Deer Migration

Dear Beloved Friends, 

This is a page from my Dream Book. 

I practice conscious dreaming almost  every night. We all dream, whether we remember or not. And I want to share with you how not remembering a dream can still be a totally meaningful experience. 

Dreaming with Taurus Sun and the Moon with The Scales

Title - Deer Migration

I don't remember my dream last night. What I remember is the feeling I had when I awoke. I felt joyfully balanced! I remember thinking "Oh, how wonderful this dreaming is! It works!" This was around 3am.

I relished the feeling and was still sort of dreaming, but after a while I woke up fully and started left-brain thinking...which is why I can't remember the dream.

I realized I was thinking, worrying, planning, and, if I continued, wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. 
So I turned my thoughts to the memory of the deer migration my hubby and I witnessed up in Mammoth over the weekend. I really can't get it out of my consciousness anyway it was so remarkable! The deer where so well camouflaged that at first I saw only 5 of them as they moved their bodies and turned to look up. Their ears were so big and their attention so intense.

Before I knew it more deer turned to look at us, and I started counting...10, 20, more and more so that I lost count. The entire gentle slope of the mountain came alive with movement. It was like a rippling wind had touched each one of them as their heads turned towards us and then bent down again to graze without a care in the world.

This memory is so numinous I let it carry me to I know not where. 

I felt my body opening like a blossom - my arms stretched wide across the bed...and still I wanted to keep stretching and opening.

Then the Milky Way broke through the ceiling of my bedroom and the deer moved to it's guidance. The deer migrated to a message from the Milky Way!!! And there was no separation between them. And here I was a witness...and yet also the migration of deer and the stars where moving across the landscape of my heart and body...The deer moved across my body, and my body was the land... 

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Notes:

What more can I say? This was such an amazing experience!

I can see the deer. I feel I can touch the budding antlers. I know how easily they know the Truth of all of Life and how interconnected we are. They’ve never lost that consciousness...

I have nothing I need to know or figure out.

I know how real Oneness is.

Promised Tarot link for free replay

If you are interested in learning more about the Tarot as a creative, spiritual, or inspirational tool, use the link below to connect to a past Tarot Tele-summit created by Kim Wilborn.

I've been subscribing to Kim's programs for several years and love how affordable and easily accessible they are!

The Death Card tends to be one of the most feared cards in a Tarot spread. People often assume it signifies a physical Death. But this is a very literal interpretation of the Tarot. The truth is Tarot is more like a dream - a group of symbols meant to be explored and tended to as numinous communication from the unconscious. 

Listen to Ferol Humphrey's talk:

http://www.mcssl.com/app/?Clk=5523921

If you find you are interested in knowing more about Tarot and would like to receive personal guidance, please feel free to email me at innerworkstudio@yhaoo.com.

I've been writing

I decided to stop blogging for a bit so I could write a longer story.

So far it's over 20 pages long.
When it's done I hope to share it.
Either that or go back to blogging.

The story is a fantasy about meeting Gaugin
and apprenticing with him.
Not as a painter, but as a writer!
Yes, Gaugin was a writer too.

It is also a woven tapestry of shamanic journeying and synesthesia.

I love it.
Every piece of writing is a nest.
I needed a bigger one.


And then I procrastinate...

Why would I want to be finished with this love?

~~~~~~~

In the meantime, every so often I will post some links to free recordings for a website that I have really enjoyed throughout the past few years. I've signed up for several different website programs throughout the years, but...

I decided to promote the programs offered by Kim Wilborn as an affiliate because I trust her integrity, her lightheartedness, and how accessible and affordable she makes the content. My favorites so far are The Spiritual Path of Tarot, and A Year With The Goddess.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will get a percentage of anything you decide to order if you go through the link I provide. It's up to you to do what works best for you!

If you would like personal guidance on any of the offerings please contact me at - Innerworkstudio@yahoo.com

Love yourself and enjoy this incredibly short journey we call Life!

short translation

[echoing bird]

brrrr-eet, brrrr-eet, brrrr-eet
phewit, phewit, phewit
cheep, cheeeeeep
arrrat, arrrat, arrrat

beautiful, beautiful, beautiful
peace, peace, peace
here, hear
a heart, a heart, a heart


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On my Medicine Walk the mountain is filled with the ecstasy of bird song. The sky is covered with smoky clouds in varying shades - white to silver to pewter to slate to charcoal. The ground is still moist from Saturday's rain. Tiny yellow wild flowers on thin sage green stalks line the trail and even the cactus blooms.

One bird sings as I walk - first above me, then behind, then ahead up in front. Above, behind, ahead -repeatedly - till finally I listen.

Then he flies below and away, down the south face of the canyon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ancient brain knows a predator lurks when the birds are quiet. This is how I know my heart is safe - the birds are singing.

Dear Mr. President

Who are you?

Do you know who I am? I am a Cuban in exile. I have lived in this country since 1963. I was 8 1/2 years old when I arrived in Miami with my family. I remember why we came. We came to escape the dictatorship that betrayed the Cuban people and took away our rights, our freedom, our work, our land, our money. While that government still exists, pardon me if I don't feel joyous about your visit to my country.

While the media is talking up your greatness, I feel bereft. While you and your family parade around the island that is my childhood home, I am overwhelmed with emotions I don't know if I can describe. There's grief that can't be put into words. There's a wound that still hasn't healed. A wound that your ambition continues to re-open. It's not just the wound of having to leave your family and home, it's the wound of having your family suddenly and devastatingly become something radically different - father becomes bi-polar, mother works for a sweat shop, children become 'latch-key kids', I the 'mini-mom' for my two younger siblings. Nine years old, Mr. President. I was only nine years old.


This appears to be all about you. Your smile feels self-congratulatory. It doesn't matter what your
speeches tout as your humanitarian goals, to me it feels like neatly packaged political correctness. You say all the things some people want to hear. You say nothing to me.

You say nothing to us Cuban exiles who have sought refuge here, who have worked hard to rebuild their lives, who pay taxes, who have hoped for justice, who have been betrayed more than once by an American president, and yet continue to remain loyal to the system of democracy and individual rights of the United States of America. You say nothing to me and all the children who survive the exile today.

I feel ignored. I feel invisible.

Many think of you as one of the best presidents. I think of you as one of the worst. I realize I do not speak for the entire Cuban population. I also realize you're not a bad person. I don't hate you, nor do I engage in political debates with family, friends, or acquaintances over your policies. I'm simply letting whoever reads this know that I hold you accountable for ignoring a section of your constituency that lived through oppression and betrayals; endured poverty, imprisonment, torture, death; and risked everything in hopes of making a real difference in that one small section of the world only to be cast aside by political ambitions and economic greed. I hold you accountable for denying our pain, our truth, our wisdom through the inexpediency of your actions.

The Castro dictatorship may indulge your delusions, even your own personal delusion of grandeur, but I will not. I will continue to take a stand in my own way against the global theatrics of world leaders. When all is said and done, the Cuban people will not be any freer from the shadow of imperialism by this hedonistic venture than they were prior to Castro's regime. I believe that through you Cuba will once again become 'the playground' of rich, the tyrants, moguls, and the short-sighted politicians who view the island as ripe for exploitation. Money in large quantities will flood into the hands of the wheeling-and-dealing speculators and promoters...and the Castro regime.

It's sanctioned piracy - the legacy bestowed for centuries upon the people of the Caribbean. You open the door, Mr. President. And you say nothing.

For Gaia

Let’s start.

Yes, let’s start

With a murder of Crows

Picking clean the meat,

Sucking the marrow too

From the bones of our indifference.

Let’s take the next step and

Seek counsel from the parliament of Owls,

Beg that sentinel of wisdom

Sear through the cold shadows we cast

And hope for their benevolence.

Let’s find our ‘welcome home’

In the kindness of Ravens,

The soft curling edge of their wings

Wrapping around our wrath

With their impeccability.

Let’s finish the shameful dream

With an exultation of Larks,

A choir strung through the watery sky

Of well deserved tears

And merciful reclamation.

Writer 2

When you decide that this writing life is for you, you are stalked by Doubt. Now imagine Doubt as a character - a boogey man, a gangster, a pessimistic critic. Doubt is strong, powerful, and undoubtedly famous. Or think of Doubt as fear appearing like a hideous demon with fangs like a shark and carrying a megaphone. To top it off, Doubt knows more than you. In fact, Doubt knows you better than you know it.

And yet you persist.

You don't know why you persist - maybe it's because your friends and family are kind enough to encourage you. Even though deep inside you know Doubt knows best. And yet, you refuse to follow his/her advice. That in itself makes you feel kinda stupid.

And yet, you persist some more.

Something about writing sparks you. You wake up, and before you go pee, you want to write. You need to get to work, but you write a few sentences, promising, like you do your cat, you will be back soon. When it's time to make dinner, you decide to write first. You don't follow your to-do list as closely as Doubt assures you you should. And now you feel guilty.

So you stop persisting.

Doubt has won the day. Except that one day, you sneak a piece of writing on a post-it note. Actually, several post-it notes. Maybe a poem strings out of you like cheap plastic beads, some of which you suspect could be pearls.  The start of a story spins itself out, albeit with no pay off ending for the reader. Fragments of a memoir spurt forth but you can barely stand it because of the grief. The Grief. So, you cry. Memories you didn't know you had over whelm you. Then periods of being stuck without a single word leave you feeling like a zombie. Doubt scoops you up like a clump of cat-litter. "Shame on you, wasting time like that."

But...surprise...Persistence doesn't leave you.

Persistence leverages Doubt. And so you gather the courage to face this mortal enemy. But Doubt is tricky. It shape shifts from boogey man to gangster to critic disguised as friend, teacher, wise guide. This has to be the worst thing imaginable. Until your writer grows up and notices you're not that important. The boogey man is not real. The gangster's got snitches to deal with. The critic has bigger fish on his radar. And you relax. Your problems are over...ah, not so fast.

Persistance slacks off.

You start to play around with the craft. You become distracted with practicing. You become enamored with the beauty of it all. That poem was a masterpiece. If you never write another poem, it's ok. Creating dialogue for the fun of it? It's like snatches of conversations overheard. You are happy to just eavesdrop. Memories are more colorful than words - forget the memoir. Who will read it anyway?

Doubt is back.

That sneaky sonoffabitch.