The Ark


Her nails were all clean

Mariah sat out side her own house, looking at her chipping nails and removing the dirt that migrated in there, as she had been working with her plants again. Her fingers were responding to some attention from the Dwarves of the Hands and they rubbed oils and poked with blunt implement to push around what was too tight and too crooked or was going that way in both her thumbs. She appreciated the attention from them and enjoyed the chat. She liked to hear stories from them and asked them for dreams. The last time she did not hear a dream but her worker noted that she had this thing of wanting the dishes done even as she did not find time to do them before she came to work on hands.  All the while she was away from her place she though of those dishes lying around and so wanted that to not be the case. 

The hand workers

When she came home the dishes were done and she thanked her husband three times for doing this chore. He was a bit puzzled with her that she was so thankful and relieved. Mariah thought it was something to do with her mother. The worker slanted her eyes, and looked into the distance. Mariah wanted to continue but she changed the subject saying that the egg that she cooks is never as good as the one she gets from someone else. And that was that. Mariah thought it was still due to her mother but she kept silent as her hand was being pulled this way and that. Surely she would soon be cured.


Mariah had the feeling she had something to do with what was happening to her own body, as it vacillated this way and that, sometimes feeling fully cured, sometimes on her last gasp. The rain and the wind and the snow and the ice seemed to bring their own special messengers of rawness and it had been raining since last May, at least eight months now.

The bog holes were full and overflowing and the rivers went along fast and furious, some overflowing their banks. The lower reaches of her house sported a little stream at times. She refused to get excited about it and waited for it to leave of its own accord. The March rains were sure to spring up, as there were springs underneath the hill she lived on. She used to push that pure clean water around in a furious manner ushering it out the far corner until she was in a sweat, in her bare feet.  One time, she had just finished bathing when the flood came in and she danced all around looking all white and bouncy, with her brush until she was out of breath. There was little use pushing that water all around the place and she threw the brush in the rising water. As she turned, she slipped in the thin layer of find mud under her bare feet. She  landed in the corner and there she spied out one of Uishneach’s green garments, clogging the exit hole for the water. She was glad he was out for a few days as she brought it out to hang to dry on the bushes. She noticed something heavy in the pocket and found two pieces of gold. She would keep it for one of her own projects, or for a rainy day and there were plenty of them.

The three ark builders

Uishneach had started to build an ark in the lane and there was great interest in this large thing in the middle of the midlands with no water in sight. “But it will be here for when it floods” is what Uishneach said.  He had three workers putting it together and there were great conversation about how to cover in the sides. What color of paint? how thick the boards? Uishneach left and his workers came for just a few hours here and here. Mariah paid them little heed when they wanted money, keeping her gold pieces for herself. She had mixed feeling about this ark. Maybe she would have some good fire wood for next winter. The end. 

The side of the Ark

From her porch, Rose heard a group of ten bikers going up the street, skinny and black clad, on dark shiny bikes, close together and moving in unison. One had pink stripes on the lower back and others had other small signs scattered on their tight clad muscles to help them to be seem. It is a steep hill and as Rose looked around to see them there was one talking about something on the front page of the newspaper and “wouldn’t it be funny if”…  that is all Rose heard. Others things she heard from passing bikers in the past were “My wife works at JMU” and other little phrases, full of loud words that she has forgotten.

The wheels on the bikes

She always listens keenly to the Man Bikers hoping she will get some great words of wisdom to flow in over the hedge to her or through the opening at the steps where she gets glimpses of them. She likes to hear this man talk as she is always talking to women. 

Rose had a dream last night set in the churchyard back home in Rosemount, in County Westmeath, Ireland where there was a great free feast. The feast was not in the church but in the opposite direction. Rose went up to the nuns and brothers who were in charge of the feast. A line had formed and Rose wanted to know how long she would have to wait. Some people left and then she was first in line. The nun was dressed in white, with veil and wimple on. Rose could see her face plainly as she addressed her with her question. 

Love you. I pray for you, you pray for me. We will both be ahead. I write my dreams, you write out yours. We can both plan to get some instruction from our dreams and partake in the great free feast. We will be ahead again. Love from Rose.

Sitting in my counseling room in Harrisonburg Virginia

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Asse’s Ears

The Story Teller from the West

The story teller was happy telling stories

When the storyteller from the West came he started his story on this evening, by mentioning the boards at the end of the lane behind which the story takes place. He told the story of the young man with ass’ ears that had got in control of the older woman, who liked her cups of wine. He was carrying her around at too fast a pace for her liking but she could not get his ears to listen or slow down. He left her on an island called Pattimos. She felt very lonely and abandoned in a place where the only thing she had was a number of wet empty purses she pulled out of the lake. They once were lovely leather purses and she asked who would do such a thing. She considered getting into one of the purses for shelter, for durance, for survival, anything to leave the rock, hard and cold. She just could not make herself small enough.

The one with the ass’s ears

She was advised by the donkey with a human head to look toward the horizon, as all help came from that direction. She sat on a rock and waited as she contemplated.  She kept looking toward the horizon, and memories came to her.

From the dreamwork – trying to see what is outside the cave.

Her father’s old letters, written when she was an infant came to her. She felt that loneliness inside, her own loneliness for her mother, when she was parted from her, hidden for a very long time. She looked into little boxes on shelves, in the home of her grandmother, to find the feelings, long since lost, forgotten, rejected. She felt the holes in her heart, which she filled with wine, to numb them out. But now when the empty spaces in her heart raised their heads looking for the feelings put away in boxes at such a young age, she flew toward the horizon and got in the golden boat, and went to her old house and found the shelves.

The Island

The most beautiful feelings, the very thing she needed, to get her off that stone, that deserted island, were in those boxes on the shelves. She notices that the purses regained their original luster and were the perfect place for such feelings. She put a halter on that guy with the ass’ ears and he did not buck but followed along, mesmerized by those purses, in love with what was stashed in them. She thanked the ass with the human head, who gave her directions. And she bowed to the golden boat and let it go again; knowing it would be there when she needed it next. The storyteller ended the story by saying “And were I have come from, at the end of the lane, that I have told you.” He stayed for the music, eating and drinking such thing as they had, enjoying everything and going his way early the next morning. The end.

Beautiful feelings

Rose is having a couple of dreams, in which there is a male figure, young, tall, not anyone she knows but someone familiar. In each dream he is associated with someone who wants to help. When there is a big inundation in the city, three times, he is standing on the rubble and Rose is ok each time. She is afraid and burrows and climbs. She ends up looking out a window, mostly dirty, a glass darkly. She is glad she is safe and has a helper. The most recent one is one where a similar male figure is telling her he will help her with the healing Rose is trying to bring about to cure her, saying he will help her figure out how to use the oil for healing. 

helpful male figure from the dream

I am looking forward. I hope you are too as you sit in the present moment of your life and your dreams. Start your born again life with your dreams and a little recording book beside your bed. You will be happy for this awareness now and for the awarenesses it will bring to you as you go forward. I look forward to hearing from you. All Dreams and Art making are acts of Love. Love from Rose.

Something out of alignment

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Simple Grace

Drawing of the lecturers

A neighbor waking past paused at the arch in my hedge and said I have just two words for you, “simple grace.” I thought of my mother’s words “Pour forth, we beseech Thee Oh Lord, thy grace into our hearts.” Grace is acknowledging “Sat Cartar,” “God is the Doer.” Taking a breath of life and acknowledging the privilege and ecstasy of that or just listening to your heart beat and saying the name of God with each beat brings us into grace. There are many thousand-heart beats in a day. Grace blinds out any and all karmic past, and fears, and pulls us out of all that we have wrapped around ourselves as defense against love. Grace is receiving love from that which is able to transcend the physical heart and go into the psychic heart chakra. Grace is of the mystical, which has profound effects on our nervous system bringing health and healing, rejoicing in being alive. 

Recent watercolor worked on beside the river using river water with the paints.

I am sitting again at the Wayne River and four guys are fishing happily. It is my birthday and I am trying to do things on my birthday that I intend to keep going for the year. So a little writing at the water’s edge is in order as I sit watching. He caught a fish but as he pulled it in, it got off the hook. It was about 12 inches long and splashing and wriggling a lot. He did not seem to have a net to pop him in or care that he got away. The three guys lines up one right behind the other after that, as it is a good spot. He caught a smaller one and got the hook out and let him off. He said that is where the fish are but they are “not biting hard.” Silence. 

Fish or geese – hard to tell.

A goose comes by, fussing at the fishermen for a bit but ultimately decides to swim on down the river past them, calling for mates. The wren and the cardinal and the chickadee were singing and many other birds, even as it was in the forties and windy. Spring cannot be far away. Next thing she heard was “Holy Shit.” The fisherman had caught a much longer fish. He let it go also. His wader sprung a leak and he was wet from the foot to the knee. He left with his companions and smiled at me as they went past. Two geese flew up the river, one behind the other, honking, near to where I was sitting. I always enjoy this nearness to birds in flight. 

Lots of layers on her.

Would I get into the water or not. So many layers to divest, before I could hit the water and a swimsuit that was as tight as it could be. I dragged it up over my behind under the cover of my great warm pawnshaw. To recover, to redress, from this arctic plunge, heading the invitation to go into the Holy water of the river on my birthday, asking for a washing, a baptism to look forward into a new trundle around the sun, cleaned up, set in stone of myself, maybe even a new name of being a servant too. 

She dreamed of going through the motions of pulling off her sweaters, arms up and pulling over the head. She knows she is pulling off that which is between her heart and her love and her God. 

White stones by the River Wayne. I heard a comment recently from a man who said he through stones looked prettier than anything man was able to make.

I go into the water to pull off all my sweaters, layers, to bear my heart in love, to let out love so later I can sit in silence and in patience. I need the patience to wait on the still small voice, to wait until I feel the Love of God coming down into my heart. Thy will can be done on earth as it is in heaven, through me and in me. Thy kingdom come into me through my electric cord, the marrow of the back bone, coming down from the Pineal and the Pituitary, the Crown and the Third eye chakras. To bring in love to the heart that throws out starlight all through the trunk but especially into the heart, so I can pull off the sweaters of defense, the sweaters of pointing and me me. Then the Love, Peace, Patience and Understanding, the four real chambers of the heart chakra can circle together, spinning out the woven of love, on which to rise, on which enfolds all we find ourselves doing in service. This morning I fell into the silence after an hour sit and felt the peace spreading out from the back bone. It was a lovely gift from the silence.  

I found this description I wrote some time ago in my little green book of the miracle of the tree:

The sacred geometry of the tree

The tree shapes wave at her as V and A and X, circles, trapezoids, dodecahedrons, diamonds and arches, crescent moons, raised fingers and hands and parallels. The leaf colors tells of retreating life force that leaves the tree to go around the world on a winter vacation. It comes back up again into leaves and fruits and according to its kind from the stream of life giving us gifts.

She sat under the Walnut tree on a spring day last year and heard a great racket. The grass turned a luminous green.  Then she heard the churns in the tree spinning water into sap so that the butter of the leaves could spring fourth and the flowers and the fruit of that fat could appear in clusters at  the end of the branches for squirrels to know and to reach and to eat. They carry the walnuts down to her deck and leave a great array of black walnut shell staining the boards, for her to kick away never to say it is all a great miracle. 

Churns inside the tree

And in autumn that sap goes back through the churns, leaving color behind telling of its owner and origins, falling down deep into the stream of life, jetting off to go around the worlds, holding it all in place, coming back ready to parcel it up into the tree when the time is right for the butter birth again of 1,500 walnuts.  

The stream of life pours fourth on to the earth all the time.

I hope you are enjoying this snow day. A little hail was falling making its own noise after the silent snow falling. I have to shovel a bit and will think on what can be shoveled out of me and my body as I exercise this incredible body that follows my instructions to lift and throw, scoop and puff and blow. I am a lucky soul to be so gifted to be on this earth for this lifetime.

Happy dreaming and meditation to you. Love from Rose.

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Religions Ritual

Holy Communion, the Host, is part of the ritual of Rose’s mother religion. She partook of this communion from the age of six, when she received her First Holy Communion, in a white dress and veil and white handbag. She had the little prayer book and white rosary beads and a shilling, given to her by her father. He was  wearing a blue cardigan, some squared on it and he was tall to her height and he put the shilling on the end of his outreached fingers and smiled at her as she reached for this unknown lucre, knowing it meant love to her rather than the coin of the realm.

Rose is happy with her shilling

 Her First Communion was preceded by her first confession, held in the church, in the confessional box, on a school day, awaited with great anticipation by a nervous school teacher. The priest came when he pleased and Rose and her class mates were ready. They had to come up with their own sins. Her teacher did a run through with her little charges, so there would be no hitch with the priest. Rose’s first little sins were hunted down and were made ready to be furled at the priest.

Figuring out sin at age six was not easy

She said “Bless me Father for I have sinned.” The priest, on the other side of the small screen, received her whispered words. She was standing up on her tippy toes in order to see and hear him, the outline of his lips and nose just visible, in the almost dark confessional box. Her penance was to say three Hail Maries which was almost impossible to do, paying attention to counting and saying Hail Maries at the same time. It took a while to be sure it was all done. Walking up to receive her first communion in front of a full church was daunting but she was in the first row, pure white inside and out, with her teacher at hand and strict instruction to swallow the communion and not chew it. 

The teacher and the priest

With the dream of stepping into the host, the host symbology, has brought Rose to a different energetic awareness. Her understanding is a reference to that light of the heart area, big and round, when filled up by God in Meditation. If she evokes this holy communion of Christ, Jesus, then she had something to give within the babble, bubble of her life. It is the “Our Father’s” will to give us this pouring down into the Heart Area. We have to receive the light, with the emphasis on the “receive.” Slow down and be still. A falling down feeling into love.

Looking at dreams from both sides.

Now she sees it more clearly, as the white energy in her, connecting her to the heavens and to the earth. The words from the “Our Father” are; “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” in the higher chakras as in the lower chakras and scattered all through the body, like stars furled all through the firmament, an image/feeling that came to her in a recent meditation.

These are redhead and canvas back ducks on the lake in Dayton, attracted by the open water and springs underneath when much other water was frozen.

Dayton Lake is becoming her own local holy place. When she went out there recently on a fine Sunday she had the idea of get into that water of course. It was a cooler day, some wind. She parked her car and saw a couple watching the lake with their binocular, as there was a host of ducks not usually on the lake, to be seen. Rose asked if she could have a look through the binoculars. The canvas back ducks were especially lovely, white mostly and red brick colored heads. There were a few redheads as well and a flock of golden eye ducks on the other side of the lake. She looked them up in her National Audubon Society book about birds and it was amazing to read the little details about them. They are such a treasure and while getting scarser due to the removal of their marshes that they need to breed, they can be seen still by Rose on the little local Silver Lake. 

Mole Hill and Silver Lake in Dayton Virginia and Rose contemplating the waterfall in front of her.

Rose found out the ducks were feeding near where the lake spring comes up and that it is twenty feet deep there. It is close to the foot of Mole hill and Rose could not help but wonder if this water had been filtered through the volcanic hill of black basaltic rock, making it more special for dipping into. The lake may look shallow but it has its wonderful own third eye, pouring forth clean water. Most of the green algae like strings have left the lake now and it seams cleaner in the coolness of the winter weather. When Rose was in a meditative mood one night she was drawn into this spring of holy water being given up from the depth of Silver Lake.

Lady of the Lake

I had a dream of coming to the edge of a cliff and I am carrying three bags. I propose to climb down, but am facing the wrong way. There are iron foot holds. After this dream I was waiting for something to happen and it did . I slipped enough to hurt my left knee, which swelled and rendered my prone for most of the weekend. I can see that I am facing “the wrong way” and carrying too much from this dream.

I read a few random passages from the Bible and I got the impression from all of this that God had little patience with doing things without the fast and well-held hand of God in it. I will slow down enough to read the Holy Book of my Christian religion and see if I can turn around. It involves slowing down enough to be still, to paint and to rest and to be in the right bag of attitude. The burden to these bags are so light and easy then. 

Traveling without any bags

And if you want to work on your own bags of stuff, be sure to ask me for one of my books of Dream Leaflets, where there is a chance to write and to draw your dreams. I look forward to hearing from you. 

If you like the above please click the like buttons and I always love your comments. I am a licensed professional counselor in Virginia and can be found on Psychology Today where you can read all about my qualifications. Love from Rose.

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Blossoms Pink and White

Happy Valentine’s Day

My father was elected to drive my great grandmother’s car and it was kept at our house. It was a black ford. I remember standing behind the front seat and looking over my grandmother’s mink stole as we rode along. It tickled my nose and the feel of it was soft to the hand. The stole had two little mink heads joined in the middle and they could be a bit frightening at first until we got used to them, with their glassy eyes. The sole reason my father was given this car is that great-grandmother could no longer climb up into the horse and trap to go to Mass. She wanted him to show up on Sunday, at her house, three miles from my father’s house, and carry her to mass so she could go to Heaven when she died. 

Great Grandmother road a horse when she was a young woman. Above Photo taken in Dayton Virginia.

She had two sons in the priesthood, Father Bernie and Father Tommy, a fact that pretty much guaranteed her getting into Heaven. They both came to see her on her deathbed and she told them the Virgin Mary was at the end of the bed, taking her over, as she left this world, heaven bound. She said rosaries almost continuously when she was sitting beside the fire from aged sixty to aged ninety. She got arthritis and decided to retire to the fireside at age sixty. She deserved this rest as she had singly handedly raised seven children and also ran the farm.

She wore black clothes and was a petit old lady. After mail started to be delivered to her house, she would have it put in one of the sheds, where a great horde of paper accumulated, according to one of my older sisters, who visited when great grandmother was alive. Moddy told my mother that she would have a boy with the next pregnancy and after four girls my mother and father were happy that she proved accurate. 

She saw a great light of the Virgin Mary at the end of her bed.

I remember being at Moddy’s house, at age four or five, in the years immediately before her passing over. She would get myself and my younger sister to come and be with her, at her knee. She would have us say the prayers with her, kissing the cross at the beginning. My sister and I had sat in the soup of my mother’s prayers since being in the womb.  We probably babbled the “Hail Mary” from the age we were learning to talk. 

I have a springtime memory of being in Moddy’s house sitting at the kitchen table, a tree outside that window, in full blossom bloom, probably an apple tree. My sister and I had had a bath and out little faces were pink and white like the blossoms outside.   On the table was two plates loaded up with apply pie, the kind that has secret ingredients straight from heaven, lemon tones, apples from the garden of paradise, honey sugar dripping thickly around the pie. It was surely overseen by God and his wife. Phyllis Maxwell did the hard work, a beautiful young woman whom we watched with the long glass green bottle used to roll out the pastry. She wore a print white dress with apple blossoms on it and her sleeves rolled up. She worked fast scattering flour around to prevent any sticking.

The apple pie

Our little blue eyes imparted our own magic into the dough. We were given a little piece of dough each to play with and our creations were put on top of the pie, as the apple blossom adornment. Phyllis put a large scoop of whipped cream on top of the hot cooked pie and we tucked in to this something, making us round and pink and white, under our two bent over the pie, curly be-ribboned heads, my sister blonde and I dark brown.  

The Pie Maker

As an older woman, walking or riding a bike on the roads, around by the railway gates, I would go onto this avenue and into the house. The house was used for a shed for cattle by then but it had a lovely yard with some cobblestones and a bridge over a stream. The stairs in the house was still in tact if not the loft to which it led. It was hard to imagine the big family of seven children plus parents living there. There was a statue of “The Child of Prague” in one of the small windows, letting light in. 

The little ones

After many years, it was decided to “get rid of this” beautiful old car from Moddy, with the running board along the side. My father choose a newer looking second hand model. He cast aspersions on this car from the first moment he brought it home to the farm, having bought it with his own good money. Later it let him down by grinding to a halt far from home. I still see that jalopy with my father standing looking into its engine, smelling of burning rubber and some blue smoke coming out of it. I fumed alongside him as he stood with a bewildered look on his face.


I learned to fume at inanimate objects, give them value and to curse them, enraged that that second hand piece of car was not what it was supposed to be. It had the nerve to carry us far from home and to stop and never to go from there again and I learned the treachery of the car that smoked. Later when I had a secondhand yellow car, I treated it with great suspicion at times if the engine light came on or if it made a “noise.” Now if you look carefully, you will see blue smoke swirling around behind my eyes when I get mad. 

I heard some marvelous dreams this week; one was of a man morphing into a pig that was able to knock down a “tower of babble” in his dream. Sometimes it takes fast instinctual energy to take care of business that is not so good. An others came to me with no dreams at all but two mandalas were drawn in session and I was able to use my Mari training to work with the shapes and colors together and to have the client speak of her experiences.

You too can come to work with dreams and mandalas. They make more sense than anything else to me. I am always excited to work with this deep connections between many things including the stream of life that underpins the psychic, the psychoanalytic, the dreams, the unconscious, religious experience and the right side of the brain. Love from Rose. 

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Climbing the Mountain

Perhaps there is a woman and man on the moon

Rose thought of Saint Patrick who travelled across Ireland to go up a mountain, The Reek, also called Croagh Patrick. He stayed out there for forty days and nights and had his visions. Surely he was pinned to the mountain as the moon came and went on those forty nights. In the fifth centaury the Christians took their religion seriously, looking for the connections only to be found in aloneness between self and Source/God. There is a direct line between Tara, where he lit the pascal fire and this Mountain on the Atlantic West Coast of Ireland. It crosses the Hill of Uisneach, known in ancient times as the Naval Stone of Ireland.

The naval stone is a standing stone

Rose climbed Croagh Patrick with some of her sisters and her Father and brother. Mary, now deceased, was the one who ran ahead all the time, light on her feet. We left home at 6 am or earlier. Rose can still see her father’s blue eyes close to her face, as he woke her up to get ready to go. They got to the Reek near nine am and started the climb. It was a long hard climb, especially the last bit, as it was all scree and fairly up straight. It was August and steam came off their backs as they climbed that last bit, toward the middle of the day. They had to look out for the people going down as sometimes they started going faster and faster and could not stop. They would have a frantic look on their face as legs went out of control, arms and legs going in all directions. One passed nearby close enough to touch.

There was a cool stiff sea breeze on the top. There were prayers and rosaries to be said, plus confession and Holy Communion, even Mass. Many priests did the climb and signed up for saying mass as part of their climb. Pilgrims knelt down on stony places. Rose and her siblings were treated to a tin cup full of strong sweet tea shared among them, procured by their father from the little gray clad man with the donkey who had such fare for a price.  

Rose’s father liked to make a picnic on the way home and set a fire and made some fresh tea and some sandwiches and variety cakes purchased in Lynam’s Bakery in moat. There was one Rose liked in particular, full of lemon tasting cream in a pastry. A big fluffy one full of cream in the middle, sprinkled with powdered sugar was another favorite. Getting a mouthful from each one was the most that could be done with sharing these treats. The large slice of “plain loaf,” white and spongy covered in homemade rhubarb jam was a welcome meal after the hard hike up the mountain.

Climbing up together

Her father got leg cramps as he drove the “blue Vauxhall” through the stoney somewhat treeless Connemara on the long straight roads between water and bog and rocks. Her father had to stop the car to walk a bit, a time or two, until he got better. He looked very serious, as he walked up and down on the tarmac road for the cramps to subside, ill equipped to fathom the meaning of pain for him as he aged.  He did all the driving. Rose was sleeping on the back seat by then, and as she woke herself up in the silenced car, she looked out the window and observed him in his walk at a slight distance, and she worried for the worried look on his face.  They arrived home a weary bunch but with a memory of that ascension. The mighty ocean in the distance, the waves, the stiff breeze, being higher than anyplace she had ever been before, combined to make her very glad to be home again. 

Those runners were crazy

Rose dreamed she found her earring with the two pearls on it, under a bench, near where a truck stopped in which she had been travelling.  She was so surprised to find the earring there as she had lost it twice lately. The pearls looked big like that eclipsed moon above. She was happy and just for good measure many of her lost gloves were there, as well as a pair that are new, that she likes a lot, and makes big efforts not to loose.  

One glove off and one glove on

She thinks she figured out this dream. It is about Rose as a MacTruck. She does not like them in general, they go fast, stones fly out of them, they spue black smoke etc. So if Rose is in her Mack truck she is in the ego, pushing along, not considering the spirit of things. Then if she get out of this truck she will find the pearls of Great Price, which are under a bench on cement. They need rescuing and she can only do that when she is out of her ego, personality and character and habitual ways, going straight forward where ever the spirit leads.

A naval stone from the Glen in Donegal in Ireland on a misty day

She was pleased to see this. She tried to forget this truck aspect at the beginning but it is the most important message in the dream. She got the interpretation when she pondered it at the beginning of a morning meditation, when she sat with her partner for forty minutes together in silence. As a result of having this dream she is challenging herself before bedtime to observe how she gets into that old Mack truck in herself, by her comments, showing impatience by her blue eyed stare or otherwise ego filled effort to be in control and block out the spirit.

Drawings from the porch

If you have some dreams about lost pearls or trucks, or dreams that bring in the other marvelous symbols of a great blue color, or wearing a straight black wig, then write down three or more and come visit me in my sun filled room. We will see about making straight the old waste places, pay some ransom to grow into other and in the spirit and find ways everlasting. Love from Rose.

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I See the Moon, the Moon sees me.

My version of the moon

The wonderful moon eclipse inspired many people last Sunday night. In spite of it’s lateness, octogenarians and young people alike made a point of looking at it, as it went through it’s phases, all the way to 1.00 am and later. They spoke excitedly of it noting how they got texts from family members to be sure and look at it. 

It was a cold clear night for the most part. I was not too careful about dressing my lower half and just wore my light slippers on my feet. I had the sense to put on a coat and my big shawl on overly pjs and something resembling a hat, which kept falling off my head, when I lay down. My preferred hat, made of soft wool, a balaclava type, was missing in action hiding under a cushion. Even a wall hat did not want to go outside


The man on the moon perhaps

My plan was to get under the (small) electric blanket I keep out on the porch and to lie down and look up from the dry boards of my porch, leaning out of the place I had chosen, as the moon was on a trajectory out of my sight all the time, over the roof, from where I lay.  I moved with it and got closer and closer to falling off the porch. My neck has a little extra tweak in it since that time, but well worth it to see the moon. Even with some wrapping up of myself in that electric blanket and putting another blanket over my feet the wind was very inquisitive and blew on me from all directions. 

I watched that pearly moon, no longer flat but round in shape, as it showed off its luster in the sparkling coldness of that night.  I had intended to meditate but had to keep adjusting those slippery blankets, which fell off of me and off of the porch. I just knew I should be meditating deeply, but old Jack Frost, was determined to keep me in my body by virtue of the cold. I was wide-awake all the time.

Where the dominos fell

The other problem was that when my head was covered well, my eyes could not see the moon for the hair and the lip of the cap too close over my eyes. I just had to keep adjusting. In getting a pillow on a chair I knocked down a big box of Domino bricks and just left them there to freeze like myself. I had left them on a chair to discourage the lovely black cat, Cocoa, from using my electric blanket as a way station, a place to clean his coat, in the sunshine, on those lovely warm days.

Tina was not around outside

There were people on the street and I heard the crunch of their feet on the grass nearby where there is no footpath. I wondered if a possum might stroll by but happily there were no animal visits that I was aware of. Those littler sounds most likely were the wind. That is what I told myself. Stabilizing the blankets around me in a better way, mostly alluded me too.

I watched the eclipse go full tilt from white round pearl into silver dark. It hung there near me, it seemed in its fullness, inviting me to stop and step on to it. It seemed so near. Some myths say that the moon gets filled up with souls who have passed away, and when it is full with those bright light-bearing souls, they all leave for the Many Mansions on the night of the full moon.

Many mansions

As I watched the dark silver moon, I saw a little sliver of golden light on the side of the moon, making it look like a cup turned on its side, light pouring out. As that light got stronger and filled the moon back up with light, there was a blue aura all around the backside of the moon as the sun made the sky around the moon look a dark blue. That blue was just on three sides of the moon. Where the sun started to shine on the moon, the sky was darker.

 When I got up I was astounded at the feeling of heaviness in my body, not unpleasant but noticeable and groundling, connected to light so far far away and feeling the pull of the moon, like a lay line into my heart. 

The moon travelled down to her.

I dreamed I found my lost earring with the two pearls on it, under a bench, near where a truck stopped. I was so surprised to find it there, as I had lost it twice lately, in reality. The pearls looked big like that moon above. I was happy and just for good measure many of my lost gloves were there also.

Feeling a little chilly

I will leave you with some words I wrote after a recent meditation:

I wanted to see the ocean recently but no one would go with me. Then the ocean came to me. With The body as ocean and the place where the tides meet land, in an out, the breath of the sea, ecstasy, Thy breath of me. In my breathing, going down through me, like the tide, in and out at the edge of the ocean, white and blue and green. Water and breeze and sand swishing in and out in the body and breath movement. God in the heartbeat. I am Thou Thee. A great peace and at the ocean. Felt the hands of love at the heart and felt loved, once again with Thee, feelings of delight and beauty, stars flying out of the heart area. Flowing back and forth around the hips and down the legs, feeling all love surrounds me.

Pray for me as I pray for my readers. Like if you do, share if you like and comments are so sweet and great to see. And an hour working with you and your dreams is the biggest gift of all. I am on Psychology Today, where you can find my contact information or on this site as a message. Love from Rose.

She got a little moonlight into her palm, taken while on the Ganges River in Benares at the Festival of Lights.

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