Voices From The Other Side

I slid into this world down the umbilical chord that unites Heaven and Earth.  I am my parents’ dream, the proof that reality is the child of dreamers, and so it comes as natural to me that everything I do begins with a dream; and then that dream cascades into a kaleidoscopic roll that tumbles me onward, an amoebae on a wave, pushed and pulled over unknown terrain that eventually peaks at the moment when it’s hard for me to differentiate between the two worlds.  And then I feel a gently fusion as my dreams and reality become one.

Reality is the child of dreamers; and childbirth is the fusion of a dream to reality, the painful death to a nine-month world, a leaving, a goodbye before venturing onward to a new beginning; and then we go on to living and dying many times in one lifetime, continuously evolving. 

The fusion of the dream world to reality can be painful before it’s beautiful, but when it breaches, I hear the whisper of Eternity, the voice of Silence shared, the timeless, ageless call of Infinity.  This is how I heard the voices from the other side calling me.

It was August when the dreams began.  I was writing and living in a heat on Rincon Indian Reservation; and I was desperately trying to squash my memories of a past love affair into a mind crevice, while writing a love story.  It just wasn’t working.

In the daytime I wrestled love memories, and at night I was haunted by the soundless Nightwalkers, the ghosts, of the homeless.  I’d awaken to the sound of owls, coyotes and memories that refused to sleep.  I was forced into remembering a time when I too was homeless.  And then I’d fall back to sleep, my memories running wet down my naked body only to hear voices calling me, mingled with the stench of bus fumes and sea salt.

During the day I’d hear memories of love’s voice, and at night I’d hear sea gull screeches coming from the lips of homeless men and women I had yet not met, and somehow, I knew meeting them was inevitable.  I was exhausted running from the past and reality can be tiresome.

All I really wanted to do was to write a romance story. Just a simple one; and instead we, the homeless and I, wrote a love story.  We didn’t know it at the time, but then how often do any of us really know what we’re doing?

I thought I knew what I was doing the day I decided to put everything into storage and leave the reservation for the outside world.  I attributed the invading memories to the August heat followed by months of “writer’s block”.  I knew that the only way that I could ever write that love story was to face my memories, and to do that I needed to go back to Seattle one more time.  I was suppose to move to Taos for my much-needed renaissance, but I knew that could never happen unless I was able to face the dark ages of my past.