Dreamtime in the Shape of Light

The winter fall is fits. Outside a bitter cold braces the air while inside I light candles and clear the Christmas decorations. It took me nearly an hour last night to untangle several long strands of stars which has become entangled on the mantle. ‘Star by star’, I said to myself, slowly unknotting and unravelling the unwitting constellation. I have no idea how they became so entwined, but the task of easing them back to their length was teaching me patience, and practice. ‘Star by star’.

It so reminds me of Anne Lamott’s writing advice of ‘Bird by Bird’. Take each project at a time. Star by star, word by word, idea by idea. Patience is the foundation of practice; the two words entwined like a constellation too. As I packed the threads away this morning, I laughed to myself, thinking how much ‘future me’ will be grateful for the time I took to unravel them well. I even taped the strands to a board so they won’t budge for the year. Sometimes it is the small things.

Sometimes it is the big things too, and as the days slipped into the new year, I needed not the space of big ideas or big plans, but the space of space itself. In the Celtic rhythm of the Wheel of the Year, the time between Winter Solstice and Imbolc (early Feb), is the space of dreamtime. The dark is still upon us; the nights still long; the light only fractionally lengthened. This is not a time of equals, nor a time for planting, but a time for sinking into and listening. In the dark silence we may even hear our soul stir. It is for that kind of dreamtime.

For a few days, the mist which had been so persistent even the horizon was lost for a while, lifted. And the sky returned with the kind of winter light, hanging low and luminous, which turns every leaf to gold and ever blade of grass to awe. For three days in a row, I packed a flask for tea, my swimming togs, treats for Milly and my camera, and we headed to the hills, tracking the sun west and to its set. Light bounding off waves, off rocks; light billowing over clouds and turning even stone to soft musings on the nature of time. Then as the sun was setting, getting into my swim gear and plunging into the cold; a cold bathed in gold, and a cold to send jolts up my spine, alerting it to life, to the privilege of the plunge, as if swimming into the dream itself. This was dreamtime in the shape of light for sure, listening, listening.

High on the hills, two choughs loop and call; their black wings like myths, their red bills catching glints of the dream, calling, calling.

High on the hills, the air so crisp, it drew tears from my eyes, and lined my lungs with remedy.

Resting on the old stone walls, moss, whispering the presence of its slow patience.

And in the sea, each drop of liquid gold, a wake up call to the senses.

I listen to the light, to the birds, to the waves breaking their long journey on the shore. I am not sure what else I can do sometimes but listen.

I drink hot tea by the shore, then later, by the fire, I unravel a string of stars.

‘Star by star’, I say to myself.

The dream is in the unravelling, and the patient slow work of laying each star out, string by string, word by word, dream by soul-lit dream.

Seasonal Creative Practice:

For paid Wild Edge Members below, I offer a ‘Dreamtime’ creative practice, and also share links for the upcoming Writing Sanctuary on January 12th, and the new ‘Owl Hours - Creative Practice hours. You can find out more about Owl Hours here.

You can see a list of all upcoming dates for live events, salons and sanctuaries on the Wild Edge notice board here.