*
archive
*
random
*
profile
*
notes
*
*
diaryland
and you're standing on the edge of a cliff with your arms open
01 June 2007 - 07:38
Once I read a story where two lovers -- soulmates -- learned to dream together. In their dreams, they could do all the things they were unable to do in waking life: They could travel anywhere in no time at all; they could fly. At the end of the story the lovers were going on a drive, and they had a spontaneous notion to drive on a road they'd never taken before. They took a few blind turns, running on impulse, whimsy, and they found themselves at a meeting hall. They walked into the hall, and it was filled with people who were just like them, who believed the same esoteric things about reality, who pierced the same veils, people they had somehow always known.
Besides living the life of Jane Roberts or Mary Ennis, that is about the most amazing thing I can think of to experience.
Today I talked to several of the people with whom I've had the strongest bonds I've known. And this week I've met a new friend who immediately helped me understand something about myself, a friend who makes me self conscious to use the word "new" to describe her.
I have a feeling everything is about to change forever. The catalyst, the explosion, the final spark. The ember, the ash. In the Native American lore of my area, Mt. St. Helens is called Loowit, Mt. Hood is called Wyeast (for the head of the Multnomah Tribe), and Mt. Adams is called Pahto (for the head of the Klickitat tribe). Natives explained the volcanic activity of area as a result of the ongoing struggle between Pahto and Wyeast to win Loowit's affection.
Thousands of years ago, there was a natural bridge/dam across the Columbia River where Cascade Locks is now. It was destroyed in a fit of seismic activity, Loowit's distress over a battle between Wyeast and Pahto. The natural bridge and the one erected in our time in its place bear the same name: Bridge of the Gods. The searing slow movement of lava, the landslide, plates shifting, the face of the earth rewriting itself, incarnation after incarnation. The ash: pencil dust, eraser rubbings. Our stories about our land rewriting themselves. Our stories about ourselves.
In paradise, every third thought is of earth...
A spray of light, the ocean in a shell. I think that my life *is* the fantasy I (scarcely dare) hope for, and more. I think that I am in the meeting hall; I feel like I am starting to recognize the people around me.
