dreamscapes spin ~ golden threads, flight ~ a forgotten time
I sit alone, with a dozen other initiates, somewhere between sixteen-five and eighteen thousand feet above sea level. Overlooking a canyon. Stillness – even in the flight of a condor. At eye level.
Kinship with all that is, settles upon and around me.
Time becomes, invisible.
Soaring back to a not-so-distant place and time, star souls escort a southern cross as it lights the way around. I lay back on the earth, head cradled in a pillow of my palms, and gaze upward, enveloped by the ancient and wondrous place that is called Machu Picchu. I rest my eyes, closed, and breathe it in. It’s been a long day of hiking…
A dream unfolds, and I see…a place of women. Women, cloaked from head to toe in brown, hooded, their faces unseen, eyes ablaze. Women, who lived on this land, a much, much longer time ago. A sisterhood, an order, holding a special kind of something, a spiritual magic.
They float above the endless steps, gliding weightless. Making their way along the paths of stone steps, built for some other, earlier, set of beings. How is it that they fly?
Divine, feminine, creative, fire.
A gift of that dream then, and the recall of it today, as a memory… a story woven with the golden lace that threads through this image. Remembered while surrounded by another group of women, different women…
or are they?
Creatives, spiritual, fiery and gentle, women of unimaginable power.
Fly well, dear sisters, fly well.