From the Strafford Concert

My ex-father-in-law from my first marriage, a lifetime resident of Rhode Island, died in 1985. Twenty years later, however, a hug from him four blocks from his Narragansett Bay-side house while I slept in central Maine was the most pivotal moment of my entire life. Needless to say, that doesn’t make a lot of linear sense, and neither does much else in my inner world, my dream world. But that particular dream character has impacted my reality to a greater degree than anyone I’ve ever interacted with in waking life. This book, in effect, is an account of the development of that otherworldly relationship, and if that sounds bizarre and irrational, well…it is.

On the other hand though, this is also a book of relatively straightforward autobiographical narrative, for the most part even chronological. But if it is the telling of the relevant details of my outer-life journey, and at least to some degree that is true, then those details are only relevant when considered in relation to the events of the only journey that matters to me at all now—my inner expedition. And, if the use of the term “expedition” here implies considerable hardship along the way, then that would be a valid assessment. This is not to suggest that others face less onerous obstacles—I know better than that—but it is safe to say, all hyperbole aside, that Archetypal Dreamwork, and the personal connection to the Divine that it has both facilitated and nurtured, saved the wretched life of this hopelessly wayward soul. More specifically, it facilitated the disposal of my pathological attachments to a life that wasn’t worth living and really wasn’t mine anyway, then nurtured the miraculous emergence of a life that is worth living, and is being lived. It’s the story of my journey from lost and graceless to found and, if not graceful (truth is, I’m a little awkward, except on ice skates), then grace-welcoming, grace-discovering, grace-appreciative.

A Canadian by birth, I grew up in Kingston, Ontario, parlayed my childhood passion for ice hockey into a southern border crossing that has now spanned, but for a couple of brief exceptions, almost forty years. That includes my undergraduate days as “athlete-student” at Cornell University in the early 1970’s, followed by fifteen or so “successful” yet thoroughly unsatisfying years in the dark-suited business arena, followed by a considerable stretch of time spent drifting, westward wandering, writing (graduate degree in Creative Writing—Poetry), in search of something or someone…or who knows what?

It wasn’t until circuitously landing on the doorstep of the in-home, knick-knack cluttered, northern Vermont office of the diminutive, shaggy-bearded therapist and founder of Archetypal Dreamwork in 1996 that I encountered any whiff whatsoever of the notion that what I was actually looking for was, in fact, the real me. My original face, if you will, stripped of all its falsity.

That first session with Marc Bregman changed my life, but it didn’t save it, not by a long shot. It only began the work of excavating that face from all that surrounded and encased it. That excavation process was brand new to me, but hardly new to the Spiritual Masters of our time and their predecessors. In The Mustard Seed, Osho could very well be speaking of Archetypal Dreamwork when he outlines the goal of deepest meditation:

…to find your original face, the one you had before you came to this world—and the one you will have when you leave this world; because you cannot carry all these faces with you. They are gimmicks, techniques to deceive, techniques to defend yourself, they are armors around you. These faces have to be dropped, only then can you see Jesus, because when you see your original face, you have seen Jesus. Jesus is nothing but your original face, Buddha is nothing but your original face. Buddha is not outside you, neither is Jesus. When you drop all the falsity and you are naked—just the original you, without any change, modification—you are Jesus, Jesus in his absolute glory is revealed.

Dropping falsity is no easy task, however, particularly given our very human penchant for self-deception—the cacophony of all those voices in our heads, all clambering and blabbering their so-called good advice. Thank God, then, for the gift of our dreams, the uncompromising truths they offer, the guidance they give us if we are willing to pay attention. Thank God, then, for the gift of Marc Bregman in my life, and his gift of helping me to see and hear beyond the voices and masks of all those others to the one beneath.

This book is the tale of my falsity dropping, the process of me becoming naked. It is about vulnerability, my relationship to it, my struggle with it. The struggle to find myself by way of the truth of my dreams. It is about fear and pain and love and the power of healing, a seemingly non-traditional approach to an age-old goal—spiritual growth, individuation.

Archetypal Dreamwork is a gift from the Divine, of the Divine. The numbers of those benefiting from its uniquely practical process are growing rapidly, yet all seekers deserve access. That’s why I felt called to write this book, to share my story by way of example and encouragement for all those who, like I, have eagerly and voraciously devoured countless books on spirituality, wanting more, craving more, yet finding nowhere to go beyond the final page.

There is somewhere to go beyond the final page of this one…Archetypal Therapy. It’s real, and it’s wondrous, and my life is a testament to the miraculous healing that is available to all of us by way of this work. Work, yes…hard work…the likes of which you’ll shortly discover…

BOB MURRAY - Alligator Tears

My father’s birthday is in September
Turns eighty first day of the fall
His health is hanging on, still got lots of kick
But that number, well, you wonder about it all

Man there’s so much I want to tell you
I can’t imagine where to start
So I’ll just sit right here and let it all come out
God help me throw the valve that stops my heart

We walked a beach once, Carolina
Must fifteen years ago
The gulls were squawking, it was windy, it was cold
You were speaking truths I didn’t want to know

I heard you harping about decisions
Said you cared and that was why
You felt the need to lay it all out in the sand
I was messing up and then you stopped to cry

You were sorry, oh so sorry, for the things that I had done
What I heard was, heed my words, son, get a life cause you got none

So I lit out of there as fast as I could go
Couldn’t take those alligator tears
That’s how I’ve judged them every time that he chokes up
More often now with all these passing years

Seems so strange to know that that was what I thought
That he could fake his love for me
As if I myself could simply turn that faucet on
And my apple falls directly from his tree

You were sorry, oh so sorry, for the things that I had done
What I heard was, heed my words, son, get a life cause you got none

Then last visit we were downstairs, my old room
The scene of all my jumbled youth
With your harmonica we found some common ground
But it was time to play a song that spoke some truth

I chose the one about my darling little girl
The one I never make it through
I felt the tears well up and let them all come out
It seemed like there was nothing left to do

You were sorry, oh so sorry, for the things that I had done
What I heard was, heed my words, son, get a life cause you got none

So I was standing there and sobbing through my song
But no self-conscious in the least
Not feeling silly or embarrassed or all wrong
Seems the demon that belittles me had ceased

My vision blurred so much I couldn’t see your face
But I could hear you just the same
And it felt so good to hear you crying right out loud
As though your tears could somehow ease my pain

You said sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for you son
You said sorry, you were sorry, as if our pain were truly one

Something happened that day in that basement room
Some things I’ll never understand
But from that moment on my life has somehow changed
At 55, I’m 21, a man

And I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry, that I’ve often judged you wrong
Yes I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ve been weak but now I’m strong

My father’s birthday’s in September
We’ll celebrate this special year
I pray you live to greet 100, dear old man
I’ll toast you, Dad, through alligator tears

BOB MURRAY - What Am I Doing Here

Waldorf Astoria, must be New York City
I think I’m in the Greatest Gatsby
Fat furs and high-heeled folks, my head’s on a swivel
Is that Daisy Buchanan, no it can’t be
But this lobby’s jammed with stars, there’s Jen and Ben and Brad
But I can see them most every day
At the checkout counter in what used to be Grand Union
Their pictures in the tabloids anyway
The walls are filled with portraits staring down at me
Check out this guy in the long white beard
I can’t tell right now if he’s smirking or laughing
But I can tell you that it’s all pretty weird
So what am I doing here? Is this all a charade?
Hey what am I doing here? In this indoor dress-up parade

Roosevelt Ballroom, we’re all herded in there now
And there’s a big party going strong
Whoa, look at my sleeve, my pants, how about these shoes
Is this a tux that I’ve got on?
And this chandelier’s winking at me, diamonds everywhere
Could be the height of all extreme
Cause I’m rubbing elbows with all those who have it all
Getting down with the crème de la cream
Different walls in here but that face once again
Same old guy in the long white beard
Still can’t tell if he’s smirking or laughing…still all pretty weird
So what am I doing here? Is this all a charade?
Hey what am I doing here? At this who’s who of who’s got it made

But then I see my daughter and she’s calling out to me
Hey Daddy, come on over here
And you should see the look that decorates her face
Pure excitement, not one trace of fear
And whoa, she’s got a horse, black beauty, what a sight
And she’s climbing up on it now
And as she gallops through that ballroom, Hee Haw…
The guest all separate and bow
And up there on the wall, still staring at me
Same old guy in the long white beard
But he ain’t smirking, that’s a grin from ear to ear
And things ain’t been too bad since he first appeared
So maybe I’m doing here, what I wanna do
Truth is I’m liking it here, and I’m sure digging these shoes
So yes, I’m doing here, what I need to do
Cause I got my own horse here, and these deep-souled shoes
These high-ridin shoes, mmmm…I’m loving my shoes

BOB MURRAY - All I have To Do

When I look outside and cold November gray
Has veiled the mountaintops and has for several days
When that weather’s in my head and aims to stay

All I have to do
All I need to do
Is go inside and turn to you

When I withdraw from myself into a shell
When I’m thoroughly convinced this day is hell
When I can’t discern the wishing from the well

All I have to do
All I need to do
Is go inside and turn to you

In my lifetime such a famine of the heart
As though feeling passion were just some esoteric art
I can’t believe I chose the oxen and the cart

When all I have to do
All I need to do
Is go inside and turn to you

Like a sailor who’s been landlocked far too long
But he’s at sea now, cast adrift inside a song
He sings his heart out with a voice that’s true and strong

Cause all I have to do
All I need to do
Is go inside and turn to you

JEREMIAH MCLANE - Crossroads

At the cross roads, I faced a choice, In return for hard work,
I’d become an artist, give up my soul.
Then I’d never have to feel the longing and the anguish
the terror and the grief.

Well it seemed like a good deal at the time but in the fine print it said: It’s the child who feels these things, and only the child can sing.

At the cross roads, a young boy stands wonders where I’m bound for.
I’ll make my own way and leave him there.
Cuz what goods a young boy when a man must tell his story, no matter how he lies.

Well it seemed like a good deal at the time but in the fine print it said: It’s the child who feels these things, and only the child can sing.

Down at the cross roads there’s a young man he’s getting ready to make a deal. They’ll give him all the gifts to be someone, and he will never have to feel.

He made a sacrifice, he gave his soul, never knew the cost.
He gained a world of praise and in return, the child in him was lost.

I stand before the boy, his hands on me, he calls out “see what I have found, there is the mark of god upon this man” and I fall upon the ground.

Down at the crossroads, stands a young boy His love I truly understand. He’s looks me in the eye I realize, this time I’m gonna go with him.

JEREMIAH MCLANE - Everyman

Everyman when he comes home this morning
Everyman when he comes home this evening
Everyman when he comes home
His brings his pride and shame along
This morning, this evening, so soon.

He has shame for what he’s done this morning
He has shame for what he’s done this evening
He has shame for what he’s done
But he’ll atone, he’ll be a better one, this morning, etc

He takes pride in all he’s done this morning
He takes pride in all he’s done this evening
He takes pride in all he’s done,
He becomes the perfect one, this morning, etc

He never knows that shame and pride this morning
He never knows that shame and pride this evening
He never knows that shame and pride
Are just the ways to turn his grief aside, this morning, etc

Everyman he has his flaws, this morning
He feels shame, so begins the game, this evening
Achievement swells his growing pride
Never knows that what he’s trying to hide
Lies underneath his suffering, it’s the child.

The seagull flies, he dips and dives across the bay
The Dolphins race the minnows grace the sand bar
There’s a life inside the outside, it calls to us
there’s no need to hide this morning, evening,
the afternoon, dusk of twilight,
It’s a happy hour; it’s our playtime,
we come to rest on the precipice of time.

SUSANNAH BLACHLY - Come into My Heart

Love, love, love
Come into my heart
Love, love, love
Come into my heart
Love, love, love
Come into my heart
And stay with me 'til I am free
Come into my heart

Peace, peace peace
Come into my heart...

Joy, joy, joy
Come into my heart...

Understanding
Come into my heart...

KARLA VAN VLIET - Restoration

I come home
in a storm of wings, beaten,
as the world beats the ill fated,
calling to my father like a child
o father, take me in your arms
o father.

I come home
the weary, to enter
the millhouse of my father,
to lay willingly
on his work-stone, ask:
take me down, father
to the insistent edge,
what’s true.

I come home
for the rasp of stone on stone,
to bare and be bore through.
o father be the mortar
o father be
the saddle stone.

I am home
father, husk the world
from me, o father,
restore me to your arms.

SETH MULLINS - from Song of the Twice-Born: Book 1 - The Mirror of Sirrus

What dies within our minds, at each stage of this journey, is another belief that we have hitherto clung to and used to make sense and order out of our universe. That’s why it’s always so confusing and frightening, each time the flame is burning away another layer of illusion: one does not know what is real in those moments. Once I thought I understood what was a man’s station in life. But, when I felt myself falling in love with Jasmine it was as if I was suddenly transformed into a child learning to walk – stumbling, falling, and picking myself up again. If anything, I stumble more now that I have Sirrus to guide me. He has taught me the value of uncertainty.

But I didn’t have long to ponder any of this. Sirrus and I were disturbed by an outcry, and then answering screams which multiplied and culminated in a crescendo of fright and dismay. I hurled myself through the wigwam’s tarp and was astounded by the surrounding dark. I so often lose all concept of time when I’m in Sirrus’ presence; and night had fallen around me unawares.
No one will ever relate the definitive tale of what happened on this ill night, because each witness confessed to seeing a spectacle that differed from his fellows’. Patrick swore there was a throng of bats ravaging the tents, even entangling themselves in the women’s hair. Mary beheld an owl with ravenous moonlit eyes, gargantuan enough to have carried off an ox. My demon had all the distinctive features of a rat, except that it ran on two legs in a semblance of human gait. As it disappeared into the snow-laden trees, I leapt upon a stump at the edge of the glade and scoured the deeper dark with my gaze.

“Why do you fear discovery, Adversary?” I yelled, “Why, if you are so assured; if you are indeed the feller power? Why hide in the shadows like a craven?”

I felt Sirrus’ hand on my belt. “It is enough,” he said. “It’s good that you are not daunted, but hate is of the Adversary – even if directed at the Adversary Itself. Don’t play into Its game, mistaking that for righteousness.”

I nodded, and folded my arms across my chest to still my trembling. Slowly, people recovered from their shock and horror and gathered around us. Gayla ran to Sirrus and clutched him, wetting his beard with her tears.

The dwarf waited for silence. Then he spoke in that voice of his that still astounds me for its ability to hurdle the gulf between himself and all ears.

“Real demons wander the wood this night; you have seen them, and felt your blood run cold at the sound of their cries. You felt the ice of their will, that will which is devoid of all love. But I tell you now,” – and he paused; I know not whether it was for strength, or to let we, his audience, brace ourselves. “The evil that they may do in such hideous guises, the fright they evoke in you, is yet such a paltry thing when weighed alongside the horrors that the Adversary visits upon your world whilst man wanders oblivious to Its presence and influence. As man soldiers on, never guessing that his eye has been blinded, his heart frozen, his mind poisoned against his fellow man and the whole life of the earth.”
Could harm befall us if we did not carry the taint of the Adversary within us? Around this question there has been much argument, because threats from the outside are so obvious and real that it is hard even for those whom I deem wise, like my father, to accept that all conflict originates from inside us. Perhaps when this understanding is finally reached there will be no more reason to exist at all in the physical world because all its lessons will have been assimilated by the soul.

But right now I strive to record all of Sirrus’ words and deeds of that night, because I believe it was a turning point on all our paths. Alone of all peoples – old and new settlers, Shi-Inte, and all strains of Smokawa – the thirty-four of us are growing and awakening to the fact that a much different drama is being played out upon the earth than man ever believed. We know the truth, but we must learn to bear that knowledge in a world that remains ignorant of it.

Having said this, I must relate now how our dwarfen mentor closed his eyes and stood silently before us for a long time. Scarcely did we dare break the stillness by drawing too harsh a breath. Then Sirrus proclaimed that there was something we must see, something that our hearts would not find easy to bear; but he insisted that we were ready for the vision and the knowledge it would bring. He called for the Mirror, whereupon father and I carried it to the peak of the icy knoll that overlooks the lake. We removed its fur coverings, and torches were held all around so that everyone could behold the ghastly images playing upon its glass.

We saw Churani soldiers setting fires to homesteads, skewering men before the eyes of their children, carrying mothers out of their homes to rape them – slinging them over their brazen shoulders like so many sacks of grain. Then we watched as the Assymyan chief, Taho, personally slit the throats of an entire Smokawa war party that had surrendered to him. My stomach twisted with nausea as I witnessed how the men who resisted were raised upon stakes to writhe in their slow death throes while warriors laughed at the hideous spectacle.

After cycling through this gallery of atrocities, the Mirror began replaying the scenes – but with one subtle alteration. The soldiers and the savages all somehow became diaphanous, opaque. And within them all we saw, ravening, the same spirits of black malice that had wailed their way through our encampment not but an hour before. As the phantasmagoria progressed, it seemed to me that one Entity, one Will, orchestrated and relished the carnage. I realized in that moment that when a person harms another and suffers no pang of conscience it is the demon, which Sirrus has taught us to call the Adversary, which lends that man or woman his or her numbness. Watching these butchers, all divorced from their souls, I knew suddenly that when someone justifies murder and rape it is really the voice and lies of the Adversary that provide such justification. At the same time that It encourages our lowest impulses, It gifts us with blindness for all the suffering we cause. I left the knoll that night with the sore knowledge that the Adversary is the true Lord of this world, paid a tribute a thousand times surpassing what we pay out Creator. It is knowledge that I may spend years trying to reconcile myself to.

****

There is in me a place of deep fear that seems to swell the more I perceive how the human society we live in is built upon lies and the voice of damnation. And some will romanticize the frontier and say that the natives of this land are undoubtedly free. But can one really imagine that the Adversary has not been busily at work, whispering discord, out there in the wilderness as much as in the settlements? The violence of the Assymyans certainly suggests that they do not know the Creator’s love any more than the Whiteskins do.

Whenever I grieve for all of this in front of Sirrus, he challenges me: “Where is it in you, the source of this darkness? How do you feed it with your thoughts and your buried emotions, your lack of heart and poisoned will?” He says that he agrees with me about the condition of the world but also that we should not make too much of it. Always he directs the conversation back to myself: to my places of blindness, frailty, and even my propensity for cruelty and destruction. And I’ve come to believe that this is how it should be.

“Your greatest gift to the land is the realization of yourself,” he has told me more than once.

Then, he invites me once more to peer into his Mirror, where another layer of the lie and deception will be revealed – the lie that lives not only in the untamed land but also, more crucially, within myself.

JANE MACKENZIE - Cacaphoney

A Cacaphoney of voices...sounding, rising
too much to be said.
Rushing in between my sleep and dreams.
Volumns, worry...
unwilling to relent.

Dreams scatter now inside my head.
Thier tails strewn in the nearly morning.
Fading scenes like wisps of smoke
into the atmosphere.
They've nearly disappeared.

A cacaphoney of voices...beginning thier demands.
Sleeping body turning, twisting...
into tense to start the day.
Try holding on to trailing dreams.

Remember, once woven behind these sleepy eyes
Where dreams rose from my pillow...
Scatter across landscapes unreachable.
Undone now are their threads.
Hold on to the fading sounds...
Nearly drowned...

And remember,
Messages all quite profound.
All leading to an inner realm.
Where dreams are made of hopes and fears.
Where remembering is louder than..

A cacaphoney of interuptions,
Burned out like some stolen flame.

JANE MACKENZIE - Burn

......(hmmm)
I hear him scratchin'...
Scccratchin'.
The devils scratchin at my back door.
Scratchin' to get in.
While I'm here dancin and playin, making music with my friends.
Passions risin through the floor.
Oh, How many bridges burned down along the way...
Just so's I could stay.

Burn, (yeah) burn, (umm) burn baby burn.
(yeah) Burn that devils nose.

Fires getting higher.
Passions fires burnin' me up.
No turnin back now.
Gonna keep movin' on.

Burn, ( yeah) burn baby, burn
(Oh yeah) burn that devils toes.
Floor boards are all creekin
Old man, young feet dancin
Song risin with the fire.
Oh, I just want to dance to your new song.
Let passions fire burn me up.
I'm fallin in deep...
Into loves sweet fire.
And, I wanna stay.
Just wanna stay.
So...Burn, (umm) burn, ( oh yeah) burn baby burn.
Burn,
Burn,
Burn,
Burn,
Burn, (yeah)
Devils gonna havt'a wait
(yeah) Devils gonna havt'a wait another day!
Yeah, Burn, Burn (fade) burn.

PETER FISHER - Leaving This House

They're ratting me out in the attic
And the walls are whispering secrets
I'm watching my back,
and I cover my tracks
in this house

Seeking solace in mis'ry
We suffer like heroes
and the Guilt is a chilling inside

And who are these ghosts
who accuse and are silent
is the blood of my brother
my father, my child
in this house

If I leave they may follow
So I answer the summons
where the judge and the jury
are biding their time

And who are these ghosts
who accuse and are silent
while the sweet song of innocence dies

The dead go on living
and the living are dead
and no child ever smiled
in this house

I am leaving
this house
I am leaving
this house

I am leaving

I am going

gone

Is it you?

Just an ordinary day
Lost .. in my ordinary way
I peeled my heart up off the floor
And wandered in the door

Where the speaker gave a speech.. my friends..
It was all beyond my reach
I was drifting into space
When I turned and saw your face

Is it you? Is it you?
Are you someone I once knew?
Through and through, in love with you
And I fell before I knew

I saw your face and fell into grace
And the pain that I feel begins to heal
Now I need your smile, and your bright clear eyes
and to feel your touch, is almost too much

Then the preacher stood to pray
But I just had to turn away
When the teacher read his book
Well, I couldn’t even look

I’m not saying love is blind
But it helps to lose your mind
I was taken by surprise
When you looked into my eyes

Is it me? Could it be?
I'm the one, you want to see?
Where's that lock across my heart
You came and turned the key

I saw your face, and fell into grace tell me
Where did I hide, all this joy inside
Feed me on smile, drown me in your eyes
For the love that you bring, turns my winter to spring

KRISTIN KEHLER--CALL ME

You are the one, who like the sun,
My life flows around.
Love comes, so it seems, in the heart of my dreams,
In the night now I hear you calling.

Chorus
Call me, call me in the night
Though I’m your shy and frightened one
I know you’re the sun, and to the sun I open
Like a flower yearning for light.

My longing makes me shy
I cry and cry, upon you.
You taste my tears, whisper in my ears
In my dreams now I hear you calling.

Chorus

When fear rises in me, I want to run away
But today and tomorrow I’ll stay.
For the nearness of you, for the sun breaking through
Today, all tomorrows, I’ll stay with you.

Chorus

Call me, call me in the night.
Now I know I’m your darling one
And you’re my sun, and to my sun I open
Like a flower yearning for light.

BOB MURRAY and JEREMIAH MCLANE - World Inside the Outside

A too-strong cup of coffee, a stack of Sunday Globe
The world…a spinning crisis in my kitchen
Me in my natty robe
Chilean earthquake, seven hundred dead
A distant wail of suffering others
Haunts the graveyard…of my head

Some guy maimed his brother, photo on Page Two
Engrossed…I wallow every sordid detail
A case of misplaced blues
Cause when I fixate on pain that’s not my own
Lost inside a cloud of numbness
I’m left all alone, and yet…

Over by the window, the sunlight sheens her hair
She sleeps away the morning headline
And right now I’m aware
That there’s a world inside the outside
Cause the dream she dreams is real
And as I tiptoe toward and snuggle in beside her
You know that suddenly, that suddenly I feel…

When I’m here beside her, tender is the word
A warmth…that fills the self that lives inside me
And all else seems absurd
Cause this is heaven, spooning back to chest
The pull toward the outside world
Has no pull…not from this nest

But what about that earthquake, victims everywhere
The Globe…it paints a dark seductive picture
Invites my blank-faced stare
And guilt and duty and apathetic stealth
But hey, I’ll never help the world
Until I help myself…and

Over by the window, sunlight sheens her hair
She sleeps away the morning headline
And I’m so, so aware
That there’s a world inside the outside
Cause the dreams I dream are real

And if I step inside those footsteps then they lead me
To the place where I can, where I can feel…

In this world inside the outside
Cause the dreams we dream are real
And when we step into the footprint of our true selves
Oh, it’s such a gift to feel…

BOB MURRAY - Oh Boss Man

Woke up this morning on the bridge of this big boat
Some kind of steamship, paddle wheel, a whole town afloat
A throng of people milled that misty morning air
And I just gawked around and pretended not to stare

But the boss he seeks me out and nudges me aside
Says I got a job for you, now don’t you run and hide
Got this guitar on your shoulder, same as me
Now is there any place on this earth you’d rather be

Oh Boss Man, can this really all be true
Is this an invitation for me to play with you
Oh Boss Man, if it is then count me in
Cause I promised myself not to turn away again

He says there are people here who’ve been bitten by the snake
It may sound strange at first but it sure ain’t no mistake
Cause they’re pilgrims all and that’s what they’re doing here
So let’s just play a few tunes, help them walk right toward their fears

Oh Boss Man, can this really all be true
Is this an invitation for me to play with you
Oh Boss Man, if it is then count me in
Cause I promised myself not to turn away again

He says your brother’s here and your sister she’s here too
And they’re both thrilled to share this space and be with you
Cause we’re all on this boat together and headed north
And the music’s in your blood, brother let’s hold forth

Oh Boss Man, can this really all be true
Is this an invitation for me to play with you
Oh Boss Man, if it is then count me in
Cause I promised myself not to turn away again

Woke up this morning on the bridge of this big boat
Some kind of steamship, paddle wheel, a whole town afloat
With all these pilgrims in the misty morning air
And I’m not leaving here, I’m not going anywhere

Oh Boss Man, ya I know that this is true
The invitation, the music, the chance to be with you
Oh Boss Man, go ahead and count me in
Cause I’m never never gonna turn away again
Oh Boss Man, I can feel how this is true
Cause I’m feeling my way through this music right to you
Oh Boss Man, don’t you know that I’m on board
Yippee cay-yay-aye, hallelujah, forty miles from the shore

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From the Strafford Concert

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