We are dreaming ourselves into existence.

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constellation of time

Verse 1:

We are dreaming ourselves into existence.

In a process many of us mistake for complaining, we are dreaming the next thing. You are doing it every day. You were probably doing it before you started reading this.

But now there's this clearing. What to fill it with?

We are dreaming ourselves into existence.

Weaving a tapestry we only vaguely feel we are the makers of, are we choosing the important battles? Are we putting out the flame of whatever candles were still lit in honor of the establishment, and taking those candles to gods who actually give a fuck about us?

Some of us are still just trying to make ends meet, trying to get a better job, trying to make it through another day, trying to get the kids off to school without completely loosing my mind, trying to find one 15 minute period of time in a day where it's all just for me, trying to make it through another fill-in-the-blank without drifting onto the wrong side of history.

WE are dreaming ourselves into existence by way of a direct communication between our purpose on this planet and the things we've found to distract ourselves with while we are here. Kundera was wrong, it is the weight of being that is unbearable.

Chorus:

If our dreams call in the manifestations of existence, then let mine be spun with gossamer light channeled from another place entirely. Let my intimation to immortality be humble and interesting and speak perfectly and purely about another realm of existence. I have wanted to see over the rainbow. If our dreams create our existence, let my homage be written on the winds from those other lands: trailing their spices behind me as I sing durges to the blackness of spirit that made the correct way again apparent.

Verse 2:

We are dreaming ourselves into existence.

And I don't mean that in an Iowa writers-accent that repeats the same thing over and over until it's brilliant kind of a way. Or even in a way that even deserves special note. But just enough to sound the bell for those who will hear it.

We are thriving and not thriving, contracting and expanding in a fomenting holographic pattern of the fractal waves between novelty and the same old thing as last time. We are scared for our future, we are paying attention and falling asleep in waves of distraction and addiction. We are cynical and tired, we are slouching towards Bethlehem: we are straightening our ties, pulling up our stockings. We are getting ready for Jesus. We are coming again and again. We are dreaming ourselves into existence.

The dream I am most aware of seems to function in a portal between 'now' and the forms of architecture in Nairobi and Puebla, and museums and camp grounds and taxidermy warehouses and trips in trucks through cane fields, and other gifts of my childhood. But also of the pain of having lost my eden somewhere between the sun stains where the paintings were, and the trip to Amelika.

I am forgiving myself through the portal of the last 40 years, I am seeing the complexity behind the armature of my ego around a million tiny spindles of pain, and the strength of the flow of a deep river beneath me that nauseates me sometimes. I am unwilling to stay caught. I am birthing myself through grateful homages to former pain, and clearing a space for the next download.

Today, whether we try or not and whether or not we even notice, we are dreaming ourselves into existence.

I pray that we all have the presence in love to dream our own best good dream. We each dream for all of us.

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