For me, the dreamwork is a response to the call to come home. Marc Bregman writes in his first book, “… God does not need to be appeased. He simply wants the person to come home.” Over and over I read that passage. Come home. I ached with anticipation to walk that homeward bound road. Now, I know my feet are on it.
Hiding and Safety
My life was new when I started this work. Recently divorced, my two sons grown and having left home, I was finished with talking to my therapist and I wanted to work on a more experiential level. I had been recording my dreams for a number of months, when I had this one:
Dream:
I am running from a fearsome cosmic force in the sky that is intent on my destruction. I know if it catches me, it will kill me. My two companions and I run with all our strength looking for a hiding place. We run through tunnels, but they are part of an archeological dig and have no ceiling, so we can’t hide there. We run through a building under construction and out the back where a beautiful white yacht, owned by one of my companions, is anchored. Onto the boat we run, getting below deck in the nick of time. We sit on the floor and pant. We are safe.
But the boat is anchored in a slip of stinking, polluted water, at a pier of decaying wood, surrounded by dilapidated buildings oozing brown slime. The stench is overwhelming, but I dare not get out because the force in the sky will find and destroy me.
Driving to work that morning, I could hardly see the road for the tears in my eyes, and I called North of Eden that very night, frightened and distressed. A week later, in our first session, I reported the dream and was asked,
“Why are you hiding?”
I had no idea what Marc was talking about.
“Nothing bad ever comes from the sky. So why are you hiding?”
Me, hiding? No, no, I am out there, charming, cute, funny, educated, well read. I am a community leader, a fantastic mother, an interesting person, and successful at my job. I am even happy!
Then came the shocker I didn’t want to hear: Hiding and safety were pathological barriers I place between myself and love, connection and intimacy. My whole life is passing me by without my ever having known love. Though it felt like a punch, I knew it was true.
There was no reassurance, no kindly unconditional acceptance, and the words probed my depths where truth dwelt. I had to feel the fear of what was in the sky. All my life I had been taught that fear was something to manage, to get over; at the very least, something to hide from others. But now I was learning that feeling fear was not only desirable, it was necessary – it was the way in, towards connection.
Hiding and safety came up over and over, and I did a lot of homework around them, beginning with getting out of that boat. I hide by putting myself out there, charming and witty. I’ll grab your attention and hold it, make you laugh, and make you admire me. I’ll take over a group and make everyone feel lighthearted and free, like a ray of sunshine had burst among it.
I hide by being the one who juggles responsibilities as if they required no effort, by taking on obligations no one else would take, by turning chaos into order, deserts into gardens, and by unselfishly caretaking others. Worse, I hide by not speaking my needs, desires, and passion. I allow others to state my wisdom for me and so I become focused on them as higher beings and not on the power and wisdom that’s in me. Speaking up, making waves, risking being open about my needs and desires terrify me. I’d rather figure out what you want to hear and tell you that, or charm you into admiring me, instead of exposing myself.
I remain alone, on the surface, alienated from my own heart and from any possibility of love. Admiration for charm and wit, fulfilled obligations, and shouldered responsibilities are no substitutes.
It hurt to see all that; hurt at some center of my being I did not know existed. I had never thought of myself in that way before, and I found I had skillfully hidden my essential self for many years. The knowledge broke my heart, and I experienced soul pain like never before as I saw the spiritual mess my dreams exposed.
What was my essence? Did I even have an essence? If I did, would I ever find it?
I examined every choice I made. What was the safe choice? Reject it. The unsafe one? How do I tell them apart? I gave up my obligations and responsibilities, quitting even the things I loved, until I could invite them back in from a place of love and yearning, and not from obligation and caretaking.
I was still on the surface, but at least I was looking at my life in a different way.
Dream:
The front door of my house bursts open and a little girl about 5 years old runs to greet me. She is very excited, and all dressed up. Overjoyed, I grab her, pick her up and hug her.
Dream:
I am in a large church hall with many people. A man and woman walk in and survey the place regally. They are impossibly tall! I am in awe of them, especially of the woman, who has a beautiful sash around her waist.
The little girl is my soul self returning. I welcomed her and wept; she has been away for a long time. The tall people in my other dream, I learned, were the Anima and Animus, and they are tall because I am small, and I am to be with them as the little girl in my homework. In my homework, she stoops to me and smiles in delight, while he encircles us in the safety of his arms. I feel a mother’s delight and a father’s protection for the first time in my life.
Trust and Being Less Important than the Mother
And then the trust issues started. Over and over the Animus entered my dreams, enticing me to be with him. He came as every man I ever looked at twice; every man I thought was sexy, kind, or attractive. Looking back, it seems that he was taking every opportunity to present himself as someone I had trusted and could give myself to. My homework was to be with him. In response, my sense of worthlessness surfaced: I am not lovable, I am not important, I am worth nothing; nobody would ever want me. I want to hide. Even the Animus would reject me, I am so unlovable.
Dream:
I am visiting a woman friend and her husband. I wake up in the bed in their guest room, and I know she’s gone someplace. The man comes into my bed and starts to make love to me. I am shocked and try to get him to leave, but he’s so sexy and such a great lover that I start to enjoy it. But just then the woman comes home, so I jump out of the bed and start yelling at him. “Get away from me! You’re married!”
I was asked if I knew the couple in real life. No, I didn’t. The conclusion was that they were the Anima and Animus, not a married couple, as there was nothing in the dream to suggest that. Contemplating being intimate with him, knowing he’s available made me feel shy, embarrassed, and undesirable. I wanted to hide.
My homework was to get back into the bed with him and feel the feelings of being the daughter who is less important than the mother. I heard my mother’s voice from the distant past. “You’re not important. You are not special.” I realized that what she was really saying was, “You’re not more important than I am. You are not special – I’m the one who’s special.” That was exactly what I had been telling myself my whole life; she had trained me well, so I knew how to keep myself in the place of less importance.
Never have I felt cherished or precious in anyone’s eyes, even in my adult life.
Feeling into this fact is extremely painful. I either become the invisible daughter behind the dark mother, withholding my deep knowing and avoiding exposing my vulnerable self, or I project the pain onto others, charming them and elevating myself, diminishing them, so they, not I, feel the pain. This is narcissism at its finest, feeding itself on the pain of others.
I married two different men, who verbally and emotionally abused me, spending over 20 years in these relationships before I finally left. Unconsciously, I placed myself in a one-down position, in which I remained less important and soulful, a shell of a human being whose life had all but drained out of her. Unable to feel. Unable to be in relationship. Unable to accept love. But safe, after a fashion.
This is bigger than I am, I realized. I cannot fix this. My own strength, ingenuity, and power will not heal me, but Divine connection can and will. And I need to be willing to see into the dark night of this pathology.
A Child Appears and so does Fear and Pain
Dream:
I am sitting on a step of a house on the sidewalk in a city neighborhood. It is Martin Luther King Day, and celebrations are everywhere. A head leans against my shoulder. I put my cheek against its top and feel the rough hair of an African American boy about 6 years old. He looks up at me with eyes full of love. I put my arms around him.
Marc says, “He’s YOU!” I say he’s innocent and pure. I still don’t get that I’m seeing my own innocence and purity; I can’t seem to internalize that when I’m looking at him, I’m looking at me. I feel into his innocence and purity and try to understand that they are my innocence and purity. I have a very hard time. See, because if I can cover my innocence with the shame of worthlessness, then I can justify not being loved – I’m worthless after all! But what if I peel away the shame and look beneath to the childlike purity and innocence that is me? And from that raw and vulnerable place, admit my need for love?
I ache so much; it hurts so much. This is new and sad beyond belief. This pain is a vessel that seeks to be filled and if I don’t feel it, I can’t feel the love. It’s the longing for the love I once knew; there is nothing to do but feel it. Don’t fix it, don’t avoid it, don’t manage. Just feel.
There is a part of me that will die in this process, and I am afraid of that death, the death of the false self, and the death of the “me” that is not that little boy. I am afraid of feeling my deep wounds, of not being the person others have made me out to be. I am afraid of my fury, afraid of my passion, afraid of intimacy.
The fear comes up in more dreams. I bypass the intimacy by being overly caretaking of the Animus when he comes to visit. I am swept out to sea in a boat and reach to the people on the shore who pull me in. I lose and recover my wallet, or thwart the thieves that would steal it, afraid of losing my identity. The Anima invites me to swim through a submerged tube, and I refuse because it was so long, I knew I’d drown.
I can’t access the fear, can’t really feel into it. The dreams aren’t yet saying what the fear is, and I am too afraid of fear to feel it.
Passion?
Dream:
I am near a pier with my ex. We see a boat, like a small riverboat, circling in a lagoon. On it, people are singing old Gospel hymns in beautiful harmony. The driver sees us and comes close to pick us up. My ex makes a headlong leap and gets on. I’m not quick enough and the boat moves away. I am frantic! I want to get on and sing. The boat comes by, and again, I miss it.
If I had had enough passion, I would have jumped onto the boat. My passion isn’t there yet; I don’t want anything enough to go for it at all cost. My ex wanted it, went for it and got it. I gave him the power; he took it and was gone. Then I’m angry because I set things up so I don’t get what I want, and I don’t have enough passion in me to go for it.
I’m afraid of my passion and my anger; I see it as frightening, like a bomb that will go off. And then what? Nobody will like me. I will be alone. I have to give that up. I’m asked how can I possibly serve the Divine if I can’t be the person I am, for me? If I have to have everyone liking me all the time?
The Animus as Provocateur
Now the Animus came again, but not as every man I ever loved and trusted. He started provoking me, coming in ways that knocked me off my comfortable center, baiting my pathology, showing me my controlling, judgmental self. He was Marc, with whom I had an in-person appointment. But he wanted to meet in a dilapidated old bus, and when he turned his face to me, it was heavy with makeup and false eyelashes. The Animus in drag? As a gay man? That judgment kept me safe from getting too close to him. I can make him into one of my gay friends who’s a drag queen, a safe place for a hetero woman.
He came as a man with no legs; then he grew one leg, then two. As he became more and more potent and whole, I became more and more angry and scared. He came as a partner in a back rub, but he had two backs and was drooling. I got grossed out and turned him over to the teacher, who brought him back to me, whole and, well, normal. He looked at me and said, “I’m sorry.”
He came as old lovers. I reunited with him in one dream, and left him in another. When I returned, he was gone. I felt into the pain and regret.
He came in a car and sat in the back seat and drove, while I sat in the front. I wouldn’t move out of the front seat to give him room, but he drove anyway. I had to get out of the front seat in my session, and get in the back with him.
He challenged me to expand my vision, blocking the small road I was on and sending me to an interstate that linked three countries. He showed me how I don’t trust him, how my anxiety is killing me.
He chased me as I ran, always running from Him. Running from love. He’ll kill me! Marc had me turn around in one session, and He closed in on me. Suddenly, I felt his arms around me, and I went limp. He held me up, I rested in his arms.
I began to get homework assignments to be open to the fear of being vulnerable so I could be more intimate with the Animus. I was advised that I couldn’t control what he thinks and feels about me. Be the child. Feel the innocence. Stop the judgments and manipulation.
I was told, “God has already created you. You don’t have to recreate yourself.”
Breaking the attachment to the support of the world
If I want union with the Divine, I need to stop receiving my affirmation from the world. I didn’t think I did; I’m not the big house, fancy car, powerful job and lots of money type. But I believe in affirmations. On my mirror is a note: “You matter. What you say matters, what you write matters, what you think matters…”
I need to be told I matter so I can feel ok. Peel that away and uncover the shame of worthlessness. Peel away the shame and uncover pain, the deep pain of separation from love. Enter the charmer, the one who will make me matter to you, who refuses to feel the pain of separation and engages the world as a manipulative little firecracker. I may not believe I matter, but I’m hell bent on making YOU believe I matter.
So much for believing I don’t receive affirmation from the world.
Dream:
I’m walking along a road with a small group of friends, led by Kate (the Anima in this dream). I go on ahead and see that the road is blocked by the rocky side of a hill. In the rock there is a door, which I open. I enter a tunnel. Part way through, it is light. I sit down and wait for the others, but they won’t enter. Kate enters, though.
In this dream, I have the opportunity, with the Anima’s support, to leave the world and enter the interior place. I take it. No more refusals, no more running. Although I don’t yet know it, I am in search of pain, and my pathology is beginning to break up.
Autonomy and the Need for Affirmation
Dream:
I am in a snowstorm and when it stops, I see huge snowflakes hanging on threads that go all the way to the sky. Several of them are shaped like mandalas. I love them; they are so beautiful, glittering in the sun. I gather some of them in my arms and walk towards a general store. Fearing that they’d melt, I leave them outside and go in to tell the shopkeeper, a kindly man who knows me, about them. As I walk into the store, I’m afraid I’ve lost them or someone will steal them.
This is a good example of my lack of autonomy. I leave the miracle outside, and go in seeking affirmation from the shopkeeper, showing I haven’t accepted the miracle at all. This lack of autonomy means I can’t accept any gifts – I give them away. Of course, I’d always been taught that giving away one’s gifts, like taking the smallest piece of birthday cake, was a noble and righteous thing to do.
If I’m not autonomous; if I can’t hold the gifts, then I can’t hold the love. I give away the miracle to get the affirmation. If I am in need of affirmation, I look to others for my worth.
Letting Go of the Affirmations, Letting Go of the Shame
Dream:
Cecilia is singing and rolling a woman over and over like a hoop. The woman is bent over backwards, holding her feet, her body forming a circle. Over and over Cecilia rolls her, singing, and magically removes her clothing piece by piece. It is very playful. Other women are lined up to be next. They are all very excited about it. But I am standing off to the side thinking, “I can’t do this. Her body is beautiful. Mine is not. She is supple and can form a hoop with her body. I can’t.”
Dream:
I am lying on the side of a bed next to a young woman. On the other side of the bed is a man I admire, and he is getting ready to make love to yet another young woman. I want him to make love to me, but I feel I am too old and unattractive.
Here is my shame, under which I live my life. It is the reason for my being a charmer and a Renaissance Woman. If I live off the admiration and affirmations of others, I won’t have to feel it. I’ve worked on seeing through the falseness of affirmations, and now my dreams show me the power my shame has over me.
My homework was to let Cecilia roll me over and over – to be the hoop woman in my dream. I close my eyes and I am her: playful, disoriented, letting go with wild abandon. “If you want the Man, you have to have the wild abandon,” I was told.
I am beginning to understand. My shame comes up everywhere, in every thought, every human encounter. I am continually comparing myself to others. Am I good enough? Attractive enough? Funny enough?
Vulnerability, Loss of Control and Pain
I need to be in my pain, but I am pain averse. I’d rather divert it with the armor of charm and control, both of which cover up the shame of worthlessness. How many times I project my shame onto others, subtly controlling them so I don’t have to feel! I don’t even realize I’m doing this! Living in my shame, trying to be a good girl, gives me a low tolerance for others’ foibles, pain and struggles. If I’m trying to be good, everyone else has to be good too.
Oh, that was so hard to take. To look at my intolerance and judgment of myself and others. Holding them and myself to high – sometimes impossibly high – standards. Becoming their victim by projecting onto them that they are judging me and finding me wanting. Throwing smokescreens between me and their perceived judgment. Confusing surrender to love with submission to tyranny. Getting angry when the Animus gets too close.
Oh, I am afraid to surrender control and be vulnerable! It is like skiing in a white-out, no trail, no perceived motion and life-threateningly dangerous. Feeling into this fear is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I never knew it was there, never knew there could be such a cold-white place inside me.
Dream:
It is a cold winter day, and I am crawling on some ice on a lake. It’s breaking up and I’m afraid I’ll fall into the freezing water. I am so, so cold. Two wolves appear, one in front of me and one in back. Suddenly, I am crawling into a bed piled high with down comforters. I see the underside of a tree and its root system. I am still so very, very cold. The wolves appear and climb up a ledge, standing guard over me.
I have fallen through, into the icy water of my pain. The archetypal wolves want me down under there, where I remain for a week, feeling the prickly cold in my aloneness. It hurts to be this cold; I cannot move, only crawl toward the comforters, but they are no comfort at all.
Dream:
I am living in a house in a very small town. There is a military garrison there, and the soldiers have just caught a man who has committed a crime. The commander has issued an order that the man be stoned to death. I am horrified at this, and I ask the commander to carry out the sentence far away from my house so I and my baby won’t have to hear the man’s screams. The commander said he would, and the soldiers take the man, who is unaware of his sentence, away into the hills.
Here is a dream that shows me my father’s tyranny and violence. My father would beat my brother, and I’d have to listen to my brother’s screams. I tried to stop him, but he’d threaten me with the same. I backed down, afraid of the pain.
The little girl that was me was horrified, ruined, alone, terrified, bleeding inside. My homework from this dream was something I never wanted to do – to listen to the screams: the screams of the man in my dream, of my brother, of the kids in my neighborhood. And my own screams. Feeling into this drove me deep into my pain.
But then the Animus came almost as if He were my brother.
Dream:
I am walking with a man down a crowded hallway. He has a set of keys, and he opens the door to a secret room. He and I enter, and I see that the room is filled with musical instruments. I am delighted! He chooses a baritone horn; I choose an oboe.
My brother and I used to make music together, he on his trumpet, I on my clarinet. It was the sweetest, most innocent time that we shared together, something that belonged only to us, as we were the only musicians in the family. The assigned homework is to be with my brother, and I find I can claim this experience, even with the screams in my ears.
A New Feeling: Moving toward the Animus
Dream:
I am with the Animus, wrapped tightly with Him in an egg-shaped cocoon. We are rolling around a bed, bumping around the way an egg would roll. There is a pulsing coming from the middle of the cocoon, like the pulse of a bass guitar in a rock band.
Here is the place to bring my pain and my joy. This is new! Being with Him, this close, this sensually, packed so tightly into this cocoon that I can’t move. Feeling the bumping around, the uncertainty of which way the container will roll, Feeling the pulsing from the center. This tightly wrapped container is the place to let go. I am not in control. I can’t even tell which end is up! All I know, all I want to know, all I need to know, is that I am wrapped up tightly with Him. Rolling. Pulsing.
Dream:
I am standing in a newly plowed field in the suburban town where I used to live. Across the street there is a row of apartment buildings, and behind them are train tracks. I see from where I'm standing that a train is going by, a circus train. Its cars are painted pink and purple, and on each there is a large black and white painting of feline markings: tiger stripes on one, leopard spots on another. I want to get on the train, but I remain in the field.
Standing in that field, I feel the futility of running to catch the train. I tell the story that it's too late to get on, it's too far away, there are too many obstacles in the way, it'll be a futile effort. The wellspring inside of me is put down, and I avoid the painful feeling of missing the train, if all my effort at running toward it doesn't result in my catching it.
The train is the journey of life with the Animus, a real life, not the shell of lies I’ve been living. I was told to go after the train. I ran, feeling a desperate urgency. Crazy, wild with desire. Pushing aside obstacles. This became my homework - to run toward the train and be in these feelings. Running toward Him. Running toward my life.
Deeper Feelings of Pain
Deeper yet, I know there are two more wounds in me: that of not having been heard, and that of not having been allowed to be hurt.
The first deep wound came mostly from my mother, who just "didn't want to hear it". Sore throats, hurt tummy, skinned knees, burned skin, bee stings - none were worth mentioning to her. "You're not hurt." Lose something? Don't bother to tell her; if she found it, you'd be spanked. She was fond of saying, "You can stand ANYTHING." I learned that opening my mouth to speak my needs, to say who I was and what I thought, was futile. All ears were deaf. At the same time, the expectations were high.
Dream:
I am sitting at an organ bench, about to play the organ at a church. Nobody knows I can't really play; I've already exhausted my repertoire of simple pieces. I can't tell them this; nobody wants to hear. They go about their business assuming I will do what they want me to do when actually, I can't do what they want me to do. I feel paralyzed and alone.
This is my legacy from an uncaring mother. I project that I won't be heard, and I spend a lot of energy trying to make you listen to me, being charming and chummy. I want you - anyone - to hear me, and I don't believe you will. Therefore, I can never really listen to you. Nor am I interested in who you are because that will get in the way of my making you listen to me. I cannot communicate from a deep soulful place; the words that come out of me are cheap and superficial, but friendly and, well, charming.
Dream:
I am with a group of people on the lawn in front of a homestead. A group of Indians rides by on horseback, shooting arrows at us. A woman next to me falls dead, an arrow in her throat. I cower on the ground, protecting a baby. The Indians start to ride away, and I look up. The arrow comes out of nowhere. It enters my mouth and lodges in my throat; I fall over, and the shaft breaks so it's completely enclosed in my mouth. I am amazed I'm not dead. I see Sue walking among the dead on the lawn. When she comes to me, I sit up. She says, "You're ok." I reply, "But Sue, I have an arrow in my throat," and I open my mouth to show her. "So, you do" and she reaches in, works the arrow free and pulls it out. On its end is a bloody mass. She takes a look at it and tosses the whole thing away.
I woke up feeling the hole in my throat. The Archetypes are opening up my voice, healing me, teaching me to communicate from my deep knowing and from a place of abundance. I am not yet in that place. I waste time and breath communicating from the shallowness of simply wanting to be heard. I want to be able to access that deep place and speak from there, but I can't do it unless I feel into this wound. I had one more dream, in which the Animus took me by the hand and said, "Let's talk." I knew in the dream that He was as interested in hearing from me as He was in talking to me. I need to be listened to by Him, to feel that I can be heard - by Him - before I can become a good, caring listener, and before I can communicate from that deep place inside me.
The second deep wound is that of not having been allowed to be hurt. Sure, I got hurt a lot as a little tomboy kid. I was allowed to get hurt; I was just never allowed to be hurt. I spent a great deal of effort, falling victim to a lot of shame and a lot of resourcefulness, so I wouldn't be in a state of hurt.
Dream:
I find a hurt kitten on the floor in my kitchen. Its legs have been bitten off and are lying in pieces around it, and there is a gaping wound in its side. I decide to take it to the vet to put it out of its misery, so I wrap it in a cloth and get into the back seat of a car. The driver turns around, and I hold up the kitten and say to him, "Look, I have a hurt kitten."
“You’re the one who’s hurt, not the kitten,” said Marc. He had me say to the Animus, "I'm hurt. Help me." Then we switched, and I became the Animus and could see myself with His eyes. I felt so much love for the hurt little Sharon calling out for help. I never knew, never knew, it was possible to be loved when I was in that state.
My homework was to go to the Animus and say, "I'm hurt. Help me." What I said in addition was, "I'm hurt. My legs are bitten off and are lying in pieces around me and there is a gaping wound in my side. Help me."
Never in my life have I been able to admit such a thing without telling myself to shut up, I'm not hurt, and to stop feeling sorry for myself. Doing this homework made me feel weak and helpless. There was no way I could build myself up to be not-hurt, strong and self sufficient. I cried and cried, allowing myself finally to be the hurt little girl.
I started feeling love pour into me. In situations in my waking life, I perceived love, not just for me, but for the others I was with. Love and goodness – I am beginning to be remade. And I was and am overwhelmed – every time I stop and feel this goodness pour into me, I feel like I'm coming apart, and I weep and weep.
I think I can describe the commonality of the patterns of pathology that run in me. The charmer, the judging bitch, the narcissist, and the one who can't hold her autonomy – they're all doing the same thing. They're pushing the pain of these deep wounds away, and so pushing the love away, closing me up so the love and goodness can't pour in.
Being Remade
Dream:
I am at a restaurant. Six people are being seated at a table, but there is one unoccupied chair. I watch as a woman enters. She is dressed in animal hides – laced up boots, skirt, vest – and a coonskin hat on her head. Decorating her vest and waist are trophies of animals – rabbits' feet, squirrels' tails, fox pelts. I become aware that she is me. And then I actually become her in the dream; I walk to the table and take my seat. The others turn to me expectantly; they have been waiting for me.
Never in a million years would I, the bleeding heart liberal, wear clothing such as this. But she does. She knows who she is, and she doesn't care about what anyone else thinks. And as the one who knows who she is, she takes her place. She is the one I am becoming.
Dream:
There is a man on another planet who is searching for me. He uses a red beam to do this, and when it appears in the sky, it looks like the spot on Jupiter. It is coming. The people around me have successfully hidden me from it in the past, but now it is coming in force, and I know we are powerless. I am terrified! I see it in the sky! The next thing I know, I am on another planet. The man walks out of a house and toward me, followed by a woman. I know we are the only three on this planet and that this is a permanent thing: it’s my new home. I look around and see beautiful, tree covered hills.
I am dead, says Marc, and I will not return. I am to be up there, on that new planet with the Anima and Animus, and feel His love. I find I cannot do this without being in that very vulnerable place of wanting His love so desperately, I must tear away everything that gets in the way. If I don’t, I’ll shut down and distance myself from the Archetypes, who cannot love the protected me, because they can’t get in.
All my trying to get love has only resulted in distancing me from the very thing I so desperately want and need. The love is there, seeking entrance. I don’t have to charm it in, drag it in, grab at it, or hold it.
I renounce the charm. I only use it to rope people in. It robs me of real relationship. It is not up to me to try to find and grab love; it is only up to me to be open to it with the vulnerability of child self who is in pain and can yearn from that deep place. God takes care of the rest.
The Wolf
Dream:
I am coming home, through fields and trees, with some people. I become aware that a wolf is tracking us, off to the side, and I am glad. The wolf follows me toward the house, and as I stand on its deck, he comes up to me and leans against my leg. I put my hand on its back, feeling a connection to him, glad he is staying.
Here is the edge of my work: to be with the wolf, and to become the wolf. The wolf doesn’t mess around or play the human games I’m so famous for; it is not charming, witty or manipulative. As it knows who it is, I will know who I am. I am beginning to leave the world, beginning to be true, and stopping my games, as I dare to be the wolf.