The Dreamtime ~ Part 1

Artwork by: Colleen Wallace Nungari ~ Dreamtime Sisters

It's late, I'm staying up late... and I don't care. I've lots to do in the morning, but I don't care. My son's friend's mother shot herself in the neck last Sunday. They didn't find her till Tuesday. So, I'm drinking vodka and orange juice and eating oreo cookies and trying to make sense of this life that often makes no sense at all.

Yeah... it brings it all back... it never made sense then, either... and now someone else is blaming themselves, just like I did... back then... only, I didn't blame just myself, I blamed the entire world and all of human existence, for all of it's fuck-up-edness... especially those who were closest to him... who should have been able to effect change... in a good way! I was one of those. But how do you effect change, in a good way, when you are right in the middle of the chaos.

She is feeling guilt for having said something that was less than kind. I remind her of the time I had gone through, all those years ago. She had been there, then... and I try to explain, to her, that it was not her fault... but, I know, on the inside, that it doesn't matter what anyone else says... it doesn't even matter what she knows, for real, on the inside of her... that perhaps it really wasn't her fault... because it will take years to process, in her own time.

Someone once said that "death and dying" are not for the "dead and dying"... rather, it is about the ones that are left behind. This was told me to me a long time ago... before he left this plane... and, even then, that made sense to me. It makes even more sense, now. For the ones that are left behind are left to sift through the sludge, looking for the jewel, and then carry out the garbage. I stopped looking for the jewel... and I never found it. By this time, I figure it will appear on it's on, if there's one to be found.

Maybe there was just one jewel. "Say what you mean and mean what you say"... for life is too short for bullshit. After all, it was something that he said... and did... which caused me to say what I said... and do what I did. In the end, it was all just bullshit. And life should be about more than that. And these days I don't have time for it... bullshit, that is.

So, I feel for her. For I know that, until she finds the jewel, if she ever does, she will have days of suffering and regret for what she said, and what she can't take back. It doesn't matter what the now dead one may have said to her, or how wrong that may have been... what matters is that when we are not communicating in a positive way, we are always wrong. All of us.

I found this on someone's Facebook page, and it is powerful: "Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can....John Wesley"

And what, you might ask, does any of this have to do with the dreamtime?

You might say, he and I met in the dreamtime... eventually, in one way or the other... and we shared many experiences, walking in shamanic circles... things which, to this day, I no longer can be sure were real... and wonder how much of our experience, together, may have been imagined... or created, out of our minds and hearts desire to believe in magic... and each other... maybe just to be able to believe in someone or something... in life, itself.

At the time, everything seemed real. When he died, time stopped for me... and the luster of life became jaded.

I want it back. I don't know if it will ever come back, if I can ever find it again. Until I figure out what was real and what was imagined, I have no reason to believe that even the love we shared might have been real. Perhaps I made all of that up, too.

So... it was a posting that someone made, in another blog, that opened this back up to me... and then, it was a movie that opened it further, to remind me of something that I once knew to be true, but that I had allowed to be covered in dust and debris. Even more, it was someone else's own suicide that exposed those raw places, for inspection again.

If I could begin to believe, again, in the truth of what I thought we had experienced, I might begin to believe, again, that the love was really real.

It's important that I know the love was really real. Or is that just my highly evolved ego talking? By highly evolved, I mean that it muscles it's way around in my life, and I don't like that. I'd rather that it be laid to rest, than all the wonder that I once knew.