Chicana Dreamer

From my dream journals

12-14-10 – Dream
I’m staying at a house like a dormitory and there is a playful atmosphere, though we are taking care of serious matters in our lives. I find myself at the top of a ladder unable to get myself down. I’m frightened, I’m high off the ground. I see a friend, a white man, who reaches up to me to kiss me, and I tell him to help me down. “Will you wait until I make it down?” I ask him. He nods happily, slowly and carefully letting the ladder tip forward and holds on to me until I reach bottom.

Notes:
I’ve been looking for information on the Anasazi and looking at pictures of their kivas. There was one picture that shows the roof of a kiva with two holes and two ladders for getting down into it.

12-16-10 – Notes:
I’m stunned at the realization that the Anasazi are amongst us. I remember hearing about them in the 60’s in an anthropology class I took at City College. It was a ho-hum class for me then. Cliff Dwellers- as though they had clawed their way into the mountainside and were a primitive people.

Through the internet, I’m finding that they thrived for a millennium, built complex cities with running water, cultural centers for worship, building complexes of 200-700 rooms, farming communities, and a highway network that connected over 1000 cities throughout the Southwest. These cities were planned and then built over several centuries. How they managed to do the planning and then carry it out over the generations is an interesting question to pause on. But I imagine it was like everything else in oral culture, passed to the next generation precisely as it was received. Of course, then there was no “Southwest,” but there have been some connections found in the linguistic patterns of the Nahua (Aztecs) amongst the Navaho, Pueblo and other descendants of the Bird People as the Anasazi were called.

In an early dream I had where I am learning to fly, my father pushes me off the top of a ladder and I sail into the air, freeze into the pose of a dead horse, and am rescued by a gentle Native American man who flies up from ground level. Then, there are these visits with the Elders in kivas.

It is because of my connection to the Elders in my dreams that I have my first book. It was they who rattled my memory and helped me put the story together. Now, they are telling me to write about the Aztec migration from somewhere “en el norte” to the Valley of Anahuac, and it’s interesting how that story is unfolding.

The reason the Anasazi are important and finding the connection between the linguistic patterns of the Aztec and the cultures of the North American Southwest, is that identity plays into this. Our identity tells us who we are, where we come from, who our people are. For people who have been colonized and then brainwashed against the very blood that flows through them, it’s important to question and challenge the assumptions of what’s been passed on. More on identity later.

Chew on identity and what it tells you about who you are.
Sweet dreams,
Ellie

I often wonder where my dreams go when I’m going through my daily life, but maybe that question isn’t as important as just remembering that they are there. in Thinking about creativity, time and space, I’m offering the following dream as a springboard for you to think about messages you have received, and what you do with them. As the Ancient Ones believed, time is NOW. So, if we believe that our past (from birth in this life time to now, determines who we are, this belief will limit us. BUT, if we take on the cloak of our dreams, why not become that which more accurately represents who we truly are and be a new person each new day?

Call from the Elders Dream:

“River water is cold in the springtime after the snow melts. This first day of warm sun after the winter blistery days that the sun is hidden behind the clouds, we’ve come to bathe and wash our hair. My sisters, entering the water timidly scream with glee when they take that first plunge. They taunt me, their eldest, to come in, and threaten to pull me in if I take much longer. I submerge myself in the freezing temperature, and they laughingly splash at me when I emerge. My younger sister sneaks up behind me and adds mayhem to the spring ritual of our first dip. I chase her and keep splashing her as she tries to get away from me. Soon, all of us are shouting and playing in the water that the sun has miraculously heated.
“I hear my brother’s voice calling my name. I know he wouldn’t be there unless there was good reason because this part of the river is off limits to the men. Besides, he is a warrior and hunter and should be away hunting. Hearing his voice so far from the village adds to the urgency. Others look up to see if I’ve heard his call “Something is happening in the village,” one says to me, “Should I come with you?” “No, no. I’ll be back soon.” I respond.
“Sorry to miss the frolicking, I quickly dry myself off with a thin deerskin and wrap myself in a soft dark brown buffalo-looking garment with holes for my arms. I put on my foot coverings that come up to my knees. The ground is still frozen, and I can feel its sharpness as I run up the path, jumping over patches of snow and mud.
“I’ve been called to the meeting room underground where the elders are gathered. My moon time finished many days ago. The kiva is for men only. I have a queasy feeling in my stomach as I step down the ladder quietly, trembling to be called by the elders. The light from a small fire reflects on their faces, and I sense a tension in the air.
“When I reach bottom, I hear the sharp crack of a drum as though announcing my arrival. It’s a loud, crisp whack from the spirit world, for I realize there are no drums or drummers present.
“And, there’s more power where that comes from,” one of the men mentions to the others. Looking directly at me, he adds, “Remember.” That’s all he says, “Remember,” as though I have consented to a previous agreement. The elders nod their heads in unison.”

This is an old dream, from the late ’70′s. My notes continued:

“The slam of a door caused by a breeze in the hallway of my apartment awakes me. I’m instantly aware of the light coming through the windows that run across my sunroom/studio. The sun is bright. It must be late in the morning, and I should have been up hours ago. I’m too groggy, and left with questions and vague feelings of having forgotten enormous chunks of my life. It’s not exactly as though I’ve actually forgotten, though. Certainly, parts I would like to overlook, but definitely there are blanks that need filling in; something I should know. Who are these elders? I know them, but they’re certainly not part of my waking community today. What am I supposed to “remember?”

Ok, so I’m cheating a little with 40 years ahead of most of you. But this is how I work with dreams today: In writing my second book, I’m putting together the concepts of time and space being right now. So, I try to practice what I preach. I went back to that dream and put myself back into it, exploring the environment, listening for sounds, feelings, sensations; and that’s when I came up with the scene at the river with my sisters.

With time being NOW, I can become that person. I see her as someone appointed by the Elders to reconstruct what has slipped through the cracks of our consciousness; traditions? dreams? values? The person who I think I am, based on my past and repetition of experiences, has doubts and fears, but with internal work with community, counselors, spiritual guides, I’ve been working through the facade. When I realized I had a mission, my passion was set afire, and that’s been the guiding light for my life. I’ve been learning that “Power” is simply having the willingness to take tiny steps at a time and do what may seem impossible at first sight.

It’s very liberating.
Blessings, El

It’s early in the morning, and I’ve awakened with a quiet feeling of peace–aleluya, hermana/o–. I attribute this peace to the fact that I’ve returned to my first love, the piano. I’m not working with a teacher yet, but I’m just practicing to pick up speed and let me fingers unthaw after the long silence. It took time, but something in the following entry put together over the summer into my journal opened my eyes to an unsatisfied longing in my heart. It begins with a poem:

“‘Dime La Verdad, Mamá.
Tell Me the Truth

‘Dime la verdad, Mamá. Tell me that you have always loved me. Tell me that your dreams for me extended beyond the river, the mountains, the horizon, the Sun and the stars; that you dreamed for me guidance by flames of alter candles, prayers, and gentle words; that open arms awaited you from your first breath and were then your legacy to me.

‘Tell me that before you were born, your great grandmother had a place set for her at the dinner table, that she was surrounded by lovely flowers and was given the spiritual truths from her grandmothers, and the heartstrings continued forever forward.

‘Tell me that as far back to the beginning of time, you and your grandmothers lives were filled with music, incantations for joy, and love; that the sweet sound of melodic voices singing in celebration awoke you at their births; and that you danced in bright colored costumes with silver and gold chimes, where your dresses flowed gracefully in rhythm to horns, guitars, gourds, rattles, and drums.

‘My dreams tell me I am a stranger at dinner tables where I am hungry, invisible; where I take small morsels, and say little; a shadow that slips through doors unseen; where only at night I dare to speak my thoughts and dance alone under the dark moon.

‘Tell me I was never shipped to places unknown, beyond the warmth of my family, where voices cracked through stunned silence as muffled noises that awakened espiritus malos bad spirits.

‘Tell me I was never scorned; never seen as the wretched forgotten child of a family, la rechazada, who hid behind tattered curtains, denying lies she heard about a bewildered little stranger, her soul longing for comfort, and respite.

Tell me this is someone else’s nightmare; that my life began filled with music, incantations for joy and love; that the sweet sound of melodic voices singing in celebration awoke me at my birth; and that I danced in bright colored costumes with silver and gold chimes that flowed gracefully in rhythm to horns, guitars, gourds, rattles, and drums.’

“As I write this poem, my sadness stems from not having personal experience with cultural traditions that were available generations past, before Mamá as a governess set sail with an American family for the United States, via South America. To my mind, something in her heart shut down then, in 1920, which altered family ties beyond her time. When I think of my mother’s life, I imagine her as a sixteen year packing her suitcase, and not looking back for many years until she could begin to fathom all she’d lost in leaving her pueblo of Rayon, in Southeastern Mexico. With letters from home in hand, I’d observe her sitting quietly at the top of our back door steps looking into an empty lot overgrown with dry weeds. Sighing pensively, she’d return to her chores with an air of resignation.

“In some way, I carry her unspoken sadness, and long to recreate at least a small fragment of the spiritual truths she left behind. I often feel that I am living out a part of her appointment with destiny.

“Papá was born in Cananea, Sonora, in 1900, fifty years after El Norte was lopped off from Mexico. From his accounts, it seems to me that in the hearts of the people at that time El Rio Bravo still roared its usual song and remained a channel that carried the old ways. In 1918, he arrived in Los Angeles with his guitar and mandolin; they were his love, and his passion. It’s as though he carried his destiny firmly in hand, and whatever twists fate had in store for him, he was prepared to face them.

“I now often wonder if it was my destiny to have this bittersweet, indefinable ache that relentlessly pushes me to scrap together what was “lost,” in my parents’ move North. Before poverty turned our family upside down, and I was sent away to other families while Mamá’s worked in a bracero camp, her dream for me was that people could say “Que bonito Noni toca el piano.” How beautifully Noni plays the piano. As I came into my teens, it was enough for me to know this was what she wanted, to make me fly in the opposite direction. And that was how I missed out on the best of my childhood years; because I felt rejected, I then rejected everything I loved. I do wonder if life would have been sweeter and more accommodating had I bowed to the call of the piano that I loved so much. (my emphasis).”

It is “bowing” to this call that brings me so much joy. I wonder if there is a secret place in your heart that needs to be honored? Today’s the Virgen de Guadalupe’s birthday, another reason to honor what’s in your heart. It does bring peace

Blessings,
Ellie

What I love about blogging is that I get to see how easily I can get distracted and move onto other things while the draft of a new entry remains a draft for longer than intended.

“Dreams, Sacred Gifts, and Artists as Mystics,” is the title I gave to a new project that was just completed. I got to test some of my theories in hearing artists talk about their art, their sources of inspiration, and their desire to push toward transformation of themselves, their art, and the transformation of the world.

The inspiration for the project came from a dream, but the idea hit me at a time I was busily scrubbing away at the tile in the bathroom thinking about my next move. It was so clear–like a dream that came and said, “Do this. . .” and swiftly flew away. The difference to this shiny new idea is that this time I paid attention and didn’t judge it. I immediately stopped what I was doing, picked up the telephone to make contact with a friend who has access to the services at the Marin Community Media Center in San Rafael, CA. I submitted the proposal as requested, and two month later, I, as moderator, and a group of artists, Gary Politzer, fine art and digital artist; Diana Marto, fine art paper maker and performance artist; and MamaCoAtl, curandera, lyricist and singer, produced a video for public television to put my concepts to the test. It was thrilling–terrifying–but thrilling!

I froze, and we’ll have to do a voice over to cover up my shaky and faulty beginning, but so what! It got done and something good is coming out of it. Grand ideas don’t come to fruition unless we walk through the fire and spring them to life. So many times, I’ve had great ideas, instantly discounted them as absurd, and promptly laid them to rest before their glorious moment.

As the Guatemalan Day Keepers say, “The dream will struggle against the dreamer to be forgotten.” We must learn the art of stalking dreams and capturing them. Manifesting them must come from force of habit; otherwise, they become like King Tut’s jewels hidden within the dark mysterious chambers of Giza.

Here is an excerpt from Chapter Seven: Sacred Gifts of Corn Woman Sings which suggests you court your dreams and the gifts they bear:

“The topic of sacred gifts, most often merely called power, is vast and multileveled. As mentioned in the previous chapter, destiny calls, leaves directves and brings with it the tools to follow through. For us as dreamers, taking action is as important as receiving destiny’s request. . . The dreamer’s responsibility is to honor the gifts and follow the dictates of destiny according to the power that the gifts impart to you. Gifts of healing, seeing the future and the past, anticipating death, creative endeavors, and the like–carry with them responsibility to the spirit realm. These gifts are for the perpetuation and empowerment of the community. Their unfolding happens while we participate in listening and doing our part in making our mind, body and spirit ready for them. . .”

Dream:

“A group of students are filming their instructor’s lecture in the Financial District in San Francisco where I am having lunch on a low stone wall. The professor, a stocky Mexican man with black wavy hair, announces in his tutorial voice, ‘You must sing your song. When you have a song, you must sing it out joyously.’ That’s his lecture. With his talk concluded, he breaks into song–beautiful waves of energy flow from his lips like the music of silver bells. A Luscious melody resounds in my being, and the world stops to listen reverently. ‘Just sing your song. Everyone has a song to sing. Belt it out!’ He laughs sweetly.”

According to the Native Sages and Dreamers, the seat of reality lies within our dreams. There is a greater over-arching purpose that reveals itself to us over the course of our lives. Our job is to understand what that purpose is, and follow through on the smaller assignments that come to us as day dreams or flights of fancy. Stick to what makes your heart sing. Life just makes more sense that way.

Sing your song.
EBD

How quickly time passes, yet, I suspect it is not so much that time passes quickly that I don’t make entries, but that I slow down to a little snail’s pace. My last entry was nearly a month ago; and I have this plan that I will announce my book to the “public.” But, first, I have to update the website, and I get derailed with a million other little plans that need further development. Then, too, big things happen: the death of a friend’s friend; a sister-in-law. Life has to slow down.

So, what’s the truth of what I am doing with the creative aspect of my life, the part of me that wants to be guided and operate out of my spiritual foundation? I forget the real plan, and I get caught up in minutia. An illusion crops up, that I am carrying this heavy duffle bag of the past filled with overwhelming feelings of dread, loneliness, abandonment–it slows me down, and I start calling it “time passing quickly.”

The point is to keep moving. There are so many options from which to choose to express the subtle, elusive creative response to Destiny. Do I choose to bring the heavy duffle bag? Because if I do, chances are I will come to a standstill. So, here is the solution I’m coming up with right now:

Just Do It! Leap into action and don’t ask questions. If it’s a desire of the heart, it needs expression. If it’s an item from a “to do list” of three weeks ago, so what? Just Do It. So, that’s what this topic is about–staying on track with the waking world, and doing that which brings the greatest joy to the soul.

Think about it, if we think and dwell on what’s wrong, we create more of what is wrong; but, if we gaze upon the brilliant light that flickers off and on, then eventually, we’ll get into the rhythm of the gift it offers and bring it to fruition. Let it shine.

Pick your star and make it shine! That’s what living out our Destiny is all about. What’s important to you? What makes you happy? Writing makes me happy. Talking about the creative process makes me happy. Getting others to join me in this march toward colorful expression makes me happy. And that’s what Destiny is all about. We keep moving forward even when we don’t feel like pushing through the inertia, or the duffle bag is too heavy to bring forward–leave it behind–and make something happen that makes you sing.

Where do dreams fit into this? Ahh. The Maya believe that the dream will struggle against the dreamer to bring it forth. Sometimes, you will have only a fleeting wisp of a thought. Leap for it as though grabbing for a light, fluffy feather. Hold it gently in your hand, and do something magical with it. Once exposed to the light of day, it’s real. Poetry spills out from this magical feather; bellies full of laughter become melodies making you swoon with rapture and make your heart swell with shouts of Joy and glee.

Take your time. Resistance shows up with harsh criticism. Don’t fight it; let it be and put it aside for a couple of hours or however long you need (within reason, of course). Dance around the resistance and hold to what is created. Let the birth of this creation settle and take hold. It’s yours! The gifts coming forth are reflections of your Destiny, and must be treasured.

Be well.

Traditionally, in the Meso American cultures, discovering one’s creativity is a process toward transformation. In order to understand the images that come up on your dream screen, it’s helpful to be on the alert for them, and to REMEMBER that you are seeking direction from your guides.

Now, I haven’t said anything about dream guides, but these are like mentors that you will meet within your dreams that are guiding your process and will point out your strengths and weaknesses. That’s all I will say about dream guides for now, but more will come later.

Everything I say in this section is also in my book. I’m using this blog to engage you in the process toward transformation, self-discovery, and cultivation of your creativity. The dream world you have entered into is more real than the waking. However, in the West, we’re under the delusion that dreams are helter-skelter and not worth studying. Therefore, developing relationships in your dreams is no different than developing relationships in the waking world: you have to be nice, friendly, alert, observant, and generally, perceptive.

Creativity becomes an ally when you explore your creativity between waking and dreaming. If you take a step toward an image that you see in your dreams, the image steps closer to you as well. All this may appear to be at an unconscious level, but it is happening as long as it is your heart’s desire to be in touch with your inner world.

My dreams destiny/creativity dreams were separated by years between clues. That’s unnecessary here, however. You, I, and others can expedite the process by supporting each other’s process externally.

To summarize what I’ve stated in this blog entry: Be on the alert; treat your dream life as though it is more real than your waking life; Cultivate friendships with people who are trying to befriend you in your dreams.
It’s that simple.

On the Threshold

Forgive me for procrastinating so long. I’m here to support you, but I had my own issues. I was afraid to let people know me on a day-to-day basis. Sound familiar? Thank you for your patience and your comments. I received some nice comments. Recently, I had a dream about a sleezy guy stealing my wallet who tricked me because I was guarding it with my life, and yet, he managed to steal it from me. When I woke up in the morning I saw that this dream meant that something/one had stolen my identity. But that’s just how Destiny is, it is ours, it presents itself to us individually, but we think we have all the time in the world to let it manifest. It’s quite terrifying, as evidenced by the number of blocked writers (bloggers like me) and other artists. The Maya believe that a dream struggles to remain anonymous; that it will hide so that we don’t remember it. Destiny is that way too.Creativity is part of our Destiny, and yet we wait for the weather to be perfect before we venture out to take the risk. Writing has been my passion since I was a girl of 15 years. Look how long it has taken me to externalize it! I trust you are identifying with what I am saying. Sure, I wrote my way through undergraduate school, then the Dissertation, and now Corn Woman, but there’s a way I’ve kept this a secret. That’s over now, and I am here also to share my wisdom.
Here’s what I say in Corn Woman Sings about how Destiny taps us on the shouder and grabs our attention: “For the dreamer/curandera, the topic of destiny is especially important because it defines her/his role in life, a role that is transmitted through dreams. The Aztec and Maya cultures highly valued the process of discovering one’s destiny, because the path toward it ran parallel to the path toward transformation. The dream guides the dreamer by showing the next level of attainment. As our dreams direct us, we find that in deciphering our destinies, we enter upon the ultimate of spiritual tasks–discovery of sacred gifts that lead to out transformation and transcendence as well as that of the world’s.
“Belief in destiny is a difficult concept for Westerners to accept because the idea is in direct opposition to self-determination by the individual. Yet, destiny neither negates responsibility nor leaves us open to whim. We have many choices to make. La curandera/medicine woman/artist may recognize a special talent in healing, music, art, writing or dancing, etc. The list is endless. In this paradigm, developing these talents requires taking personal responsibility to develop them for the sake of the culture. Destiny gives the means by which to create the powerful symbols and if we respond to it, teachings resulting from art. When destiny speaks, we feel the expansion of consciousness. The empowerment that follows provides the certainty and wherewithal to follow through.

Discovering our destiny is a complex process, because we become privy to the immensity of the universe. . .Yet a feeling stemming from a deep knowing can be coupled with a doubt that dwarfs the gift and leaves you hungering for more proof of the greatness of what is given. Faith is indispensible, patient, crucial.”
And that, my dear friend, is why destiny is as slippery as a fish. It is filled with contradictions and conflicts, and courting it well worth your investment. More will be said later. . .
So, let’s continue with Destiny as a topic for a couple of entries and responses, and see how that works.
Thanks for joining me.
Abrazos,
Ellie