I was sleeping in a snow covered white barn on a white quilted single bed, I dreamed. I was dressed in a white night gown, wearing no shoes and had long flowing hair. I was sleeping with my black and white cat Simon, who was talking to me about something. I could not hear him very well as I was distracted by several other small animals who were darting about on the floor. Kittens, small dogs and rabbits had crept in and were resting in straw that lay near my bed. They nestled under a dilapidated manger-like awning that ran the length of the barn. I pulled back the covers disturbing my cat who seemed to tell me to snuggle with him under the covers and return to sleep. I rose and reached for a white broom to shoo the animals away. They scurried in all directions; into small holes in the barn wall – into openings of all kinds. I chased after them with my broom. As I moved I found myself in a larger part of the white, snow filled barn. The snow crunched beneath my feet. I covered all openings, large and small, with old panels of decaying white wood to keep them out. I saw a staircase and followed it upward finding myself in my mother and father’s old basement. The color changed then to a grey-brown; a dusty area filled with antiques and memorabilia that I recognized as mine. There were things there I had touched, made or collected; things in collective memory, many not from this life time alone, I noticed.
The walls were lined with valuable oak dressers, cabinets, curio shelves, bric-a-brac, gold and silver jewelry – beveled glass, fans, engraved goblets, old mops, brooms, pails, food service pans and dishes, draped mirrors, stacks of books, ledgers and records Everything was dusty – resting – waiting for something. Three oriental young adults wandered around the basement, examining all of the material. I told them it had all belonged to me at some time in my history. I pulled back plastic from an ornate three tiered pantry shelve that rested on a unmatched vanity. “Look at this,” I said with eagerness. “Isn’t it a pretty piece?” The correct vanity piece (rose maple in color) lay under a water damaged shelve resting next to the intricately carved shelve I showed them. The glass behind the carved wood was clear and undamaged. I recognized each item that was brought to my attention. I remembered handling everything. I relived each emotion and caught a glimpse of the surroundings where the artifact had rested. It was an exhilarating experience. In cases, it was laden with shame and sadness for what was gone. The Chinese young people chattered about how I should catalogue all of the items, clean them up and put them on display for sale. I said it was too large a job because the items were from many lifetimes I had lived.
I followed a girl into a small room in the basement filled with things I didn’t want to remember. The floor was covered with larva, a dark crunchy film of decaying husks lay up on the floor. Barefoot, they crunched under my feet. “I’ve got to get out here” I said, moving quickly to the door. We walked up the basement stairs carefully, as the steps were filled with relics, tea cups, saucers, pots and pans. I walked up until workmen asked me to move. They were unloading the house. They carried large tapestries and huge gilt framed works of art; making themselves thin to squeeze by or step over more things - trying to walk down the stairs to get outside. I walked through the kitchen, dining and living room areas, filled with things; my things - things from past lives. Stooping to examine a china vase filled with china flowers, a bowl or hand mirror made me dizzy with memories. Two floors lay above me; the racket of the movers unnerved me as they carried the memory of my many lives away into the streets. I found myself wandering in a huge MEMORY MARKET filled with aisles and streets of other people’s artifacts. People wandered looking at the array of intangible things people collected or made. Aisles of stoves, and chilling devices were filled with food types. Books and record keeping materials were stacked to the horizon. I searched for someone who would speak to ask if this depository museum I wandered in had catalogued the memories as well. I wanted to know what was attached to the material objects, wondering if once they were created would they become haunted. The worker who emptied my house would not reply; he moved in silence placing a yellow and red whimsical piece of art in its prospective pile.
I awoke with a start for no apparent reason, to realize I must have visited a place somewhere on the astral plane where the Akashic Records where prepared for the collective memory of “objects” related to man in the material world. I believed that a comprehensive data construct was made for each soul, recording our multiple lifetimes, accomplishments and failures. But to see a place where the tangible materials we create are arranged and catalogued I am led to ask many questions about the raw materials with which we sculpt and their significance.
Can an object in the material become haunted?
Does the material world have memory cells which store data that is to be harvested by a high creator?
Why is it important to catalogue this memory?
Can the material world become haunted by past “makers” and their users?
If an object has several source materials which portion holds primary memory?
How much memory is a material object able to hold?
How many memories from different sources can an object carry?
Does the primary “maker” retain rights to the memory of an object?
Will we be judged by how much material we use to create?
If an object is burned is the memory released?
Will we be judged by what material we use to create with?
Will we be judged by how we disposed of what we created?
Will we be judged by where we disposed of what we created?
Will we be judged by how we were received by others over what we created?
The dream I had was lucid. It has peaked my interest about the nature of "material" in the raw world and the significance it bares in our life and toward our spiritual development. The animals brought me to this awareness, I have a feeling there are spiritual rules and consequences related to the waste and misuse of our raw materials as well. The artifact museum may be a "counting" measure to determine what resources are left. As an artist I know when I am running out of red ochre or white pigment and what it means to create pink. Our Creator knows too. We have much to learn about our walk on this hallowed ground. We are babes in toyland.
More by this Author
Every culture has a definition of the vibration they create and how it’s music functions within their social structure. The Ojibway people of Northeast Michigan valued music for the personal and magical powers...
No comments yet.