of the sun. The fireplace held candles instead of flame, their light flickering gently against the inner walls of a Riverstone hearth. Above the mantle hung my Robert Knight photograph of Point Lobos’ China Cove, a familiar shoreline watching over the room like a bestowed blessing, a benediction from another life.

Each time I breathe, the space widens.
Each time I soften, I feel held.

Boxes stood scattered across the floor, some opened, some still taped up, crumpled brown paper like shed skins, stacks of books waiting to become mini libraries around the house. French doors opened onto a small patio where rosemary, basil and the sweet scent of climbing Don Juan roses escaped, mingling with the scented air of wine, ocean and ancestors. The earth was warm. California warm. Beyond it all, Ojai’s Pink sky was settling across the valley, the light shifting into something mythical.

I inhaled.

And with that breath, I felt more than recognized the terrain.

This was not simply a dream. Not simply a place.

It was a sign pointing the way.

On the Camino, you learn that the path does not reveal itself all at once. It arrives through felt sensation, and emotion, a knowing of the breath, through a quiet reassurance that arrives when you no longer need to be convinced that you’re heading in the right direction.

Each time I breathe, something surrenders, Something lets go.
Each time I trust, the Way reveals itself.

I realized I was dreaming, Even in sleep, I softened deeper, regulating my breath as if walking a steep descent, careful not to jolt myself back into the starkness of the waking world. I crossed the threshold into the stillness inside myself, listening, surrendering. In this surrender something unclenched, the edges of my body shimmering as my soul stepped out of the confines of body into dream.

And then I saw her.

Through the French doors, she sat on the porch with a magical pen and a leather journal open on her lap. Both pen and journal, given long ago, in another life time by a lover who once knew how to see me. Her posture was relaxed, unguarded. Her dark soulful eyes lifted to meet mine, smiling in recognition.

A recognition pilgrims give one another when they realize they have been walking the same road all along.

I remember you.

She smiled and raised her hand in a small, excited wave. Her voice called out softly, carried on the same current as breath. A gentle lull lapping and ebbing against my heart.

I’ve been waiting for you.
Welcome home.

Each time I hear those words, I feel steadier. Safer.
Each time I inhaled the distance between us closed.

She was me… and I was her.

She who knows the rhythm of my inner sea.
Ancient not in years, but in the many lives of a lifetime.
She who has lost the way and found it again and again.
She who understands that healing and wholeness is not a destination, but a practice, a continuous return.
one breath, one step, one letting go at a time.

I crossed the sunbeam and walked towards her…towards myself, with tears rising,

There you are, I whispered.

We embraced, laughing, our words overlapping the way they do between best friends who share the same inner language.

Here we are.
You did it.
You made it.

On the Camino, arrival is never an ending. It is always… a pause. A moment to raise the glass, to mend the feet, the body, and the heart, to acknowledge the distance covered before the next stretch of road unfolds.

The dream felt the same as standing before a cathedral after weeks of walking, not in conquered triumph, but a soulful relief of feeling safe, of being seen by the force and intelligence behind my life.

Each time I breathe, I feel accompanied.
Each time I soften, I feel free.

A dream connection of remembering, a return again to the path, to my being, to the one that has always known my name, and to the quiet intelligence moving through it all.

Another yellow arrow had appeared.

Like the rare remembered dream, Sentinels move through my life in many disguises, dream mirrors of myself, family members, lovers and forever friends appearing as protectors, guides, teachers, plot-twisters, and signposts, lighting my path along the Way.

I dedicate this piece to the Pilgrim and the Path.

To the sentinels that have guided me along the Way.

and to Dreams

~Leora

Can you step inside this doorway and tell me love, how does the dreamer inside you show her face. They say my words are empty and out of touch, But I know you know the language of this place. Cause I remember you, do you remember too?

~ Trevor Hall

***

Camino

Pilgrim

***

it is good to see you again.

In dreams…

Ghosts

A Reverent Wonder

Walking the Inner Camino

Black Moth

the most beautiful color green

An Inheritance of Love