Dreams, Medicine, and the Voice of Grandmothers
Healing the Heart Through Dreams, Ceremony, and Ancestral Song
The dream world has always been
a kaleidoscope behind my eyes
a boundless realm where gravity is a forgotten law,
where I fly with weightless joy,
slip through walls like whispered secrets,
and dive into the blue womb of the ocean
to dance with whales and dolphins
in an endless, liquid sky.
Over time, I learned the dream is not a prison
but a temple
and I, its lucid pilgrim.
By knowing I am dreaming,
I speak with the old tongue of my soul,
and guide my steps
through inner forests,
over oceans of memory and myth.
One quiet week not long ago,
I was to visit a friend in Devon,
to sit in sacred circle and sip the bitter truths
medicine so often brings.
On a soft evening,
I tucked my daughter into her blankets of stars,
her breath the rhythm of a lullaby not yet sung.
I made a tea of blue lotus
the taste strange, ancient,
as though steeped in forgotten prayers.
No ceremony, no formal call
just the flower and me,
and the moon overhead like a quiet witness.
Sleep took my hand
as gently as Luna takes mine,
and I slipped into the shadow of a dream.
I stood in a warehouse, cold and vast,
New York perhaps,
my art hung on walls like memories unearthed
but the shadows crawled with watchful men,
their presence thick and unwelcome,
the air a veil of dread.
Then light.
Luna ran to me, her smile radiant,
the only constellation I needed.
She leapt into my arms,
and together we fled through corridors of gold,
arriving in a sacred round room,
a planetarium of the soul,
a temple carved from stardust and silence.
She lay on the floor like an offering,
and I knelt beside her,
hands in prayer,
palms open to the cosmos.
And then
a voice.
Not mine, yet deeply mine.
It rose from the oldest canyon of my being,
the voice of an elder,
ancient and knowing,
carrying the winds of a thousand ancestors.
With my eyes closed, I saw:
electric blue rippling into hot pink,
which melted into gold,
forming shapes
a unicorn, a tiger,
an elephant, a whale
each one a guardian of a forgotten hymn.
Then another voice,
high and pure,
like a goddess ringing through the stars,
followed by something alien, crystalline
a tone not of this world
but still of this love.
And as the song unfolded,
each note a petal,
each breath a galaxy,
I knew
I was singing Luna
an ancient lullaby,
casting a spell of light and belonging
around her small, precious soul.
—
Later that week,
under the hush of twilight and candlelight,
I sat in a circle of kin
family, friends,
souls softened by the same fire.
The medicine passed through us
like a wind from the unseen.
That night, a song rose up
a drumming hymn in Hebrew,
sung by a couple with eyes like mirrors.
An ancient call
for the dead of Israel and Palestine.
It was haunting.
It was beautiful.
It broke me.
My body wept before my mind could understand.
A wail rose up,
not mine alone
but the voice of all grandmothers,
all the grief the earth has held
for those who never came home.
It was as though I had heard that song before,
in a life forgotten
or a dream not yet dreamt.
A chord struck in my soul,
and something opened.
Something healed.
Later, the medicine man approached,
his eyes full of sky.
He placed sacred feathers over my heart
whispers of wind,
echoes of thunder.
And in that holy pause,
something lost was restored.
My heart, a vessel cracked by silence,
was mended by the waters of grief,
sealed with the fire of love,
and carried on the wind
of an ancient song.
Artwork
Wow 🤍🙏🤍