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Svasti: A Journey From Assault To Wholeness

~ Recovery from PTSD & depression + yoga, silliness & poetry…

Svasti: A Journey From Assault To Wholeness

Tag Archives: Dreams

Dreams, death, transformation & labels

05 Monday Apr 2010

Posted by Svasti in Life

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

blood, crocodiles, death, Dinosaurs, Dreams, Labels, sharks, Transformation, transmutation, vampires

Dreamt of death last night/this morning/whenever-it-was, which never means what it seems to mean, of course. And transformation, too. The death was not mine, though often in my dreams it has been. But the transformation was.

Been thinking about that for a while, coz I’ve got this working theory that all these crazy-seeming things I’m interested in are actually about that, too. Vampires for certain. It’s not the blood or the sexiness or even the immortality thing that I like (I suspect like many, that would get a little old eventually, harhar!). Nope, it’s the transmutation from one thing to another. Same reason I like sharks and crocodiles, too, although in a different way. I mean, they’re time-travelers, aren’t they? From an aeon when we were little more than food for dinosaurs. Yeah…

So in this dream I became something but not someone else. I was still me, and having a hard time explaining all the outward signs of change to my family – suddenly taller, different coloured hair (pink) and skin (ochre), new abilities (strength, flying), although the inward signs were way more significant. They couldn’t see those of course, and there in the midst of dealing with the death scenes in my dream, I was once again not what I should be according to those whom I’m related to by blood!

And then this morning, reading something else I laughed out loud. Because I remembered.

Those who seek labels for others (or label themselves) are missing the point. Not in a new age-y dude, don’t stick your labels on me kinda way. Not like that at all. The only way for us to describe what we see is to use words, but what we forget to remember is how those descriptors are all so very temporary.

We’re always changing, transmuting, decomposing and reforming, even if we don’t know it. And mostly we don’t.

And in the tradition of transmutation, we need to snip those labels loose, tear them into tiny pieces and send them flying ten miles out to sea, remembering that in the end they’re just words, words, words…

Someone might have said it to us once (or even many times over), but it is our fear, shame, sadness, embarrassment, guilt and pain that empowers the labels, those places where we hurt. We hide words and labels in our bodies like wounds we need to defend and in doing so, regenerate our pain points.

But all we need to do is set them free.

They don’t mean anything.

They aren’t personal.

I have to remember this, too. That’s why I’m writing this here. To remind myself when I forget, because I do forget and often.

~Svasti

-37.814251 144.963169

Involuntary actions – part 3

11 Thursday Feb 2010

Posted by Svasti in Learnings, Life

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

abortion, baby daddy, booty call, Chippy, contraception, Dreams, extreme mutual pleasure, kindergarten, Kinesiology, nightmares, portent, sexual liberation, Sixth Sense, surfer lover

[Read part 1 & part 2 first]

Did you think I wouldn’t go there? I know, I know… sorta left the story with a gapingly obvious question there, didn’t I? But the plan all along was to wade in, really. So don’t worry, coz here we are!

But before I could elaborate on this part of the story, I was lying in bed after publishing part 2 and… ohhhhh [the sound of stuff you never realised before but now see]! Reminded me of the time I broke the overhead light cover in the laundry last year because even to this day I’m *still* finding little shards everywhere. I suspect I won’t get them all until I shift EVERYTHING out of the laundry. But have you ever felt the need to move your washing machine once it was installed? Yeah, me neither… And exactly my point.

Before I go any further, I’ve gotta tell you about these dreams I had maybe ten years later. They seemed completely unrelated, even if they were terrifying. Of course, this is a huge hint that they aren’t unrelated, right? Because I’m not really going for that whole Sixth Sense he-was-dead-all-along twist [apologies if you haven’t seen that movie yet. Okay, not really because you should’ve by now!].

*********************

They started one night out of nowhere and weirdly. ‘Spose my sleepscape has always been awash with weirdness… realistic visions I could’ve sworn were actually happening, the occasional and incredible full scale movie in which I often had a starring role, horror scenes, vampires, flying, reptiles, alleged past lives and more. But also dreams of portent and that’s always been confusing, even to this day. Especially because I never really know the difference until after something I’ve dreamt has turned up and I get that oh yeah moment.

Even trickier is when fact and fantasy intermingle so it looks like one thing, but the message is important and not the visuals. Or vice versa. It’s never simple. And they don’t really give me an advantage at all. Fat lot of good that is, right?

Usually though, it’s not a retrospective message. Let alone many years later. And it definitely wasn’t pretty.

In my dream I was back in kindergarten, a place I remember well for some reason. Our cloakroom with the cool coat hooks in the shapes of animals or toys or ships, and the kid-size toilets tailor-made for tiny people. And the main area which was sort of divided up although it was really just one big space. The art area with easels and tables for masterful abstract kid-ling art. The story space with its huge rug and lots of room to sit next to your friends. The bookshelves. The spot where we’d eat our lunch and drink our milk. And the office.

We weren’t allowed in there except for official business and things like getting our eyes tested. And I was maybe four, and I was in there with my mother for some kind of medical check up. One minute I was sitting in her lap while she talked to the male doctor and the next… well, there’s no polite way to talk about a grown up being inappropriate with a child, is there? I felt like I couldn’t move, couldn’t get up. But my mother wasn’t there any longer. I was trapped in the office with this doctor and I… well, never mind…

I woke up distressed, crying. Was it real? Was it? Was it fucking REAL??? Oh. My. God. No… It couldn’t be real. I don’t think so. I’m sure it wasn’t. Unless it was? Fuck!

It wasn’t the last time I had that dream and before long I was a mess and completely confused. I tried to ask my mother a few delicately hedged questions without giving away my intent but to really explain properly, I had to spill. She was scathing. I mean, after all, I was asking her about stuff from a dream for crying out loud! I know that never happened, her voice tart and short, because there were NEVER any men working at the kindergarten.

So… that was it I guess? Except for the distress. I worried and wondered if this was some kind of repressed memory. I mean, I was a rather sexualised child in a way that apparently kids normally aren’t. What did it mean? Something? Anything? Nothing? No! I knew when I’d lost my virginity didn’t I? I’m sure about that if nothing else…

A friend suggested I go and see this therapist she knew. He was a kinesiologist and counsellor, and she had good things to say about him. If you’re not familiar with kinesiology then this all might sound a little strange. It’s a powerful practice and some especially talented therapists use it to help people tap into hidden emotional blocks, not just physical ills.

In this case, we analysed my very disturbing dreams using kinesiology to test my sub-conscious mind’s reaction to his questions. Which sure, can sound a little nutty but you really had to be there to understand. It was… impressive.

But I can’t describe the indescribable. I can barely remember what happened there. We talked, he used the muscle testing technique. I cried. He asked questions and I thought of certain things. He tested again. And on and on as we narrowed down the result.

And it came down to this: hidden shame and fear about my abortion. Feeling I’d lost the respect of my parents and feeling out of control. Note: this is what I worked out via thinking of specific things. I barely told him anything because he told me he didn’t need to know the specifics.

It made sense didn’t it? I was in that very compromising position as a doctor and his medical team scraped the contents of my womb under general anaesthetic and there was no escape once things kicked off. Consciously I didn’t feel ashamed or upset about it but clearly I held that somewhere in my body.

And so life went on. I’ve never fallen pregnant again although there’s been a few times where I’ve wondered. And some of those times I threatened myself. Body, I’ve said menacingly, you remember what we went through before? Well, it’s not that I ever want to do that again, but so help me if we’re pregnant that might just be on the cards, okay? So… let’s not be pregnant.

Who knows if it was the threats or if I simply wasn’t pregnant in the first place but eventually the bloody evidence allowed relief to replace tension and it was all okay. Sorta.

The other horror and shame of course, came from not knowing who that child’s father was. That’s right, I can’t tell you. It’s possible that had I been able to get blood tests from known the known contenders I still wouldn’t have an answer.

In an ideal/less than ideal world I often wished it’d been Chippy. I liked to think it was. Sweet, loveable cute surfer-boy dude of the sun-kissed golden hair and sunny nature, friend of M’s sometime boyfriend and all-round hot thing. And a wild man in the sack. They’d come over along with N’s (my other best friend) boyfriend when M’s parents were on holiday’s, having taken M’s younger brother with them. Three bedrooms of an otherwise empty house choc-full of horny young things, no vacancies, sorry!

I’d sleep on the floor on a mattress in M’s brother’s room and that’s where we’d romp. Chippy in many ways was my teacher. From this sweet hearted sexy thang, I learned about Grown Up Sex where extreme mutual pleasure was assured. So that’s what sex could be! No in-out-and-over with my surfer lover… it was always fun and downright awesome. Literally a booty call and nothing more, thank goodness for my Chippy!

But he was far from the only one. This was a time of sexual liberation for the three of us, doing what and whomever we wanted whenever it suited us. We never saw a down-side until it happened to me.

As far as M, N and I could figure it there were three possible baby daddy candidates. Well kinda. We joked about it a bit before that fateful train trip, but never after. But let me be clear: it’s not like I wasn’t using contraception. I was, mostly.

There was of course Chippy – my semi-regular lover, some guy I’d picked up at our local nightclub (oh my, the days when I’d go nightclubbing!) who’s number I never bothered to get, and then there was… well, stuff I hadn’t told either of them and could barely tell myself. Not the full story. Not the real story, whatever that was…

[Read part 4]

~Svasti

-37.814251 144.963169

Somnambulant love notes

24 Sunday Jan 2010

Posted by Svasti in Fiction

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

ambrosial enfoldments, beloved, distractions, Dreams, Insomnia, nightly meanderings, ode to zzzzz, Shadow Darling, sleep, twilight

Why hello my darkly velvet beloved; here for me once again? You offer me my dreams made real even as I reject your enticements. Again.

Is this a denial of what must be? For ‘course I daren’t resist such ambrosial enfoldments too long. You wait, wait, wait, wait, slowly stealing a kiss or caress… but then mostly I just enter through a window instead and forgo the welcoming reception you’ve always prepared.

From light to dreams with no in between. Because it’s rare that I come through your door gently, my love. Prose, not poetry I’m afraid.

Oh Shadow Darling, why do your mechanisms seem harsher than they are? The prospect often foreboding, like I’m about to lose it all (though it’s never the case). I race from you til I no longer can… then I’m yours endlessly. Almost. As my reluctant farewell draws me away from your charms and we start our game over again.

Regrettably I fight you, always… Perhaps it’s that you cast shadow puppets in death’s likeness instead your true form: healer, caretaker, guardian and the world’s best lover. Always happy to spoon. And you never snore.

Despite all this you don’t stalk me ever, no matter how difficult I become. No petty jealousies for you! No overt displays of anger. And I never really run. Your patience endlessly awaits my latest childish turn at hide and seek. You never lose. Nor do I.

Here – another pretty distraction! Light and sound. Must. Stay…

I hear tell though, of a twilight field where fraught lovers (like us) find a neutral zone of sorts. A cosy nook where all defences are checked at the door and I can learn. I’m trying my darling, I am…

And it’s not just in obvious ways that I fight you; I’ve two million and twelve distractions to manifest and justify. So many ways to ignore your addictive appeal for moments longer – but senseless, each one of them.

Heavenly love: you speak my name through bones and blood as no other can. But I pretend it wasn’t you at all. Silly girl!

Then my elliptical longings call me to your side anyway. We blend as one, I’m home again. And I entrust you with my dreamscape of nightly meanderings.

Gatekeeper of my inner world. To you my dearest, I surrender.

~Svasti

-37.814251 144.963169

It’s all in your head

17 Friday Apr 2009

Posted by Svasti in Life, Spirituality

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Ahamkara, Chinnamasta, Cravings, Desire, Dreams, Guru, Headless, Ida, Kevin Costner, Limitations, Meditation, Nourishment, Pingala, Shakti, Shiva, Spirituality, Sushumna, Waterworld, Wrathful

Little known goddess Chinnamasta, a wrathful incarnation of Ma, who in effect is really Shakti, who’s Shiva anyway… is not as wrathful as she seems. Least, not in the way we Westerners tend to define wrath.

Looking so fierce and scary, she decapitates herself to provide nourishment for her companions, the three of them wandering as they are (but really, are Ida, Pingala and Sushumna).

The other two were hungry (spiritually, energetically?) and so without ego, Chinnamasta removes her head, providing the ultimate life-giving nourishment. In the process, ridding herself of an appendage that often gets us lesser mortals in strife. The ‘home’ of the mind (which has no home in the physical body), the ahamkara (I-maker/ego).

Headless… the very idea, generally considered gruesome, but I sorta know how she feels.

Or at least, my dream self does.

Vivid and seemingly non-stop in my formative years (circa primary school era), a series of dreams, a little bit like one of those American soaps you can pick up on ten years later – ever unfolding at snails-pace with lots of scenes repeated.

Everything submersed in water, a bit like Waterworld, except (thankfully) not starring Kevin Costner and my soporiferous thoughts occurred long before that movie regretfully saw the light of day.

Some water was deeper than others, but a fair bit was only chest high. The name of the game in this world – don’t lose your head.

Had to keep watch for the ‘knights’ (I don’t think they were knights, but they rode on horseback and carried swords). The thing to do if they were around, was submerge yourself fully, hold your breath and wait for them to go away.

Because, we all knew what happened to those who were caught: decapitation.

This water-covered world flooded my nocturnal landscape with frequency. But I’d be doing something a little different every time. Playing with my friends, at school or in some other part of the world I wasn’t quite familiar with. Each time they came, we’d duck. Or I’d duck, if alone. Each time we survived we congratulated ourselves.

Every so often, amidst this night-time play, I found myself in something of a predicament. Caught.

Then, my head was gone. My neck relieved of its weight, rolled off to who knows where.

Curiously, I did not die. In fact, with every passing moment I discovered the freedom of the headless. I could still breathe, and talk and think. I was not my head, my head was not me.

Running through my schoolyard, testing my new way of being. Found a horrified looking friend or two, and tried to say – look, there’s no need for your head! I’m still okay, I’m alive and now I don’t need to hide from the knights!

Was it terror, disinterest or perhaps disdain for something different? Or the lot? They weren’t buying it. They had no interest in this new, headless me.

Sure, it was strange but pleasant and yet, so lonely. No one else wanted to willingly have their head cut off, too. They kept up their ducking and hiding and their noggins on their shoulders.

And I… got bored being the only one with this kind of freedom. What fun is there, if you’re the only one?

So, by the powers of the dreamscape where all things are possible, I found my head re-attached. And life went on…

There’s much of life we think of as occurring in our mind. There’s much we create in our mind we think of as this world, much larger than it really is. Causing confusion and loss.

Loss – of a limb, an idea, thoughts or people from our life, generating heartbreak. We feel it in the chest region (at least I do, and cuttingly so) though that heartbreak is self-created and projected outwards, as though it’s happening to us, instead of coming from us.

Chinnamasta’s messages are many, but include the idea of self-love and self-sacrifice for the benefit of many, which in the end, benefits you, too.

Doing away with the need to duck and hide, and assuming the worst when, for all we know, there’s more freedom on the other side than we can ever imagine from this vantage point.

I know now, what it is I crave.

~Svasti

Life, what is it but a dream?

16 Thursday Apr 2009

Posted by Svasti in Life, Spirituality

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Alice in Wonderland, Dreams, House of cards, Lewis Carroll, Poppy fields, Shadow puppets, Slumber, Swami Satyananda, Through the looking glass, Wizard of Oz

You know, there’s nothing to be done.

As Swami Satyananda once said… What did I do? I committed no sin. I was born, that is all! I did not ask for this birth.

Life is rarely what we think…

In a Wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summers die;

Ever drifting down the stream–

Lingering in the golden gleam–

Life, what is it but a dream?

~Lewis Carroll

That golden gleam, it sparkles in the light, spraying pretty diamonds in its wake.

And so we cloak ourselves in sparkles, pretending to always wear our Sunday best.

So we think.

So.

We.

Think.

Not enough can be our undoing just as easily as too much. Though, mistake the reflection for the object, and you’re through the looking glass.

It’s just one of the house-rules in this place.

But that’s exactly what we do.

We dance artfully (or not) through light and shade, but it’s not easy to remain detached from our projected delights and yet, live fully.

And so, the shadow puppets grow a pulse.

A dream it is, where we live in a house of cards of our own making, on house of cards street, in house of cards town, in house of cards country.

Each link in the chain relying on the other for its validation – the dream is real… right?

Waking can be painful, and slumber much preferred, all of us safe in the web of mutual experience.


Sleep my pretty, sleeeeep…
~Wizard of Oz

Tis never a singular act, though many sleep alone and struggle ever onwards. Can it be? Friends with a common goal. And the touch of one who knows the way, slow flurries of snow to pierce the veil.

Passing of the baton onwards to more than we can ever know in solo worlds, population of one.

~Svasti

Monsters in the closet

23 Thursday Oct 2008

Posted by Svasti in Time to come out

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

death, Dreams, Drink Me, Fake tan, hallway monster, heart break, imagination, loo, Mad Hatters Tea Party, monsters, Queen of Hearts, super powers, wenches

Sully from Monsters Inc

There’s method in my madness, although it may be utterly unintelligible to others, or even to my own good self.

One of my many, many quirks is this – I’ve always considered my imagination to be a secret weapon, kind of like a super power.

As a young child, I had a wildly over-active mind, full of ghosts and goblins and invisible people. Who knows, perhaps some of them were really there? Anyway, two main night-time fantasies persisted, around the concept of monsters.

My monsters looked a little like Sully (see pic) although perhaps a little scarier.

First – I had this idea that when us kids had gone to bed, my parents took off their ‘skins’ and underneath they were really monsters. I never thought they wanted to kill us or anything, just that they had another ‘face’ we never saw.

Second – there was a hallway monster, who wasn’t either of my parents. And he was really scary! He hung around outside my bedroom door which meant he was in the way of me getting to the toilet. I learned I could have a ‘conversation’ with him, in which we made a deal. He could be outside my room all he wanted, except when I needed to go to the loo (Aussie word for ‘toilet’). And since we never formally crossed paths, I figured it worked. 😉

As I graduated from monsters to real life fears, I found different ways to use my imaginal powers. I had endless horrific nightmares from the ages of 10-16. I dreamt not only of my own death, but that of almost every person I knew. I’ve been at my funeral many times over in my dream world. Some of the dreams I dreamt of others were frightening. Like the one where my sister was beheaded and no matter what I tried I couldn’t stop them…

In response to my night time terrors I actively imagined all sorts of things. I had this theory that if I dreamt or thought of it first, it could no longer come true in the real world. In this way, I protected the people I loved because I’d taken away horrible possibilities by thinking about them already. Weird, I know!

Moving into adulthood, my terror became that of heart break. I would seek to expunge the ‘last memory’ of being somewhere special with ex-boyfriends/partners by taking myself back to those places whenever I could. So they no longer held any fear or sadness and once again became ‘just a place’.

It seems like another lifetime ago that I had these funny ideas and ways of handling my emotions.

The exception is dealing with the ‘Andre’ stuff.

I’ve been near and around where he lives, but not by design. It wasn’t so long ago I figuratively dropped my lunch when my therapist asked me how I’d handle things if I ever did come face to face with Andre again. I’ve never purposely sought out any of the places I’d spent time with him.

But tomorrow night I’m going back to the ‘scene of the crime’: the club where we first met. And that’s because my good friend L and I are going to a fancy dress party!!

Hence the fake tan. The reality of my costume involves a fair bit of flesh on display and my beautiful Thai suntan has faded in Melbourne’s lingering Winter.

The fake tan is also a thin chemical layer of protection. Something between me and… the spectres of ‘past-Svasti’ and ‘past-Andre’.

Actually, I’m not really going there on purpose to exorcise ghosts – its just there was a party on that I damn-well wanted to go to! And I decided, after three years I’m way past ready, damnit!

L knows the deal with all that stuff ofcourse, and we’re both there for each other in the good chick friendship kind of way as well as the – let’s be dirty little stop outs kind of way…

Logical brain says – I don’t expect he will be there. Ofcourse he won’t be there. I know he won’t be there.

Fear says – but what if by some freak happenstance he is there?

Shut up says my intuition. Its just not gonna happen, okay?

I’m going over to L’s place after work tomorrow. We’re picking up our costumes on the way. At her place we’ll primp and preen, do hair and make up, help each other into our outfits and drink outrageous amounts of vodka.

The theme is ‘Mad Hatters Tea Party’. And we’re going as wenches at the Queen of Hearts’ court. Ofcourse! There’s a red velvet corset, a short, sassy bustle-y skirt and some stay up fishnets coming my way. And a faux black velvet hat. Plus accoutrements.

Should be a hoot. I really and truly don’t party like this very much or very often. Must be the arrival of Spring – both L and I decided it was time to let our hair down and then the party came up.

Actually, I’m so darn toey that I’m just hoping there’s fun with some tall, dark ‘n’ handsome Mad Hatters – and I betcha anything if I opened the “Drink Me” bottle, there’d be some short term amnesia involved…

~Svasti

P.S. Jay – no rude remarks about the number of posts I’ve made this week please!! Yesterday’s came out of nowhere and so did today’s. Sometimes a girl’s just gotta write…

P.P.S. I’m still in a little bit of shock that I’m actually gonna post this to my blog…

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