“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” The question pulled my attention to the attendant placing themselves in my field of view. I should be concerned that the attendant wore a white featureless mask over their face. I should be more concerned when I realized that wasn’t a mask at all, but that their bone ceramic face had no features. I would have been at least, if I was awake.
Instead, I was thankful for their intrusion as I gained lucidity. I don’t know where my thoughts were headed before they discreetly touched my hand, but now my thoughts were reunited with my awareness and I felt safe and comfortable.
“Ah, no, thank you.” Their hooded robe gleamed brilliantly in crimson red as I took their hand. The more attention I gave the attendant, the more the attendant stood out from the shadows. I clasped their hand in gratitude for the assistance even though I knew the attendant had not done anything special or unique from their duties. “But you can catch me up to what’s happening now. I think I missed an instruction.”
Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2019-05-12.01”
I dreamt of rosaries. To say that the scene was set in a rosary store is a belittling summary. Money was not the only currency accepted. A barely heard sigh expressed in faith could “buy” more rosaries than any ridiculous amount of cash, gold, and/or jewels. While there were rosaries for people of prestige, their prestige meant nothing here.
Most of the rosaries were custom assembled. Somewhere nearby was a factory where precise machines made precise knots holding precise lengths of precisely shaped beads in place. But what combination of colors and textures and lengths and bead counts could be altered in the length of time it took for someone to describe what their perfect rosary looked like.
Also somewhere nearby were an assembly of people that handmade the rosaries starting from the spinning of flax (or cotton or wool or paper or silk or plastics) into thread and the making of beads from various materials and sources. Their rosaries ranged from a child’s first knots to fine threads of gold spun with silk that were stitched into tiny lace baskets that held the teeth of martyrs in lieu of beads.
Continue reading “A Store of Faith”
I am done being afraid.
Yesterday morning, I had the epiphany that as long as I avoided the fear of encountering the black armored angel, then I would continue being terrified of the black armored angel. From our first encounter, they have demonstrated patience, concern, and benevolence. It is I who have ascribed ulterior motives, hostility, and aggression to their countenance.
Enough of this shit. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2018-04-17.01”
In keeping with previous instructions, I had to up my meditation “game”. Now loathe to spend money on status symbols and unnecessary trinkets after the mindless indulgences of last year, last month’s “impulse” purchase of a well used mala was proving itself worthwhile as it kept my hands busy enough to allow my mind to shed itself of busy-ness.
And yet, somehow even with the assistance of a zafu cushion to stabilize my seating posture, I still fell asleep. I realized I had gone sideways in my morning meditation when I heard the clear voice coming from the space in front of me. Space that I knew was occupied by a large piece of furniture.
“Nice beads.” Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2018-04-15.01”
The way my angelus aspect stood behind my seated form mirrored the way the black armored angel stood behind [the Bow-Wielder]. I held the wood beaded rosary I had restrung. She held a shiny black beaded rosary similar to the one I had sent away.
“Years ago, you said I was a terrible Christian, and that I had to make a choice between devotion and survival. I chose survival, and with that choice, completed my apostasy.”
She answered with a silent nod as her soft and tender smirk mocked me.
“I’ve been chasing your ass ever since.” Continue reading “Courage, Trust, and Openness”
I see the rosary first. The loop is entwined between fingers and over hands clasped together in a solid grip as if for prayer. The pendant of the crucifix hangs over the knuckles in a way that strikes me at first as an apotropaic amulet, then as a visual censer, and lastly as a key to a lock that disturbs me with its implication.
So I look at the person holding it instead. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2017-02-15.01”
I’m not Catholic. Hell, I’m not even Christian anymore. So why am I holding on to a broken rosary? (Again.) It’s cheap as fuck, of shitty quality wood on a shittier quality yarn that self-shredded itself inside of an unopened cloth bag closed up in an unopened interior purse pocket. I don’t keep junk. And I have already replaced it. So why am I keeping it? Continue reading “Spiritual Journal: 2017-02-02.01”
The black rosary appeared in my left hand, wrapped loosely around my fingers. The spectral breeze carried the scent of fresh sweet water.
“Not yet, Mary. I’m to the Hanged Man in that deck, and I still have cards I could confuse with you left to confront. When I am finally able to give you and… your husband… my attention, I want it to be in full and complete.”
I closed my left hand on nothing and the breeze stopped.
That she is giving me space when my ancestors are not is indicative of something, but what the fuck do I know about spiritual things. -sigh-
Dreamt I was putting together a rosary for a client. Had to use certain beads (client supplied) and assemble in a certain order (client directed) and face a certain direction while doing this (south).
All went well, despite the client’s supervision, until it was time to attach the crucifix. The client wanted the crucifix attached last and had kept it in his hand until now.
He handed me a small tarnished silver cross. Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2016-04-13.01”
“I was promised. I’m calling it.”
The Shenanigans Rosary was gripped tight in my raised right hand. The Black Rosary was draped loosely but securely over my hanging left hand.
“The promise given to you will be honored but will not be taken advantage of. You are bound by it just the same as I.” Continue reading “Dream Journal: 2015-11-10.01”