the dreaming

I sigh, and plead with hoped-for allies,
for tools, knowledge, skills,
for wit, charm, poise;

for passion;

for some unique quality and confidence and persuasiveness
of voice or regard or movement or thought or turn of phrase;

for humility;

all this to honour the deep-felt call
to channel the surging waters of the dreaming
out across the overworld,
out into all life, the still and the moving,
out into the hearts and minds of the vast hive of humanity
with such a clear voice
that they might see me…
… for my dreams are the deepest me I’ve found;

and that, in seeing me,
they might also see something new
of their own depth,
of a shared story…
… for I know that the dreaming is more than a perplexing self-portrait,
I know that the collective births the individual – not the opposite –
and that the dreaming is its voice;

however, though I clamber for these things…

in my clearer moments,
often when exhaustion, like an ocean,
has smoothed the shards of broken self
and I am a humming truce of all the perfect, warring elements;

I cease to believe
that what I seek is what I need,
that what I need can be sought;

I see that the dreaming needs,
and will allow,
no translation;

I see that my task is only to release my grip
and allow the dreaming to burn wild within me,
in the movement of the day,
as it does in the stillness of the night,
and to speak for itself.