Tag Archives: storms

Questions and dreams

…dreams, from   ~burning woman~ …by Sha’Tara

Questions that have remained unanswered for me: should dreams be shared with others?  Should they remain as “private” information?  Are they meant to explain other realities to individuals, or to collectives?  Are they part of the the great “collective unconscious”?  Information given by “others out there” as warnings?  Or simply how our memories, when the body is resting, are re-formatted by the mind to be stored in permanent “hard disk” space?

And speaking of space, I like to think that dreams are like space: if it’s only for me, what a waste!
 
Especially if one has spent a lifetime learning how to dream, how to retrieve the information imparted there, even something as simple as remembering them.  Especially after learning to assimilate day-time and night-time information to create a whole new paradigm of understanding.
 
So, about those dreams:
 
Some time ago I had a wild and crazy series of dreams – could have been just one dream covering many scenes and sequences too.  The main part takes place on a meadow and grassy fields bordered to the east by a barb-wire fence, to the north by oil refineries on a river and to the west by open country.
 
I stand at the south, facing north.
 
The skies are slate grey, dark.  A violent storm is blowing, but not a normal wind storm, or hurricane, though the movement of the air is just as great or worse.  Best comparison would be a wind tunnel with a giant fan.  The “wind” is blowing from the west, carrying anything and everything with it.  Nothing is left standing in its path.  I see grass, trees, clothing, unrecognizable material things and sheep.  Yes, sheep.  Blowing in the wind and being thrown violently into the barb wire fence.  One is still alive and struggling to free itself but cannot.  It has a reed branch pushed sideways through its nose and is trying to push it out with its hoof, unsuccessfully.  Gradually, the animal is “emptied” until only a head and skin are left hanging on the wires.  White strips of clothing are also ripping and tearing from the barbs and blowing away.
 
I hear voices, as of people talking from a distance.  They are speaking of a “pollution storm” and how they should have known it was coming and done something about it.  Then I realize that the “sheep” are really people, or better put “sheeple” — who did not care, did not hear, refused to hear and are now being ripped apart by this “storm” that is anything but natural.
 
I hear the voices again and they are saying: “We thought the Middle East would have invaded and taken over by now.  Wonder why they have not?”  But as I looked to the oil refineries, especially at the tall stacks painted a dark, dull, red and black, I notice the lettering on them is Arabic.  And again, I realized how the “take-over” was done, not by ordinary people from the Middle East, but by the oil consortiums and I see the connection between the refineries blowing their smoke into the air, and the “pollution storm” that is destroying everything.
 
I’m unable to truly portray the intensity of this event.  I remember feeling a sense of deadness, of deep sadness, knowing that for years the people had been warned of something like this; knowing that it was all preventable with a bit of common sense, some sacrifice and will-power.  But the people had been led down the garden path of commercial lies; of bodily comfort at any price and had never learned to reach out to the oppressed who supplied the pre-pollution storm “good life”.
 
So, I think such a dream is really a prophecy in simple symbols. 
 
The next dream:  I am standing in space looking up.  I see the moon and the earth further out, at about the same distance away as I am from the moon.  Both are incredibly beautiful, reflecting fully the light of the sun.
 
The information I have is that the moon’s orbit has begun to decay and in a short time the moon will lose it’s ability to remain aloft and go crashing into the earth.  Again voices, people around me talking.  We have decided to attempt to “prop-up” the moon’s orbit to prevent it from crashing into the planet.  In my hands and around me are “spacers” – those flat metal objects we use in venders to correct the spacing between different sizes of cans or bottles and prevent double vends or jams.  I’m looking at these familiar things and working out a plan to use them in this endeavor.
 
Then I begin to understand the significance of these “spacers” — I am not standing “in space” but observing from a space station, or space ship.  The “spacers” are us, not the objects.  We have come together as people of “space” to prevent a catastrophe, if possible. 
 
Our feelings are quite normal, professional you might say.  No fear, no excitement, no despair.  It’s as if this situation is not uncommon and we’ve done this before.  It’s just a matter of calculating the forces and creating new force-fields to replace those that are collapsing.  Yet we are not calloused about the situation and we know that much depends on the people of the planet if it is to survive.  We cannot do this thing alone.  We can provide the technology but we cannot “DECIDE” the outcome, that is we cannot provide the collective planetary will energy that is absolutely necessary for the success of our efforts on behalf of the people of earth.  And we certainly feel empathy for all the life involved here.  The empathy is not, for the most part, reciprocated from the planet’s surface.  And our chances of success correspondingly diminish.
 
After I woke up and shook off some of the heavier energies surrounding this event I realized once more how much “detachment” is mis-understood here.  Earthians hear “detachment” and sense “I don’t care”.  But as the dream showed, the “spacers” (including me) who would save this world cared a great deal more than the people on the planet.  They could really care because they were detached about the outcome.  They had nothing to lose or gain, whether they failed or succeeded.  Either way, they would go on to other duties in “space”.  So… they could focus on the problem fully.
 
Many more details, other events in-between, but this is already too long a read for most.

Do Scarecrows Dream in those Fields of Yore?

                                                          [a short story by Sha’Tara]

I’m thinking about those scarecrows alone out there in the fields of yore, abandoned to the extremes of winter storms, half buried under snow drifts, no birds to speak to, to speak of.  Must be pretty lonely, huh?

Yes, it is quite lonely.  I happen to be one of them.  The one thinking of scarecrows also.

The last wagon with the last team, wallowing under a heavy load of straw rolled past some weeks ago now.  It didn’t stop to pick me up. I don’t blame it.  Or the horses for not stopping.  It was late, getting dark and horses cold and hungry.  As were the people, the makers, the creators, those strange creatures that try to make us look like them so we’d be very, very scary.  As long as the illusion lasts, we are indeed scary individuals, all dressed in their hand-me-downs, pretending to wave our arms.  Sometimes they even nail a stick to our arms so we look like we have a gun.

It’s full winter now.  My second in this field.  I have lots of time to think, alone in the snow, my feet frozen into the ground, icicles dangling from my golden straw fingertips.

Do scarecrows dream?  When I was young, my outfits not quite so ratty, my head in better shape, I could actually dream.  I was told in a dream that winter was a great time to meditate on my purpose in life, that I’d be too busy come spring and summer to do much thinking.  My problem is, having a head stuffed with old newspapers and assorted rags that my information and ability to think is somewhat straitened.  You try it, you’ll see.  Still I was able to record or remember that dream.

Thinking?  Yes, I do try.  What else is there to do?  I don’t feel very much of anything.  The scenery doesn’t change and I can’t turn my head.  I’m not sure that what I hear I actually hear.  Could be something I imagine. I’ve never managed smell though I know about it.  A young bald eagle sat on my shoulder once and he was repeating some lessons he was learning.  “Soar, stare down, smell, dive, cling, kill, tear into.”  Eagle talk, I suppose.  I’m just glad I don’t smell like anything so he didn’t use me for practice.

Here I stand, my left sleeve from an old faded red shirt torn open to the elbow, waving in a stiff northern breeze, my brown fedora hat with the hole in the top partially covering my eyes, my coat slipped off the left shoulder and my right arm dislocated and dangling at right angles down from its elbow.  I guess I make a pathetic figure, unless you’re also a scarecrow but I’d be willing to bet if I had anything to bet with that you’re not.  You’re probably one of our creators in fact. I could say a thing or two about your skills at creativity but I don’t have that authority.  I’ll just think it.

The sky is darkening again.  There’s going to be another blizzard tonight, I can tell, if I had anyone to tell to.  The cold has granulated the snow and its hisses by as if it were angry at something.  Maybe it is.  I don’t see the point of getting angry, everything dies in the end; the snow melts, however much it hardens itself in little ice balls and my skeleton of cheap reject wood will rot.  They might burn me.  That’s a thought.  It’s so cold right now that burning doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.  I didn’t know until now that bad ideas made any sound.  I’m learning something new every day, even when I’m just thinking.

Day after the blizzard.  There’s more snow in the field, all in shiny icy waves where the wind cleared the crust and the low winter sun strikes its surface.  It’s pretty, even if I’ve seen this a hundred or more times.  The wind has gone south, where it seemed so intent on going last night.  I hope it finds what it was looking for, or chasing after.  I don’t speak wind so when I asked it didn’t answer.  It just moaned around my body and tried to tear my clothes off. That’s the wind for you.  No sense of decency.  But I feel pretty proud of myself, I hung on and only lost one suspender button.  My coveralls are still holding up.

Hey, how about that.  I distinctly hear some chirping to my right.  Closer now.  I feel a presence or more than one on my shoulder.  Snow buntings.  Hi little guys, I try to say to them, I’m so glad you are back this year.  Are you OK?  Finding enough to eat under the hedgerows?  You aren’t cold, are you?  If you are, you can huddle under my hat for a while.  I’d like to hear about your adventures in other fields, if you’ve met any of my folks?  I rattle on like this and I think, as much as I can think, that they hear me because they huddle under my hat and go to sleep.

Now I remember.  I was supposed to meditate on my purpose in life.  Only I don’t know what meditating involves.  I think it’s beyond me.  Anyway, my purpose, that’s simple enough.  In summer, pretend to scare away the crows.  Not that I want to scare anything away, quite the opposite, but that’s what they made me for.  In winter, shelter little birds. Otherwise watch, listen, observe and store it up in those old newspapers.  Who knows but someone who knows how to read may take my head apart some day, read through those old newspapers  and learn something from me.

That’s an interesting thought, don’t you think?  I mean, if there was a you and you were here to listen to me and think with me.  I’ll just pretend.  Pretending is OK when you’re completely happy and fulfilled.

Sincerely, Racso the scarecrow from the eastern half section. Sorry, I don’t have any other address.