Last night’s dream, 2 October 2024:
I’m on a farm, in a yard near the farmhouse, when a woman in a car comes racing down the lane, around a sharp curve between stone walls, spewing gravel in the wake of her tires. She spins the car around and backs it up beside a big barn and the rear end of the car gets caught on the low stone wall. She leaves the car running, tires spinning, gets out of the car, and starts to walk across the yard toward the farmhouse. Her sunglasses are askew, and she looks confused. I walk toward her. To comfort her? To help her regulate? To tell her to turn off her car, or scold her? The alarm goes off and it is morning.

Who is this woman? Is she a version of me? Is she the women of America? Is she the goddess herself? She didn’t seem particularly angry or anxious. Just impatient and confused. I think I need to find this out during the coming season.

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In this season of ripening into darkness,
as worries whirl around me
like angry wasps,
I asked the Mother,
By what name shall I call you?
And I saw a the parade of Deerpeople
who wandered through the farm
on balmy summer mornings,
the shaman ancestor with her drum,
the dream I had of a woman
who was a deer
who was a tree
who was a shelter
to small animals and birds
in her branches and among her roots.

Oh Antlered One:
who calls me home to live
within the garden of myself:
Help me to find the still point
in this maelstrom of my anxious fears,
to follow where the sacred tug of griefs and rages
will guide me to the wisdom I will write upon the pages
of these my croning years.