Dreamers interpret signs.
They know to fix their eyes
upon the sea as it defies description.
They note the mists, the spray,
without the urge to interfere,
without the need to further name
infinities of blues and greens and grays.
The gods reveal their secrets
to the few who wait with purpose,
those whose pure intentions
float unfettered to the surface,
those who learn to read then ride the waves.

Dreamers know their power
lies in understanding
where to send their prayers,
sensing who can stir the clouds
and who can reach and sooth
the stormy depths of rage,
perceiving who can spot the play of lights
that splatters on the distant wake
like a rain of sun upon the ocean pane.

Dreamers feel the value of descent.
They value Neptune’s boundless lead.
They dance the formless, downward dance,
the spiral that is fought and feared,
dreaded and desired.
They go where no mind’s gone before,
retrieve the lost that only they can find.
And when the gods assent, they sigh,
swell their gills like poems in progress,
and once more flex their fins.

Even as I watch the colors
change I’m not sure I believe
that depths so dark
can clear and shine and wash
the sand clean as a virgin
blushing as she lets her last defense
fall gently to the floor.

It is such a demonstration
of what happens when I’m dreaming,
of the sweeping changes I’ve been launching.
It is all that I can do
to hold the tears in place,
behind my eyes.

I’ve been so unconscious,
so ensconced in opaque sleep
I failed to see the bronze horizon
stretching past my shoulder
or the miracle of parting mists,
the shrinking violet that leaves
the land and sky and sea
a brilliant, open plain,
white and blue and green.

Whether ebb or flow
it tells me what I see
is never all there is.
Another front,
a new formation
waits behind each wind,
beneath the hat the sun is wearing,
behind the turquoise poet’s eyes
that never blurt their observations.

I can find myself
in their reflection
but I don’t ask for likenesses,
no interpretations
that I can’t or won’t release.
I accept the failure of predictions,
untie all my expectations
and stand ready for the rain,
the clearing,
any clarity that hits the rocks,
the short surprise of time
that carries me
as slowly or as swiftly,
as gently or as grudgingly
as I allow myself to go.

(From Tricky Serum: An Elixir of Poems by Dan Stone, Lethe Press, 2011).

In the dream, I asked The Dreams Team if it would be possible for me to be up at that height and to feel absolute confidence in the ladder supporting me, to know that it would hold and that I was in no danger of falling. In the dream I heard Them say that I could absolutely get myself to such a place of certainty and self assurance where I could reach for anything that I wanted without fear of failing or falling, that I could know that I was always supported, no matter what I was reaching for.

The dream stayed with me, and so I later asked The Team to elaborate on the subject of shaky ladders—and how to get over my fear of reaching for the heights . . .

When you stand in your now, reaching for something that you want and you suddenly feel shaky or uncertain or worried about whether you can effectively reach the object of your desire, you have either temporarily forgotten what you know—which is that nothing you want is ever truly out of reach—or you have not practiced enough the belief that you are always supported in your reaching for anything that you desire.

In the dream you experienced, the shaky ladder represents on some level what you are allowing yourself to know or believe about you. That feeling of the ladder being wobbly or unreliable or unsecured is your perception of you not having what it takes—or more precisely—you’re not being entirely worthy of what it is that you are reaching for.

This kind of uncertainty or insecurity or doubt is always a lapse of memory on your part, or some temporary focusing of your attention away from what you know about yourself when you are seeing You clearly—that is, seeing you through your connection to Source. You cannot look at yourself through the eyes of Source and feel doubtful or nervous or shaky in your conviction that anything you want is available to you. You cannot look at yourself through the eyes of Source and feel anything but worthy and capable and confident that the Universe will yield to you whatever your heart desires.

So when these feelings are present . . . when the ladder you are standing on feels wobbly or unsupported . . .. you need only find a way to remind yourself that you are never alone in your reaching, that the always benevolent, always supportive forces of the Universe are all around you, holding you up, providing the safe and secure platform from which anything you are reaching for is yours to have.

How do you remember this when the shaky or wobbly ladders is what is most on your mind? The approach is always the same—to look around at anything that offers you relief or a reason to relax back into what you know. Scan your environment for cues and clues and evidence of how you are supported. Reach for memories that provide reassuring reminders that all is well and that things usually work out for you. Look around for any indication of your being where you need to be, and of your desires coming to you in the way and in the time that works best for you.

Recognize that it is always what you know or believe about you that provides the foundation for what you are able to ask for and receive. If your ladder feels shaky as you are reaching out toward the tree branches for something that you want, take some time to remember any and every success that you have experienced in your past . . . Take the time to review all the reasons that you have for believing that you are capable and deserving of your dreams and desires. Allow yourself the time to practice feeling strong and secure, collecting evidence of that fact and then relaxing into the knowledge—the view—of you that is a match to the You that Source always sees.

Finally—and perhaps most important—allow yourself to remember and to know that in fact, you can never really fall or fail. Your fears about this are always illusions. The vulnerability that you feel in any situation is never more than an indication that you have turned your attention in the opposite direction from what You know. As soon as you focus again on the well being that You know is always flowing, your fear is what falls away, leaving you free to joyfully and confidently reach for whatever height you are aspiring to.

I’ve always had a fear of unenclosed heights and of ladders in particular—so The Team knows that this is a tricky topic for me. But, curiously perhaps, I also love to be up in high places with awesome views of nature or city skylines. I love the thrill of looking down from some safe height, taking in the sights and sounds of a world that from that vantage point always feels more like mine for the taking.

The message here seems to be that I have seen the shaky ladder and it is me. So now I guess I need to go looking for those reminders that I’m not nearly as wobbly as I sometimes let myself believe—or maybe just keep telling myself that I’m never up there without a net.

Memories of you
light the morning of my life,
the oversized rocking chair,
that creaked a lullaby,
the special, worn out place where
you lulled me to sleep,
the homemade biscuits
and sweet potato pie
that melted in my mouth,
molded by intuitive hands
in the kitchen where you spent
the better part of your days
in the presence of a perfectly
content little boy.

Pictures of you
bring back the simpler times,
the summer breaks
and Christmas holidays,
the birthday cards
with dollar bills inside
and Kennedy halves saved
for a grubby, eager palm . . .
the “just-between-you-and-me” talks
that make any boy feel like a man,
the sharer of a secret
even when it’s one
he doesn’t fully understand—
the ageless love
between the old and young.

Images of you
appear in a quiet room
like a letter from home
on a rainy afternoon,
or an “everything-will-work-out” hug
on a not-so-confident night.
you come and hold my hand,
traversing any distance,
convincing me the world is mine
and staying with me
until sweet dreams
replace all trace of fear.

Thoughts of you
surface more and more it seems
when I stand before the glass
or gaze up at the stars,
trying to see myself
or what’s ahead.
I stare into the crystal ball
to see how far I’ve come
or where to go
and there you are . . . 
a part of me that laughs and cries
and occasionally hurts,
but that refuses to give up
and never dies.

In such moments
the unmistakable sound of your voice,
honey sweet and heavy
with Virginia drawl,
reminds me who I am
and who I’ll always be.
And the smile I recognize
is every reason I could need
for feeling proud,
and foundation firm enough
for any dream.

Mark David is guest author of Dreamographies this week, sharing excerpts from his award-winning novel and soon to be first feature film in the Q’ntana trilogy, The MoonQuest).  In fact, this is an exchange of sorts. Today, as his post appears here, a guest post of mine appears on his blog where I share my musings on the moon as a metaphor for our dreams and also some sample poems from my recently released collection, Tricky Serum: An Elixir of Poems (Lethe Press, 2011).  Mark David always has something inspiring to say.  Sit back and enjoy!

Imagine a land where stories are banned and dreams suppressed…a land where dreamers are tortured and storytellers killed…a land stripped of vision, hope and imagination.

This is the Q’ntana of The MoonQuest, a land where “once upon at time” is a forbidden phrase and fact the only legal tender…a land whose moon is so saddened by the silence that her tears have extinguished her light…a land where fear rules and storytelling spells death…

Imagine it…if you dare…

********************************
First published in 2007, Mark David Gerson‘s The MoonQuest has won multiple awards for both fantasy and visionary fiction and is now on its way to the big screen in a production based on his screenplay and produced by Anvil Springs Entertainment. It’s the first book/movie in a trilogy, The Q’ntana Trilogy.

Dreams and storytelling are, not surprisingly, important elements in a story where both are outlawed. When Toshar, the story’s reluctant hero, is sent out on his MoonQuest, for example, he’s given no concrete goal or direction, other than to journey northward to the mysterious place of the moon’s rising and to let his dreams and stories guide him there. They do, often mystically merging into the journey itself.

In this excerpt, Toshar has fearlessly stood up to his nemesis, Bo’Rà K’n. Immediately afterward, he collapses into a feverish coma…and has a dream…

********************************
Wetness touched my lips and dribbled down my chin. Coolness bathed my face. I tried to open my mouth to speak, my eyes to see. They wouldn’t obey. “What are you saying?” I wanted to ask. But I couldn’t feel my tongue in my mouth.

My mouth. I can’t feel my mouth! A flash of panic and then…I feel nothing… hear nothing…know nothing…

I’m falling…sinking…floating…breathing cool, damp air. Now, no air…no sound…no light. Everything is black…dark…empty.

Nothing.

And then, something. The faintest riffle of air. A light, feather touch. It’s there, then gone. There again, enfolding me, cushioning me…embracing me. Am I still falling? Everything is so dark…impenetrably dark. Everything? No, nothing.

And then, something. A distant flicker. It wavers and gutters as it draws closer, grows larger. A hand cups the flame from behind. The light is nearly upon me, dancing atop a yellow taper. No, gold. No, blue. No, red. The colors dance as the flame pirouettes. Now the taper is white, as white as the halo of hair behind it, as white as the robe emerging from shadow.

“Do you know me, Toshar?” a woman’s voice issues gently from the flame. Toshar. I know that name from…from somewhere. Where? “Do you know me?” the flame repeats, now in a man’s voice, equally gentle.

“You are fire,” I say. “But who is Toshar?”

“Who is Toshar?” The voice is male and female, neither and both.

“I can’t remember. Does it matter?”

“You are Toshar.” The hand falls away and, with it, the shadow, revealing an ancient face etched with wrinkles. Candle flames dance in eyes as black as the blackness that surrounds us. It’s a woman, long white hair flowing freely over her naked breasts. No, a man, his chest buried under a snowy beard. The face is male and female, neither and both. “You are Toshar MoonQuester. I am Toshar Ko’lar. We are one, you and I. One out of time.”

It makes no sense, yet I understand in a way that surpasses understanding. I reach out to touch the apparition, but there is nothing to reach out with. I have no body.

“What am I?” I whisper. “Where am I?”

“You are here and not here, everywhere and nowhere. You are dream, you are reality. You are light, you are dark. This place, too, is all that…and none of it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“You will…in time. Why have you summoned me, MoonQuester?”

“I, summoned you?”

“Forgive me. I forget. It was so long ago.”

“What was?”

“This encounter, this marriage of past, present and future into the eternal now.”

“You confuse me.”

“Do you remember nothing? Nothing of Q’ntana? Nothing of M’nor? Nothing of Bo’Rá K’n?”

Memory’s door opens a crack. I pull it shut with a cry of pain.

“Was it truly that bad?” he asks, more to himself than to me, as his image begins to dissolve.

“Where are you going?” I cry.

“If you do not know yourself in me…”

“…then do you know me?” Holding the candle is a wrinkled crone, leaning on a walking stick. Behind her, beyond an archway and through a misty, fluttering light, sits a steaming teapot atop a three-legged table.

“Come,” she says. She releases the candle, which hovers in the air unassisted, and extends her hand to me. I see another hand — mine? — take it and follow her across the threshold. “Perhaps some tea will reawaken your self-fullness.”

“Grandmother?”

“Come,” she says, “sit on your favorite pillow and drink from your favorite mug.”

I cup my hand around the familiar piece of clay. Its green chevron shimmers luminously against my skin. I raise the mug and feel the steam bathe my eyes. As the sweet heat touches my lips and slides down my throat, I remember. I remember it all.

“Oh, Grandmother. I’m so frightened.”

“I know, child.” Her voice is the cool evening breeze that sweeps away a scorching summer day.

“But why? Why did I feel no fear then only to feel it now?” I start to tremble.

Eulisha refills my mug. “Drink this,” she says. “It will restore the balance.” Her eyes never leave me. “Do you understand yet who greeted you when you reached this world between worlds?” I shake my head. “You will be Elderbard, son of my son. What you saw was you, in the time to come.”

“But she…I mean he…that is, both…I mean, which?”

Eulisha’s smile fails to ease my confusion. “He and she,” she explains. “A union of all the qualities, masculine and feminine, resides in the truest of bards.”

“Will I…I mean, how…?”

“No,” she laughs, “you will not appear that way to the world, no more than do I.” Her voice grows serious. “Look at me closely. Look at me with the eyes of a bard, with the eyes of Toshar, Elderbard-to-be.”

I shut my eyes and reopen them. As I stare through the violet of Eulisha’s eyes, her face shifts subtly — a masculine jaw, firmer mouth, cheeks sprinkled with the salt-and-pepper stubble of a day’s growth. It lasts only an instant, then the familiar features return. There is so little difference, and yet…

“And yet we are one, as will you be when your time comes.” She gazes at me, her eyes boring through skin, bone and blood, then smiles. “And come it does. You ask why you fear once the fearful has passed.”

“Yes, grandmother.”

She lifts her mug and takes a first sip of tea. “Know first, child, that you needn’t understand everything, that mystery is among life’s greatest gifts.” Setting her cup on the table, she takes my hands in hers. They are like velour — soft, smooth, warm. “You fear your strength. You fear your power. You fear your fearlessness. You fear the future because you cannot see where it will lead and you fear what you cannot imagine.

“You have glimpsed what may lie ahead. But you are only now building the foundation of that future. If you continue to build, stone by heavy stone, you and that Elderbard will meet again. If you continue to follow the path that is yours alone to follow, you will be that sage, the greatest sage in the time of Q’ntana’s greatest king, under the gaze of a grateful moon. If not… If not, then who can say?” She gestures to the door. “It is time for you to return to your friends. They worry and there is much traveling before you reach The Mir. Much traveling…”

As I stand, Eulisha’s image fades. “Wait,” I cry. I reach out but my hand passes through her as through a cloud. “What of my fear? I’m still frightened.”

Only the candle and Eulisha’s voice remain. “Walk with your fear. Walk through your fear. Walk on…into the promise.”

The candle recedes and darkness returns. Everything is black…dark… empty…

Nothing.

And then, something. Voices. Familiar voices. “…breathing regularly again…skin cooler…” “…more water…raise his head…” “…hear me?…” “…speak…Toshar…one word…?” Slowly, black turns gray turns cloudy and the mist dissipates. Leaves. A thick curtain of leaves, framing a face that peers anxiously into mine.

“Ro’an?” A hand pressed down on my shoulder as I tried to sit up. It was another dream. It had to be.

********************************
Mark David Gerson is a screenwriter, award-winning author and creator of The Q’ntana Trilogy of fantasy novels and films.

The MoonQuest: A True Fantasy, the first book in the trilogy, has won multiple national and regional awards, as has his book on writing and creativity, The Voice of the Muse: Answering the Call to Write. Both books, and his The Voice of the Muse Companion: Guided Meditations for Writers CD, are available on his website and on Amazon. Ebooks are also available on Kindle and Kobo and via Apple’s iBook Store; the CD is downloadable from CDbaby.

The MoonQuest, the first feature film in The Q’ntana Trilogy, will be in theaters in 2012.

As a creativity coach and writing-workshop facilitator for nearly 20 years, Mark David has guided writers and non-writers alike to connect with their innate wisdom, open to their creative power and express themselves with ease.

Mark David is currently working on a memoir and on The StarQuest and The SunQuest, the book and screenplay sequels to The MoonQuest.  For more information on Mark David, his books and his work, visit his website (http://markdavidgerson.com) and his blog (http://markdavidgersonblog.com

The earth stops turning
long enough to feel that we’ve arrived,
that a wish has just come true
and the only prayer remaining
is a thank you whispered to the trees,
attention to the hummingbirds and cranes.

There are times a lover’s arm around your waist,
his breathing in the night,
will take you home
and other times the memory
of his calling out your name
is all the joy you get to keep.

In the morning
dreams will drop you at your door
and drive away, leaving you to wonder
where they go, and what they came to say,
leaving you alone, awake,
and aching to go back to sleep.

(From Tricky Serum: An Elixir of Poems by Dan Stone, Lethe Press, 2011)

Writing as “The Shower Channel” was a wonderful experience.  It changed my life in significant ways and it was both fun and gratifying.  But I’ve been feeling the desire to take a slightly different turn with my work as a writer, a photographer, and an intuitive consultant.

The theme for this web site from the beginning has been dreams.  Mine.  Yours.  Ours.  Dreams in the literal, ‘Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep’ sense and dreams in the larger sense of those journeys we want to take in our so-called waking lives.

The more I thought about my desire to take my blog in a different direction, the more the notion of dreams showed up front and center.   When I came across the word ‘dreamography’elsewhere it had that “Aha!” look and feel to it, so even though I didn’t coin the term, I decided to use it—or at least a variation of it.  Hence, the premiere of Dreamographies, a blog that will be about dreams in every sense of the word and that will incorporate a variety of ways of exploring and expressing the geography—the soul terrain—that we call our dreams.

Variety turns me on, so I will taking diverse approaches to these Dreamographies:  prose and poetry (mine and others’), photography and other art work, interviews, essays, etc.  And I will continue to offer from time to time, channeled material (‘Danellings’) from that always shining, oh-so-elevated collective connection to Source/Spirit formerly referred to as The Shower Team—newly dubbed “The Dreams Team” (They approved the name change).

I invite you to join me on this journey and to participate in my process.  Share your dreams (literal or not so literal), your own ideas and take on the lucidities disguised as symbol and story and personal mythology that occupy so much of our conscious and semi-conscious lives.

If you have questions about your dreams for me or for The Team, get in touch.  If you come across an article, a poem, an idea or an image that you love pertaining to dreams, please share it.  If you’d like to talk to me about working with you on some level to explore or to move toward your dreams, let me hear from you.   At the very least, I hope that you will subscribe to Dreamographies and accompany me on the quest.

Got dreams?