 "The Willow's Dance for the Ocean" Like waves that both crashed against my shore and gently lapped along my edges, I laid in a state of ecstasy, feeling the ripples and energy of the waves wash over me. I knew that I had been forever moved from where I once stood. As my rational mind slowly made its way back from the depths of the watery realm, I watched as the Willow gracefully collaborated with the Wind in the most exquisite of dances. For just a moment; the part of me which had not returned, the part of me which was still dancing on the edge of ecstasy could see the web that held it all together. The Willow and her roots always seeking water, always trying to find her way home to the Mother. Her dance was for the Mother of us all, the one she continually longs to be close to, the one that is home and the one that sustains life. For just a moment I could see her roots stretching like a network of fragile neurons, reaching for that which she loves, longs for, weeps for and always remembers. What had only moments before been ecstasy moved into the deepest waters of grief. I would later find myself on my knees weeping as I had watched the Willow do. I spoke words to the Mother of us all. As the tears flowed from my eyes I made an oath that I would do my part to assist in remembering Her... For the last year the water in my dreams has been steadily rising. Even when the dreams have been rooted in the sands and surroundings of this desert home, they have been messages speaking of the water's arrival. The rising of tides. The dry riverbeds of the arroyos flooding. In this nightly realm, even when the speech and messages have spoken to the absence of water, they have spoken about the events that will occur upon its arrival. What of the last five years of my inhabitance in this desert landscape has been or has served a purpose of "drying me out"? An evaporation or hollowing, a burning away of what is no longer needed or necessary for me to carry. Old ways of thinking like ancient aquifers that no longer reach to the places in need of irrigation, baking in the sun to dry and crumble and once again return to the earth. What if I have been training on how to survive and thrive in conditions such as these? As of late, the liquid landscape of the dreams has been increasing in intensity. Their message growing in strength, and speaking of a quickening. What if the magnificent Ocean Mother has been calling to me? Letting me know of our meeting or perhaps more appropriately of our reunion? When I made the journey to this arid land that has been my home for the past five years I thought then that I would root here for the remainder of my life. I had been called here in dreams by the voices of those whose legacies and lives have been seeped into this ground. This beautiful, rugged, wild and carved landscape has taught me much. She opened her arms and embraced me, and then, as she held me tight, she began her tempering. One lesson after another...parasitic infestations...the plummet of financial instability...near death by carbon monoxide poisoning...lessons on love and betrayal...a touch with bubonic plague...boulders falling from mesas and destroying my transportation...a swarm of locusts devouring the fruits of the garden...the list goes on and on... I wrapped my arms around her neck and held on tight, praying that she would change her embrace. I prayed that she would kiss me gently, whisper in my ear and speak to me of our love for one another. There were moments of such tenderness. Moments when she and I held hands and matched our footsteps to one another. But as a lover she would not marry her hand to mine. As is the case with lovers who sometimes magically enter our lives, the passion and the desire for union was intense, beautiful, epic - they teach us much. They hold a mirror of reflection up and we are blessed to see more clearly our own faces. She has done this for me. She has revealed pieces of my landscape that I had yet to know, that I could not see, that I refused to look at. As the marking of time passed and the events and happenings of the previous year drew to a close, an unexpected man entered my life. He arrived in this desert land with the whisper of the Ocean. The smell of her wind and body carried magically and embedded in his skin, being, words and way of existence. Recently I have found myself wondering if she had sent him to carry me in his arms to her. The cargo is being prepared. The route is being mapped and the sailing crew is almost assembled. The voyage from this land of sand and sun will set sail on August 20th, making a voyage that will lead to the waters. Mother, I am coming home to sit upon your shores and fulfill the promise that we spoke of in the watery realm of the dreams.  "Mother's Nature" What had only moments before been ecstasy moved into the deepest waters of grief. I would later find myself on my knees weeping as I had watched the Willow do. I spoke words to the Mother of us all. As the tears flowed from my eyes I made an oath that I would do my part to assist in remembering Her... That night as I slept I had the following dream… I am slowly meandering my way along a vast and expansive shoreline. There is only the shoreline, the Ocean, the edge created by their meeting and the sound and movement of the Wind. As I travel along the edge I glimpse a small hut a ways off in the distance. As I approach the hut I notice the absence of a door. I step through the opening and find myself inside with a Woman who is of substantial matter. She is sitting on the floor of the hut as if she has always been there, waiting. Her skin is the color of the deepest of sand and copper and her flesh is bountiful and gracefully drapes her bones in abundance and the wealth of her knowing. Her hair flows in thick and wild ropes around her shoulders, past her heaving breasts and touches the earthen floor of the hut. In front of the Woman is a low table made of driftwood that has swam in the waters of the Ocean since time began. On the table there is a row of necklaces each bearing an amulet. Each amulet has been made from pieces of the Ocean, pieces of Her. The Woman lifts her head and her eyes meet mine. She says the following; “My daughters are going to be in a play for the Ocean. Each daughter must pick an amulet to wear.” She finishes speaking and simply holds my gaze with her large eyes. It is as if she has always been here. Waiting. Less then a week after having this dream I was visited by a young woman. Upon arriving at my home she presented me with a present from her recent travels to the Ocean. She opened her hand to reveal a necklace with an amulet made from a white bursa center cut seashell. As she handed me the amulet she said, “I wanted to bring you an amulet from the Ocean.” As I turned to look at this young woman, for just one moment, in her eyes, I saw the eyes of that beautiful copper skinned Woman who has always been there. Waiting. If you would like to leave a comment or have thoughts to share please click on the word COMMENTS below.
 Turquoise Soul The world of my dreams drips - rich in images, symbols and swirling paint. Many years ago I began to think of the dream world as a reality that formed or was in parallel with that of the waking world. Dream visions and symbols began to pass through my being, the paintbrush in my hands, and onto the canvas that I painted. In reverse, the same occurrence was also true. Paintings that waited unfinished on the easel slipped into my dreams where the next layer of their becoming was revealed through symbols, events and other dream realm beings and participants. This has remained an ongoing reality. My dreams are the voices of ancient and unborn storytellers. These storytellers read life back to me, reveal messages of what has yet come to pass and weave the thread of my life's story with images, symbols, colors, sounds and otherworldly happenings. When the dreams sound their calling I have learned to listen. When the dreams do not speak, their silence is deafening, My body is the borderland where the worlds of dream and waking meet. It has been almost 20 years since I had the dream that was the impetus and inspiration for the painting that bares the title "Turquoise Soul" . When I awoke to find myself in this particularly dreamscape I had not yet laid eyes upon this land and earth which would become my home. It would be another eleven years before this waking world would move in tandem to the messages the dream had conveyed. It would be fifteen years until the borderlands of my body would bring these two realities together and join them in paint, turquoise, beads, feathers, copper wire and the soil of this land. But before I picked up the paintbrush and swirled the image of the dream into being, the experience of waking and walking in the dream world on that particular night was written in the pages of my journal... Dream of the Winged God. Above is an ocean of cerulean blue. Cliffs formed from layers of sand and story rising to greet the sky A solitary wind howls and moans. The wind’s voice seems to carry the sound of a name that I cannot quite hear. I am holding my son’s hand and we are walking through this pregnant canyon There is a slight pause, an irregular beat in the rhythm of space It is enough to reveal that we are in the land of dreams Off in the distance I see a large bird soaring through the open sky. The great bird approaches my mind tries to comprehend the truth of the message that my eyes continue to send. As the distance between us closes, the illusion fades in its entirety and I am left standing in the presence of an approaching god. In his wings span the centuries of time painted in the flame of turquoise, gold, white and copper Trails of wind left by his soaring wings push down upon us with the force of a gale. In the passage of the wind from his wings is a song that sings of the deepest rivers of sadness. In the passage of the wind from his wings is the hope for a people and of a place. In the passage of his wings are the threads of songs that are unraveling and forgotten – lost in the holes of time. In the passage of the wind from his wings is an embrace, which holds the breath of hope – eternal return Tears swell from in ancient eternal river and I weep at the aching love story, An ancient, rooted song so old and so fragile, As the feathers of his wings brush by my head, he rises and shoots straight into the painted sky. The sky opens and an emblem of beauty is revealed. Ancient symbols dancing to form a magical portal, a door. Designs formed from the color of clouds, gilded feathers, stones that sing, and the metal made from stars receive him into the heavens from which he came. I am left in the wake of a passing deity holding my small son’s small hand Listening to the wind echo the lament and sadness that has been conveyed by his proximity. The wind’s voice seems to carry the sound of a name that I cannot quite hear. …blowing through the canyon from the time in the memory of before. The dreams have once again begun sounding their calling. Fresh paint is drying on the canvas in the studio. The storytellers are turning the pages of time. There is a new chapter which has been carved into the stones of memory. I am walking between the worlds of what has been and what is yet to come.
If you wish to share a comment or a thought please click on the word COMMENTS below.
 Your Memory, My Hands It begins by closing my eyes and allowing myself to wander through the hallways of collected memories. The hallways in this interior world of recall are a dreamlike and misty place. A place where doorways open into pockets of times passed. When these pockets of time first formed, when they first occurred in their present moment, there was no way of knowing that they would form rooms and doorways constructed of their images, sounds and smells. In their inception, there was no way of knowing that they would live beyond the doorways that appear in the hallways of my memories. When I lower the windows that cover my eyes, I am searching for where you live inside of me. I am searching for those pockets of time that have been etched into my soul, the place where your memory will always live and continues to move through me and my footsteps. There is a place housed within my body and in close proximity to my heart that always begins to tremble and shake when I know I am moving in these hallways and I am approaching where you live. I always know I am getting closer when I begin to hear the echo of your laughter. I never knew that part of what I would long for and hold so dear would be the sounds your life made. Like a beautiful old vinyl record complete with the sounds of crackling and ambience created by time's passing. The passing of your days and life have left a soundtrack. If I close my eyes and wander through the hallways of my soul there is a door which opens upon a scene from my early childhood. Did you know? Did you know that when you would disappear into your bedroom and I heard the latches on the guitar case clicking and opening that some part of me began to dance and sing inside? Did you know that when I would place myself on the floor at your feet and I would stare up at you, watching and listening to you play your guitar and sing? In those moments I was a girl, a daughter at peace. I did not have words then for what I now understand. From my spot on the floor I would look up and wonder how the fingers on your hands could work. How hands that had been marked by a life of hard work, holding tools, stained by years of grease, carved in cuts and old wounds made by the engines and parts of thousands of cars could begin to move and allow for that sound to wash over me. That thought would fade as I watched your fingers press down and glide over the strings and as the sound that you made with your hands and your voice changed your face. I knew you to be happy then. I knew some part of you opened and existed in connection to the clicking and unlatching of that guitar case. If I close my eyes and wander through the hallways of my soul there is a door from which the sounds of waters flow. I still hear you in the movement of water. The sound a fishing pole makes as it cuts through the air and lands upon the surface of a lake. There is a connection between the image of your hands turning the steering wheel of a boat and the sound of the water parting in rhythm to the actions and choices of your hands. I can still see you standing at the window looking out over the lake. Your stillness and silence was a conversation with that body of water that was in so many ways your home. For me, you and your memory will always be tied to the song of the water. The sound of your laughter will always bounce upon ripples and waves. As time passed and you and I both grew older the sounds that marked your place in my world began to change. The last time I made the journey home did you know? Did you know I was watching and listening to you? I watched you as you put your sandals on over your socks - no longer comfortable walking on bare feet whose bones had contorted with the passing of time, age, and a life lived. In the early morning hours I listened from my bed when you were being so careful not to wake me. I listened and memorized the shuffling cadence of your sandal covered steps. Tears would slip from my eyes. I knew then that I would not have the chance to hear you pad past my door again. If I close me eyes and wander through the hallways of my soul there is a door from which I can hear you softly humming and singing a song as the sound of your sandals shuffling past can still be heard. You never had the chance to meet in person the man whom I would come to call my husband. The two of you would only pass each other in this world for a short time. Held within that time was a shining moment. On the day that he asked you for permission to take my hand, your daughter's hand, you spoke to him of wild horses. You spoke about how you can tame a wild horse but how you cannot ever keep it down. I wept after that phone call. Until that moment I never knew you understood this about me. I never knew that you saw and understood me to be as I knew myself to be. If I close my eyes and wander through the hallways of my soul there is a door that opens upon a field where the sound of a wild horse's running hooves are connecting with the earth. You are standing on the edges of this field and you are smiling and laughing. If I close my eyes and wander through the hallways of my soul, there is a doorway that exists and through which I cannot clearly see. It is the doorway of my passing. The doorway which holds what will come to pass when I am no longer in or of this world. I have thought about what lies beyond this doorway and I have often wondered if I will become part of the images and colors of this world when I am gone from here. Will I become the painter of the sunrises or sunsets when I walk in the other world? Perhaps I will become the colors themselves - the vibrant green of a newly spouted seed, the magnificent cerulean blue of the water's deep. The last time I heard the sound of your voice, the last time I spoke with you...it was not said....but we both knew...it was the last time. In what was not being spoken, everything was being said. The last words and sounds that I heard from you were, "Be good to each other. I love you." I have heard those words every day since the day you passed. I hear you in the sound of the water's movement. I listen for you in the whir of engine motors. I hear your shuffle in the passing of sandal covered feet. Your laughter lives in the jokes and stories told when family gathers together. In your passing from this world, you have become part of the beautiful rhythms and harmonies of the song and soundtrack of mine. But perhaps where you exist most for me is in the sound of the unlatching of the guitar case that I carried home and in the sound created as I press my fingers down upon the strings. I am once again a girl, your daughter and I am at peace. This song is for you...  Raymond Joseph Geoffrey - 02/18/1946 - 05/05/2016 Please click on the word "comments" below if you have something to share.
|
13 Granger Street, Bellows Falls, Vermont 05101 | 802-323-6343
© Heather Geoffrey Ink, LLC / Ouroboros Studios & Consulting 2020