Years ago, about 30 i think, i had a strange dream. Well, not to say i haven't had strange dreams before, or since, but this one has stayed with my all this time. In other words, it has followed me through time, dogging my steps and gently pushing it's way into the front of my mind at odd times. I have often wondered where the dream came from, and why it has stayed with my so long.
Here is the dream.
I was an indian, an old man, the storyteller of the village. In my mind and soul i stored and carried the stories of our beginnings and life so they could be passed down to the younger ones. So that we would always know where we came from and who we were. I protected the history of our people, and told the glory of our ancestors.
I was dressed in robes of leather and fur, sitting on the ground by the center fire. Around the fire were many people, old and young, male and female. I was telling the story of the river turtle and how he carried our first ancestor across the raging water.
I was also the old woman sitting next to me, and the young people listening to my words. I was each person there. I was the story teller, and i was every listener. I was the story telling itself.
My voice said words, and my voices sighed in amazement and hissed in fear.
I was the sparks of the fire, exploding and shooting to the stars.
I could smell the hot sap as it bubbled out of the burning wood.
I could smell the sweat of the me next to me. Over and over again. I could feel each heartbeat and every breath taken.
I could see out of a hundred eyes.
It was all joy, beauty and grace. Gentleness and sorrow.
Then i woke up.
The dream never changes in my memory, it is always the same.
Today it came to mind as i was watching a fat robin playing tug-a-war with a large worm.
Somehow, that little battle for survival brought that dream forward in my mind.
How strange is that?