This is a story of joy, and faith, and delight.
Facebook just asked me what's on my mind today.
What's on my mind is Blaise.
Is it really six years ago that I birthed her? Six years since my world stretched out promising a future of family, of the three of us wound into each other like otters, living and loving each other, with her the most important thing in my life, one I would die for, never for a moment considering that she would leave before me.
When I gave birth to her I had the shortest hair; after three months of chemo it had just started to grow back. She had no hair at all, probably for the same reason.
In the beginning of the pregnancy, Lee had talked about having a son.
'Nah,' I'd joked, patting my pre-bump belly where she swam all small and asleep, dreaming her baby dreams of her life to be. 'We'll have an asian-eyed, red haired girl.'
About three weeks after she arrived, we were outside, soaking up the winter sun, and I noticed what looked like amber sparks on her head. There they were, the first of her fiery locks, crystallised motes of light, like a crown of tiny flaming stars.
There was so much light in her.
When we took her to London, six months before she died, she was amazed by the swarming masses of humans.
We got off the tube one morning at peak hour, where the heaving throngs were almost-running on their way to work. A river of furrow-faced, black-clad people streamed past in one direction, another tide like a school of fish came in the opposite direction.
Blaise was travelling at her usual pace, so people had to swerve to go around us, which they did with an unconscious, morphic intelligence, like starlings in flight, not even slowing.
The haunting notes of a saxophone wound into the tunnel; some busker everyone had heard before, a familiar backdrop to the morning rush hour clack of heels and scuffle of feet.
I saw the music strike Blaise like lightning, and she stopped still, entranced, and o-so-slowly started to gracefully dance. One arm floated up and started to coil, then the other, her fingers twinkling like glacial stars. She turned a slow twirl, her head cocked, eyes rapt, the music falling on her upturned face like manna from heaven. Each movement was exquisitely slow. It was like watching a flower bloom.
This is when magic happened.
She had dropped to a halt, and now the streaming waves of people had to actually look at her to avoid her.
When they looked, they SAW her.
It was like watching a light bomb go off.
She was oblivious to them all, deep in her own trance, and I watched the incredible beauty of her presence startle them awake, break them out of their own trances into the perfection of a child dancing to music they hadn't even heard.
I watched stressed faces break into delighted smiles, at her, at us, making eye contact with each other. On-comers, noticing the disruption, started to focus in, and the smiles spread. I heard giggles whoosh past. Delight exploded around us, and the shock waves spread out and away.
A woman in an immaculate suit and perfect make-up laughed and twirled as she went past. A man doffed an invisible hat as he raced by. A little girl clapped her hands and tried to stop but her mother tugged her away. The child looked back over her shoulder until they disappeared from sight.
Blaise was like an unearthly being, dropped from some other planet, who had brought the atmosphere with her; alien scents and exotic energy and some new crackling form of life. Nothing existed for her but the music. She was utterly in the moment, being danced.
Joy ignited in the reflection of her beingness; joy leapt from heart to heart like flames in the dark, and that joy was swept out and away, like a shout in the wind, where I could no longer hear, but I could feel it, feel the energy of it travelling, radiating, as people carried it into their day. I knew that there would be conversations around water coolers about the flame haired girl in the rainbow skirt, dancing in the tube tunnels. I knew that people would bring their smiles to work, and that those ripples would move out, colliding with other people, further and further.
I saw how one single moment can change the world.
We all do this all the time, we are immensely powerful. In every single interaction we completely change reality, it's a living co-creation, again and again, over and over. We can co-create by radiating stuckness and darkness, or we can radiate light and joy. This is teaching by being. I saw that being truly present for just a few seconds can create ripples, subtle and profound, that move out in ways we can never track, but those ripples make other ripples and those ripples make waves and those waves make bigger waves until that one moment can level mountains, part oceans, unite humanity, or make a single flower bloom.
Since Blaise died, her power has still radiated into the world, through me, through Lee, and through everyone her light touched. Every word I write, every move I make, every time I speak, it is partly her message, her dance, her music; because everything I am is partly her, and she is me, we are one.
I am who I am because of her. Everyone I touch is who they are, in some way, because of her. We are all who we are because of each other.
As I write these words I have so much faith in humanity, in the power of all of us to move through darkness and be transformed, and in that transformation, pass on our gifts simply by breathing. I have faith that we can see the beauty that is right in front of us, to be ready to notice the tiniest things that are actually the biggest things. To do the part that is ours right now, just here; not needing to know how the shock waves may travel, just having faith in our own rightness in this moment, and listening as if our lives depend on it, which in a way, they do.
So if you see me in the street dancing to music nobody can hear, or singing out loud, know that I am passing on the gift of my daughter. And I invite you to rejoice in this way as well; to sing simply because your voice demands to be heard, no matter who might be listening; and dance because there is a fierce joy in you that must be moved; dare to swim against the tide and know that rather than upsetting the flow, you are creating a magnificent new wave that will change the world, remaking it again, and again and again.
Today I am dancing with my daughter.
My arms may hold only air, but the music is all her.
GinsIt's three years since Blaise and I spent some weeks in the children's hospital, after I found the fist sized tumour in her belly. Three years since the beginning of my unmaking. Two and a half years since she flew away.
Time seems to be the obsession of my grief. How many months since we watched the full moon rise, how many days since she clapped her hands and cried 'clever mama', when I got the car to start. How many sleeps since we last danced down the street together, since I kissed her milk-soft cheek, since I watched her assemble her latest sartorial creation, since her ecstatic laugh brought me to tears. And now we are into years; time stretching and rolling away, like waves on the ocean, rippling out, taking me further away from her, deeper into my life without her, deeper into the expression of all that I have become because of her, because of her birth, her life, her leaving, and my grieving.
She has made me.
In losing her I was undone, and in grieving her I am remade, every day. There is so much space in me. There is so much light shining through the cracks in my soul. Great chips and boulders of darkness loosened and dislodged in the earthquake of her passing, to dissolve into their own inky liquid and flow out and away to balance the cosmic scales as I flood with light, and more of who I truly am shines forth.
I understand more and more how what breaks us, makes us. How if we say yes to our shattering, we grow into something so much more than who we ever thought we could be. That life is about letting go of everything we think we can hold. And that on the other side of that is the divine.
And more and more I see that we are connected by the spaces between, that space is a thing, alive and real, that kisses against my edges and permeates my centre and swirls through all creation. It connects me to her, to the spirit of my daughter, in whatever form she dances through the universe right now, whether as a memory in the heart of someone she touched, or the actions of someone whose life she changed, or in the fiery breath of her spirit as she whispers to me that we are always one, and cannot be anything but, because this is the secret truth of life.
This morning I perched high above a glassy ocean as seals glided and swallows swooped and whales turned joyful backflips below me. An otter floated on its back, blissfully turning and rolling while it snacked on an abalone. Far across the ocean, on the other side of the world, my husband still slept, and I felt through the space to where he dreams, and there he is, right beside me, slow-breathing; and there also are our brushy-tailed dingo and love-dog, twitching in puppy dreams. I danced a slow flowing dance with them all, becoming one with the liquid heartbeat of that ocean, with the high flutter of the swallows, the careless wisps of cloud, the slow sleep-sighs of my beautiful man, the otter turning and spinning through the water because it could, for the sheer pleasure of it.
And in all these things I danced with Blaise, with her joy, with her heartbeat, with her glorious laugh, with her tenderness. I danced with every part of her, except her body, and in a way I danced with that also, because are we not all made of matter and atoms, and in her body's return to Earth Mama she freed those atoms to dance with me as well.
Thank you, little one, for freeing me. Thank you for showing me that falling is really flying. Thank you, always and forever, for this eternal dance.
This is my last night in the States before heading back home to Australia. This is an ending and a beginning.
Ai-yai-yai-yai-yai... Tonight I am an exquisite vessel brimming with feeling, emotions like weather blowing through my soul.
This last six weeks has been a dance into divinity. I have discarded skins, sloughed off stories, dived into my darkness and been swallowed by light. I feel like ouroborous, eating its tail, light into dark into light into dark, the perfect oscillation, the cosmic ohm.
Words can only approximate the entirety of the thing, are mere fragments of colour in my internal rainbow. I need to express where I am while it is fresh, before I return to the shape of my life and this state becomes dream.
I came to the States because instinct demanded I must. That wise ancient voice inside me shook me by the hair, shouted at me in the breaths between sleeping and waking, insisted that I must go, go now, go dance, go dance here, go dance with these teachers. Like a stone in my shoe, like a splinter in my thumb, a maddening itch I could not ignore. Go dance. Now.
I learn in the presence of. Not through books or videos or theories, I need to download information through my body, from someone who embodies that very thing. My teachers have been Jonathan and Lucia Horan, both children of Gabrielle Roth, the visionary who called this dancing path into being decades ago, before shedding her body and dancing now through fields of stars.
So I danced. At first I was self conscious, clumsy, working through the crusted barnacles of past stories, of judgements and projections and old wounds. I danced them all. And the water began to flow, the edges began to soften, and somewhere in the hours and days and weeks of dance I found something profound, something utterly magical.
I am a dancer.
Not in terms of being able to bust out moves or showy tricks. I am a dancer not of doing, but of being. I got out of my own way and there, nestled like some perfect pearl at the centre of my being, this simple truth was revealed. I am a dancer. I woke slowly, at first, shy as a maiden, then with more confidence, more vigour, more spirit and soul.
I am a dancer.
I breathed life into this newborn part of me that is as old as creation, and she awoke, she awoke, blessed be; and her limbs started to move and her heart flowed with gratitude. Shy and tender and ready to flee, but there was nothing to run from, only toward, toward myself, my life, my truth.
I am a dancer, and every time I say this more tears come.
I am a dancer.
I could write this in the sky, carve it into mountains, shout it into all creation. This is a journey I will never leave, I can only fall deeper into myself and dance what is true. This is who I am, when everything is stripped away. I am the place where earth meets sky, where ocean kisses sun, and my heart is the dance floor and has no edges, because everything is a circle. I understand what it means to be danced, I understand it in my bones, my belly, my talons, my teeth and fur. My wings rip the sky, my fins slip through water, I am a dancer and I am danced by the Isness and the Oneness and everything in between.
I am a dancer.
I danced and the skins fell away, one after another, discarded husks littering my feathered feet. I danced and all the doors and windows in my heart flew open, and winged things flew out and away, free to soar. I danced and the music stopped and I rang like a silver bell, vibrating with love and bliss and connection and purpose, knowing at last who and what I am.
So this is what I am bringing home, this vastness, this poetry, this magic. I am deeply, deeply grateful to everyone with whom I shared space on and off the various dance floors, to these brothers and sisters of the dance who have nestled into my heart so thoroughly I am bereft in their absence. To the indigenous space holders who gifted us with their wisdom and ceremony. I am so thankful to have been cradled by Gaia in all places; to have danced in the desert and jungle and high on the cliffs while the whales sang their slow songs, deep in their liquid dance.
And I am grateful beyond words to Jonathan and Lucia for holding such perfect space, for your endless wisdom and authenticity and for showing up, again and again and again, no matter what. For living this lineage. For blazing a path. For doing your work. For being.
From the desert...
And then last night, as I lay spreadeagled and naked under the hot velvet kiss of darkness, an eerie sound pulled me lucid from deep desert dreams. Part ululation, part harmony, part savagery, all wild. Coyotes were singing under the stars, and it was all I could do not to tug on clothes and follow the sound, like some barefoot ghost, into the darkness.
I understand how people go missing in wild places. My atavistic soul yearns to run with this pack, to nuzzle furry flanks, nip and be nipped, run until my pads are bloody. It seemed the sanest course of action, panting deep in my base brain.
And then, as I was flinging clothes around the room, I woke properly, and of course the coyotes were miles away in deep desert, their song arrowing through the clear night air to lodge uncomfortably in my pelt and heart and belly. I lay back on the bed and let the barbs work their magic, loving the familiar feeling that prickled my scalp as the unearthly strands of dog-music wove and soared and vanished.
The feeling: that I am a wild thing in a tame skin, restless between worlds, never quite fully in either but filled with awareness and grateful magic from both. And more, that I am grubbily, beautifully human, and at the same time am the coyotes, their haunting music, and the infinite night cresting above like some dark and starry wave.
Three workshops down, one to go. And in the space between, a sojourn in the Arizona desert.
It's 41-45 degrees here, heat like a fist, old man saguaro cacti majestically guarding the crags and valleys. This grandmother kindly donated a rare low fruit... Fat and delicious and shocking pink, yum.
I like this desert; light splashing my eyes, volcanic rock speaking of an ancient furnace that melted the land. This is an environment you cannot wish away, even if you wanted to. The heat crawls up my feet, seeps under doors, blisters paint. Locals hop from shade to shade. Hummingbirds dart like feathered moths. Hawks scour the land for scuttling things.
I like this desert; horizons of jagged rock and searing blue. Untameable. Disobedient. Pulsing. Breathless. The plants have spines and thorns and spikes. I must be careful where I place my feet. This place demands awareness; be awake, now, or I will hurt you.
I am awake, and the desert opens its hot heart and welcomes me with fiery breath.
I love this desert.
I am evicting a word from my life. It has a single syllable at its heart, monotonous as a crow’s caw, a sneaky saboteur of internal authority and a thief of life-lust.
If I could pull the absolute nub of the word out of the air and rip it into a million pieces, then scatter it to the winds, never to be uttered again, I would do it.
This word is not mine. The voice I hear wielding it is not my own. It is a parasite, has hijacked me, hitched a ride and colonised a part of my psyche in which it is not welcome, yet there it squats, like a bad-breathed, big-bellied tenant, lolling on the couch and belching loudly. From its Trump-esque perch it pronounces one-eyed judgements and opinions, a self-proclaimed authority on what’s best. Its strident musings keep me from hearing my own wild and perfect song.
Are you also tyrannised by this sneaky reflection of a parent, a sibling, a long-forgotten teacher? Maybe a great grandmother, deep back in your line, coiled in your DNA, is whispering, as she was whispered to, that you ''should'' behave, be good, tidy up, keep your voice down. Perhaps the angry father whose whip-snap judgements peppered your childhood is so internalised, that even though his fire is now quenched and he is soft and loving with the grandkids, in your mind his bark has become so real it feels eternally true.
The voice of ''should'' is never satisfied, and disguises itself as our own, a stealthy cuckoo-child kicking out our own healthy instincts and desires until the only audible sound is in its hungry demands. Enough is never enough. There is always one more thing, one more task, one more shape we must contort into to keep it satisfied, and it views our efforts and is never sated.
My true voice has wings. When I harken to it the day spreads out before me full of promise and mystery. I get to trip over my own feet, learn from experience, am not afraid to make mistakes, to get it spectacularly wrong, then make it right, my way. I hear the moon hum in the sky and wonder what she is thinking. I get to be rather than do. I ask a question, the best question, a hundred times a day.
What is right, for me, right now?
Not next week, not when the do is done… right now.
Can I put down the washing up, shut the computer, turn my face toward the call of the day? Can I give myself that bath, that walk on the beach, that holiday with my man?
What is right for me, right now? and now? and now?
Individual moments become stepping stones I leap between, from rightness to rightness, as opportunities present themselves and now I have the eyes to see them, have an open heart uncluttered by obligation so I say yes to the smallest things, and through that, to the largest. I can switch direction in a wingbeat, and blessed be, change my mind. I have freedom to bank and swerve and swoop.
When I see 'should' for the dried up invader that it is, the world sparkles in iridescent colours, like the reflection of sunrise on the ocean, cut into confetti, each glimmer a different hue. I am free to dare, to believe, to taste and touch and try. My shackles fall away and the sky beckons, the horizon calls and I am in partnership with myself, warts and all.
These days I am ever vigilant, watchful as a wren. I observe this ‘'should'’ who tries to sneak into my centre, to undermine my internal authority, pretending to have my best interests at heart.
There it lurks, my own inner autocrat, a tepid tyrant, ready to lean on any chink in my self confidence, slither through the cracks in my self worth, and deny me that gorgeous rush of rightness that floods my eyes when I am truly on my path.
If you, like me, have this unwelcome lodger, I propose some spring cleaning. Evict that musty tenant, dump her unceremoniously on the street clutching her motley and monocle and vast swathes of knitting. Throw open all the doors and windows and beat the dust out of the rugs. Place fresh flowers on the table, daffodils and poppies and freesias to wind their heady scent through your awakening soul. Then sit down in the sunshine and begin, slowly and gently, to sing. Your voice may feel rusty at first, tears may follow, but keep singing through the gravel and dust, through the unused years, until your voice starts to run clear as new water and you recognise your own perfect song, fragile and subtle and utterly yours.
We use the word 'wild' a lot, but what does it actually mean? What is wildness? What is ReWilding?
To be truly, deeply wild, we know our place in a rich world teeming with life - know that we are part of something greater than ourselves, where no action is without consequence. We dance at the delicate skin where our internal landscape meets the external one, and realise that there is no boundary. To see the world as it truly is we have to journey inward, not outward, and mine the dark caverns of our psyche, heal the old hurts, release our stories and truly know ourselves. It is only then that we can be open to the opportunities and gifts that are strewn in our paths like jewels in sunlight.
The Song of the Wild Heart.
Wild is not what we do, it is who we are.
Wild is the song of the earth in our bones and bellies.
Wild is the kiss of light on a bird’s high wing, the thunder of rage in a stamping foot, the earthquake of birth, the relentless entropy of time.
Wild is reflected in a single drop of rain, hanging from a leaf, bending the world into a tiny eye.
Wild is the moment when we realise that we do not need to be obedient to a parent or culture, that we have ultimate freedom to step away from the shackles of ‘should’, to spot that subtle parting of branches that reveals a faint path that is ours, and ours alone.
When we dare to take those steps, away from everything we think is safe, there is a freedom so profound that the universe hushes to hear it.
Then we hear a deep sound, ba-boom, ba-boom, and we realise that it is the beating of our own wisening heart, the only rhythm that is truly our own, and it is calling, please dance, please dance.
Wild is knowing ourselves so well that we cannot be buffeted by storms of projection and fantasy, and choices now come from a place of silence, a natural arising of ‘what is right, right now’.
Wild knows that once we clear our darkness there comes a peace and clarity that guides us ever deeper and further.
Wild is not taking things too seriously. It is inappropriate and profane, because it knows that stories are meaningless and the universe has a sense of humour.
Wild laughs at the top of its lungs, spraying crumbs all over the table.
Wild is the quiet of a forest pool, skittering with tiny ripples as the breeze kisses its gelid skin.
Wild is a playground, a festival, a battlefield, a sigh. It is the most ordinary miracle. It passes the butter and kisses the kids goodbye. It sews and digs and cuts itself shaving. It draws on the walls and gets grumpy at the mess. It does the shopping and brings home the bacon. But it does all these things from a sense of truth, of rightness, rather than duty.
Wild is an adventure. We journey here because we love it, because we have been scratched by its long claw, we have salt in our hair and mountain water in our eyes.
We dive deeper into its embrace, to be scoured of all that is familiar and discover a new familiarity with the scariest creature of all, ourselves.
We run toward our own wild natures, instead of sedating them with the myriad ways humans choose to fall asleep. We realise what it is to be truly alive.
Can you hear it? Can you hear it calling in the last moments before you fall asleep and the first moment before your consciousness floods in with what what you need to do today?
Can you hear the whisper of wild, feel that yearning to come home?
Is there a part of you that knows that there simply must be more, that you have in your grasp some fragment of a dream, a promise of oneness, of being whole, being held in the fullness of your being?
Deep Rewilding is more than just exploring the physical skills it takes to be at home in the wild places; we’re rewilding our minds, our hearts, our bones.
We’re awakening old songs, we’re pressing ourselves into the flesh of our stories so that we can let them fall away like shed skins, outgrown now, our new pelts gleaming with life, our bodies fit and strong.
To be wild, truly wild, is to come home.
Whether you are taking your first step or your thousandth, if you hear the song of your own wild heart, we urge you to follow it, knowing it will lead you where you need to be. We can’t tell you where that is. We can just tell you that we are singing alongside you.
I'm sorry that there won't be a Sacred Grooves Dance Meditation this Tuesday night at UNSW, as, among other things, this is my daughter's birthday. Tomorrow she would have been five.
We lost her twenty months ago to cancer, when she was just three. I started Sacred Grooves a couple of months after she died, after spending hours on the beach with bluetooth headphones on, dancing like a crazy woman while the sun rose, or set, or meandered across the sky.
I danced up paths and down main streets, to music nobody could hear, with passersby laughing with or at me, dancing alongside me, or looking at the ground in discomfort. I danced with tears streaming down my face, I danced in effervescent joy, I danced with the clouds, the stars, and always, always, my invisible dance partner was a cheeky, flame haired creature who loved nothing better than to eat witchetty grubs, barefoot, in a tutu, and dance around the fire we'd cooked them on, thanking Earth Mama for giving her such yummy food.
I have been dancing through my grief ever since, and started Sacred Grooves to open a door for others to dance their stories. And over the time people have come to share this style of dance, a journey of the heart, a revelation of the deeper mysteries we all hold.
So I am sorry to say I won't be dancing with you all tomorrow. I hope you understand. I shall be on my beach, with my headphones on and my arms raised and my feet making patterns in the sand. I'll be picking out all the shades of amber and titian in the clouds, the colours of my little wild wolfcub's fur, and I'll be remembering her birth, all ten pounds of her; and her life, all three years of it; and her passing, in my arms, with Lee wrapped around us both as she flew away on the wings of our song.
Thank you to everyone who has come to a Sacred Grooves over the last eighteen months. Thank you to everyone who has sung in the shower, wiggled in their lounge room, broken into a shy groove when your favourite song came on in a shop, or rocked it in the car. Thank you for listening to what is moving inside you, and giving it a shape. Thank you, all of you, for your part in the dance.
And tomorrow, if you think of it, and you're feeling it, have a little dance in honour of my little dancer.
All my love
If my daughter had grown to be a woman I would have taught her these things.
To recognise that the feminine essence is the receptive function. For us to be in harmony with ourselves, and with Life, we have to be able to be still. To be silent. To hold ourselves in the place of deep knowing, so we can hear the wisdom in our bones, the song of the earth, and that when we do this, all actions arise from that rightness. In our culture, we are so caught up in doing, in achieving, that we forget to listen, really listen, to that wise old crone within, with roots going into the earth.
To know that to be female is to dance. To dance with our emotions, dance with our seasons, dance with our sisters, dance with our mates, dance with our children, dance in the wind, the sun, the rain, dance with our struggles. That the feminine is about flow rather than form, and that as long as we are in touch with our flowing natures, everything is a season that moves through like a summer storm.
The masculine holds the form. It is the place of structure. The feminine holds the flow. Living in the place of deep intuition, where knowing isn't a function of the mind, but of the heart.
To know that everything is born through the feminine, and this is our power, the power of creation, of life. That feminine power isn't of the fist, but of the womb. And our wombs enclose, they hold, they nourish. If we cannot give ourselves that holding, if we cannot nourish ourselves, how can we move our power into the world?
That we need to look inward, rather that outward, for our answers. That we need to release ourselves from the prison of the 'good girl', and become instead the wild woman, true to our own purpose, dancing to the beat of our own luscious hearts.
I salute all my sisters, from babe to crone, as we dance across the skin of the world, learning our lessons, dreaming our dreams, falling and flying and learning by getting it wrong, until we get it right.
This is a story about death, but for once it isn’t one of sadness; of wide-eyed wonder perhaps. Of a possibility which begs a thousand thousand more questions. A doorway we’re all peering through to a mystery we cannot fathom.
Bear with me, because I’m going off the reservation, away from dependable logic and comforting scientific rationalism, and into the subtle, delicious mists of the unseen and unprovable.
A couple of months before I found the tumour in Blaise’s belly, I had a dream. My dreams are usually of the chaotic mishmash variety, but not this one. This was jewel-clear and so sharp I could have cut myself on its edges; more vision than dream.
I dreamed I was my soul, playing the computer game that is my life. Ahead of me the universe spread like a cosmic picnic blanket, dazzling dark and brilliant with stars. I hung suspended, watching this eternal starfield as a single tiny point of light at its center- my avatar, my life- responded to my whispered commands. Just like a computer game.
It avoided obstacles and ran through mazes of light, and dodged whizzing fireflies that would destroy it if they hit. It ‘learned’ as it progressed. Sometimes there were periods of calm, then several obstacles and challenges would arise at once, causing my avatar to twist and dodge to survive. But still, my main awareness was in soul-me playing the game, with only a filament of awareness in the little glowing creature that was my life.
Then I saw a lumbering lozenge of light, tumbing end over end in a perfect trajectory to impact with my tiny whirling sun. In that moment I knew I couldn’t avoid it. There was nothing I could do. Game over.
My first thought was, oh crap, I’m gonna lose this life. But then, instantly, as something I had always known; that’s ok, I get another one. Just like the computer game your mum turns off so you can go to dinner. I get another life, it’s ok. It’s just a game.
The lozenge light-bomb was still arcing toward that little point of light, and then my perspective changed; I whooshed into the viewpoint of life-me, watching this glowing grenade loom large, filling my vision and I filled with panic and gibbering terror.
oshitoshitoshit i’mgonnadie i’mgonnadie I’M GONNA DIE!!!
And then the bomb hit and my life-me vanished and I was no longer constrained by the little blip of form, I was instantly vast and huge, formless, I exploded back into my soul’s consciousness and I was the size of a star, bigger than that, I was as huge as the whole of creation, and the difference between my awareness as that little blip and my real, unbounded self was like the difference between the pixils on your computer screen and you, reading this.
I woke bolt upright, gasping for air, filled with euphoria, my skin fizzing and every cell electric, hanging on to the bed like I was going to fall off. Like I’d just been in freefall, 250km/hr straight down, the wind trying to tear my face off.
ohhhhh myyyyy gooooodddddddd.
And as the dream shattered into waking it did not fade as my dreams do, is still as clear and precise as the moment that light bomb hit and my awareness exploded. It is one of only two dreams in my life that have the quality of Vision.
The thing that stayed with me is how unimaginable the difference was between the consciousness of that little blip and the place from which it came and to which it returned. To have the experince of that in my body means more to me than reading a hundred books or hearing endless talks and theories about death and dying. This knowing came from within me.
I just died, I breathed in wonder. I know what it feels like.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that the physical component of dying is messy and painful, and that wasn’t in my dream. But something profound was, something that changed the way I looked at death.
I know, in my bones, that there is more. How and why and what, I cannot say for sure. Just that there is more.
As a postscript to this story, at the end of that last week in ICU, when it was time to let Blaise go, I scooped her into my arms and we finally turned off the beeping machines and she flew away from that limp body. And as she flew I called out with my whole heart to her. I begged-
-let me SEE you, my love, my dearest heart. let me see what you look like without your body.
I am normally a kinaesthete, I feel the nature of things inside myself; very rarely am I blessed with clear sight. But as she flew I saw what looked like a huge four dimensional snowflake, rippling with facets and planes, radiating blistering energy in all directions, and expanding as I watched.
There you are, I whispered, enraptured. I see you. Thank you.
It was magnificent. Sacred beyond words. And terrifying. The raw power of that towering being was like a forest fire, like a volcano. There were no pretty white feathered wings, there was only shimmering vastness and pure presence and white love to burn me to ash. And yet that was her, as she really was, without that little body to hold her in any more. That was her going back to where she came from. Unbounded.
I haven’t felt to share that experience until now, because it felt so private, so sacred. But the dream and that image of her keeps coming back to me, along with the urge to reveal this part of my journey, so here it is. No logic, just the simple truths of my heart and body. I feel strangely vulnerable but peaceful, and in the telling of this I have reconnected with her vast presence, and my own, and I know that everything is truly, beautifully, ok.