Spins

It's been a few days sicne I've even tried to post anything. Seems like my life is in a fishbowl these days. A week ago someone close to me was diagnosed with advanced cancer. It looks like things may be close to endstage. Tests will be done this week to give use a better opinion of what's going on.

That has ripped my world apart. But oddly enough I feel a thread snapping back from the SITBR. Sometimes I feel so oddly close and connected that I expect to open the front door and find them there.

The night after we got the bad news about the diagnosis, the house seemed to be full of spirit. It was as though all the family had bridged the gap to offer comfort or advice. I wished I could sit down and make myself see and hear them. I felt separated by so little and yet so blind to what was there.

Making little sense as usual. I still look for the sleeper in the blue room.

Connected-Disconnected

The calling is almost constant the past few days. Zips and zaps of energy twinkle through.

I can't slip the feeling that I could reach out into the invisible and grab the thread. It's almost as if I can see or touch my "SITBR". Fromt he pings and dings it can't always be when they are asleep.

My comfort is that someplace somebody is going bonkers the same way I am.

Calling, Calling, Callling

Just when my ability to explain the feel of being "called" fades; the calling resumes.



Last night the cosmic 'long distance wire' hooked itself back up and dialed me up again. Every nerve lit up, radiating out from the center of my body, tingling and snapping with sensation. Like standing barefoot on an exposed electric wire. From reflex I doubled up. I landed in the chair I had just stood up from. Every nerve kept humming for another minute or longer. It didn't hurt, it was more like varying stages of ecstacy. My eyes lost focus, I started panting for breath. The usual name left my lips.



I have a name in mind, it may be right or wrong but I called it out.



Where ever they were, the caller got the same jolt as I did. I'm sure of it.



Looking at my description it sounds very helpless and small. I know this is not an epileptic episode, I'm awake and aware through it all. It's not a reaction to stress, it's different.



Sometimes the call manifests itself in the feeling of being "tapped" or touched on the abdomen or somewhere else near the center of the body.



I know I need to journey and see what else I can find out about my caller. It's a mystery and it's a certainty at the same time. I want to connect directly in they physcial world. I'm also not sure that's meant to happen. If I have any input, I want it if it's for the best good.

How did that happen without me noticing?

Sometimes I run around in circles trying to get the "todo" list done and don't see the obvious.

Last spring, when I first saw the sleeper, I was in the process of having the interior of my house painted. The master bedroom had fresh plasterwork done and needed painting in July. By then I was so tired of picking out colors and doing interior design that I let go and got relaxed about what color to choose. I picked up a "summary" paint card with thirty shades on it and picked the first one that drew my eye.

Last night it finally dawned on me that I chose the exact shade and tone of the "blue room". If the sleeper sees me when I am asleep they will see a room much like the one I see but with the furnishings turned a different way.

Odd and yet not to go 7 months without realizing why I picked such a peculiar shade.

In the months of November and December I felt less of a call and had almost no dreams. Now that spring has sprung, I'm begining to get pinged again. I don't know whether to chalk this up to renewed activity or me missing the influence.

Once I thought that the "sleeper" and I were destined to meet and adventure together. Then I began to wonder if that was correct. Now I'm questioning the situation again.

My shaman friend tells me that sometimes we work with others subconsciously in the "dreamtime". She also tells me that some people that appeared to her through the dreamtime are now an everyday part of her physical world life.

That thought makes me smile. It would be amazing and lovely.

Note: I do not want to use the first name I have in my head for my "sleeper". I may be wrong about the name. "Sleeper In the Blue Room" or "Dreamer In The Blue Room" seems like an awful lot to type and read repeatedly. From here on out my "Sleeper" will be abbreviated "SIBR". So,yest, "Sibber", I'm still looking for you. :)

Death & The Sleeper in the Blue Room

Posts have been scarce lately. I find it so hard to tell the story of the "Sleeper in the Blue Room" up to this point. It's a bit odd and then again not at all unusual that an average Christian gets the call to journey through the dreamtime and connect with someone.



The "Dreamtime" that I'm referring to is the inter-connection of all living things and all that is. What could be more Christian? We are all one, we are all made from the hand of God.



Someplace I ran away from the dogma to look at the spirit. It found me, it always knew where I was. Spirit always knew I needed a little bit more than a few quick chants and a ceremony to get me through. In the last 9 years my world has moved from the two distinct hemi-spheres of "physical" reality and "fatih" to a continum where both intertwine in the middle.



Much healthier, much more balanced.



Last spring the "Sleeper in the Blue Room" began calling me. I didn't even realized I was being "called". Strange dreams. Pops of insight that flew through my mind. Then there was the dreaming. I had a series of repeating dreams about a WWII flyer from the RAF. In the dream I could see a familiar face, I could make out the time of year, the unit and other details. I could also make out that the flyer had been killed in a freak accident.


I looked up the unit, the month, the year, and the losses. I found my flyboy's name and how he died.

The dreams continued, I saw the accident. I saw him die. My heart broke with loss and longing.

Somehow "I" have known and loved the "Flyboy"even though he died 22 years before I was born. Somehow the "Sleeper" and the "Flyboy" are tied together. I think perhaps they are one and the same. Or perhaps they "Flyboy" was me. We are all intertwined somehow.

A few weeks before Christmas I was searching the web for pictures of Spitfires and Hurricanes, trying to find a photo of the plane from my dreams. I found a 2008 photo that looked like the "Sleeper" in the cockpit of a Spitfire hurtling across the sky.

As Hunter S. Thompson said "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

I couldn't half use a drink. . .

Somebody is playing the anvil chorus in my head and they're using real anvils.

The physical world and the veterans administration have been taking up too much of my attention for me to do much on my look around for the "dreamer from the blue room".

Right now I could use to get drunk and get laid. But that's not a polite thing to say. So pretend I didn't.

Tonight is another journey group. Perhaps I'll see the man from the "blue room" again. I should give him some other name. I've had a first name I've called him by but I don't want to confuse the issue with it.

Who, what, and where ever he is I hope he's having a better week of it than I am.

Good Authority

Five years ago I didn't know that modern day shamans existed. I'd read a few "National Geographics" in dentist offices so I was aware that native tribes in South America and the American West still had medicine men and women. Other than that I didn't pay too much attention to the idea.

I'd done enough attending church and joining churches to feel that the formalized edges of Christianity I had seen were devoid of the spirit, power, and the glory of God.

I was ambling through the "crisis of faith" that everybody goes through at some point. Only it didn't feel much like a crisis. When people said I needed to "go to church" and "be with God", I'd scratch my head and say "He knows where I am." I didn't say that to be arrogant. I said it because God did know where I was, he was with me all the time. God was in my heart and in my home.

Formalized church was what held the disconnect.

On weekdays I would walk from my office to a historic church a block away. The church was open for prayer and meditation and tourists. I'd take the opportunity to sit in the sunlight and silence and look at the stained glass windows and leaf through the prayer book and bible for the answers of the day. They had a Tuesday lunchtime healing service and I'd attend that occasionally. The officiate was a woman, there was communion, annointing with oil, and the laying on of hands. For the first time in years I felt the healing power of God moving through the church. I wanted more of that spiritual connection.

At the time I was seriously ill. I was going to a slew of specialists. I went to a local natural remedies store that had massage to get my back worked on. One night I was having a massage and the masseuse invited to me to a "test class" that was being held after the store closed. One of the massage therapists, one I'd had work with me before, was a trained shaman. She was giving a sample shamanic journeying class to the staff. That class set off a chain of events.

I discovered that a great number of my physicians, therapists, and friends where trained shamans or were taking training in shamanic healing practices. I had seemingly by "accident" wandered into a group of women who were all making a spiritual connection to God's healing power outside of the conventional church.

Shamanism isn't a religion. It's a set of techniques based on the ancient knowledge of the original tribal peoples of the earth. Ireland, England, Russia, Africa, Austrailia, South America, and the Native American peoples all had similar techniques for getting spiritual guidance and assistance for healing and daily life.

In the United States the recognized standard for shamanic training is:
http://www.shamanism.org/

I've taken basic training in journeying and connecting with spirit. These practices have brought me closer to God. I am still a Christian. This has been part of my evolution as a follower of Christ.

A friend of mine is a board certified psychiatrist and a shaman. She has worked unceasingly with shamans from around the world to increase her accumen and technique. When I hit new things she is the one I call for counsel. My experiences with the 'dreamer in the blue room' started in Spring of 2008. My first thought was that the stress of taking care of my mother and taking on a new job had driven me to bad dreams and synaptic overload.

I found out that it was the snap-crackle-pop of being called through the "deamtime".

The Blue Room

"The Blue Room" is a time honored magic show illusion. It's a tableau which tells the story of a lonely widow or widower.

"The Blue Room" is what I call the place I've seen in journeys.

In that room there is a single sleeper in a full sized bed. Sometimes they are awake and sometimes they wake when I arrive. The room is bathed in the glow from a nightlight in the hallway outside. They've stared at me and they've looked through me on alternate occassions.
They've spoken to me and sometimes they've been able to touch me. On several occassions they've been able to come back through the connection and into my room.

They appear as surprised and confused as I am.

That's not gone well.

I started this blog as a place to post my hopeless, sloppy loveletters but the hormones have subsided. Again I am one with the numbness that gets women over thirty through every day.

Before I came in and deleted my sloppy old posts I had a hundred things running through my head to say.

Now that the digital beast is staring me in the eyes, I've got nothing.

My family has erroded away to nothing but bad memories. My mother is dying. When she is gone my last connection to anyone or anything will be broken.

I am on th edge of the terrifying freedom of opportunity. I could go anywhere, do anything, and fail at it all.

Failure is the lid on the jar of possibilities. The worry that we won't know where our next meal, next bed, or next lay will come from.

Fear of failure has kept me nailed to a job I hate, a family that, at best, viewed me as a nusance, and a life style that fits like a Magnum condom on a twist tie.

All in the name of false security I've obliterated myself. Desperation, unsatiated hunger, and fear drive me from one mistake to the next all in the guise of keeping things "normal" and safe.

Last spring something, someone started bashing away at my wall of "normal". A voice, has been calling louder and softer through the haze. It's that voice that I'm trying to write about.

It's that dusty, hazy road I keep reaching down that I want to talk about. I want to say those words here, where they may be read by someone else and where I am safe in plain sight.