I have been dreaming lately–really dreaming.  Wild, Jungian, image-rich dreams that glisten as though they are painted with glossy paint.  I wake up each morning and lay in bed, mentally kissing and blessing each of the strange and wonderful characters who have floated through my night world, who are the map-makers, the ones who are teaching me about the silent, unexplored places of my crazy healer’s heart.

There is a baby girl, a toddler, who I walk with, hand in hand along the banks of rivers and streets.  While I am tentative, she will skip on the slippery rocks.  When she falls I pull her out of the water , but she protests telling me just how beautiful the river really is. 

There is the healer man, who looks a lot like a friend’s husband now long moved away.  It is so hard to get to him, I always struggle, facing obstacle after obstacle to meet him.    I will spend what feels like hours trying to connect,  the path is always crooked and jumbled and exhausting, and I am so frequently derailed and stuck.  When I reach him finally, he always walks me back to where I started, talking to me about the five elements, and deep knowing and the people that he and I love. 

There is the crazy political consultant who is so frantic and stressed that she does not realize that I have snuck into her house and am an imposter, there is the shop keeper of the book store, a magical man who knows the secret incantations but will not tell me, assuring me that they will not work unless I discover them myself.  But my favorite, my favorite of all these wild and wonderful fairytale friends, is the headless grandmother.

She has appeared in my earth dreams, the ones with golden lighting, the ones when I feel grounded.  She sits at the edge on an armchair throne and holds court.  She is adored by everyone but I know that I am her most beloved.  She watches me work the party, the smiles, the kisses, the stolen glances.  She knows what is in my heart, even before I tell her.  She knows, and even though she has no head she smiles.

In my last dream she took my face between her hands and smushed it the way only a grandma can.  She pulled me in close and whispered to me, “My precious beautiful girl, sweetness is coming to you…It is coming soon…in the span of one year .  I see it”   And then she blesses me by squeezing my hand.  I don’t question her one bit.  She is the wisest person I know.  Without a head to muddle her, with only her heart to guide her,  I know she alone knows the truth and I find deep deep comfort in her presence.

I have been told that according to Jung we are all the people in our dreams.  If that is true, my headless grandmother must be my wise old woman self: the one who knows just because she has been through it all before, the one who knows becauses she has no use for a head with all the mess that logic brings.  The one who knows because she holds all the wisdom of this wide open heart of mine. 

This week I have kept her close, mentally closing my eyes and holding my hand in her wrinkled bent fingers.   Her “oh-so grandmother” string of pearls resting on her royal blue sweater on the place around the place where her neck would be.  I have kept her close and felt her smile, her caress on my hand while the rain has fallen and the wind has blown. 

To you and to all the people that you are: the wise, the frantic, the healers and the children, may you sleep tight tonight in the embrace of a grandmothers’ love.

One Response to “Love Thursday: The Headless Grandmother and Others who Populate My Dreams”

  1. Karen Maezen Miller Says:

    goosebumps.