Last night I dreamt I waded into a healing pink river of rose water. Salt fell heavy from the sky, bulbous white crystals of sea salt, filling the river and dusting my hair. I filled my spray bottle with rose water and felt the urge to drink, filling myself with the murky, healing, blushing stream.
Tomorrow afternoon is the new moon, and we will shift into the emptiness, the poise of stillness that invokes a new lunar cycle. Interestingly, the moon and sun are both moving into Pisces shortly after the new moon. As you may or may not know, Pisces personifies all things mother ocean, rivers, streams, watery emotional intuition, you get the picture. I’ve been talking for days about fluidity, expression, intuition…so my dream is really no shock. I’m just glad I woke up for long enough to enable Siri (Lord, while dreams may not, technology does shock me) to grapple with my slumber-drunk murmurs of pink rivers and salt falling from the sky (Siri’s sorry interpretation was close enough that my memory was jogged come morning).
So after steeping my dream ventures in an intuitive potion, I took to my ironically (but unsurprisingly) pink dream dictionary with its torn, tattered cover and precious, hand-written, 17-year-old inscription from my dad to my mom (which I only just noticed now, and am deeply moved to discover). To dream of the color pink predicts “unusually great success,” and salt is, “in all respects an excellent omen.” To dream of a river, “as with all water dreams, the meaning is modified by the conditions and appearance of the water,” which were healing, cloudy and pink. So now, the biggie, to dream of water…murky water “signifies difficulties” but calm water is a “favorable omen.” Gently flowing water “promises contentment and peace of mind.” At one point the water carried me downstream. It literally shifted from still water to moving water. I clambered back upstream towards the faceless, figureless, anonymous object of my attention. The object that was telling me I shouldn’t drink the water, as it wasn’t clean. Snow continued to rain in the form of salt.
Later I dreamt of a man, whom I watched as if from a distance, from overhead. I witnessed his story unfold as though watching a film. I heard nothing but silence and yet his whole life trickled through my consciousness, syllable by syllable, as if dripped meaningfully through the crown of my head from the cosmos above…like I needed to know his story. Like I would gain something from watching.
I felt this human being’s anxiety as if it were my own. I watched him run from his life, flee, I watched him cross a parking lot. I watched him look over his shoulder, I watched him get into a truck and drive away. Such a simple maneuver, and yet, I was profoundly aware that he had just run from everything he had ever been. Everything he had ever built. He had just fled his life.
My own heart pounded in my chest, the chest of the observer, Purusha witnessing Prakriti. All that can change. The eyes of the unchangeable, unfaltering, taking in all that is in flux. All that is unsure.
In my dream I knew the man, who was somehow me, had just left behind everything that no longer served him. His life, symbolic of what haunts and chases us, something he chose to slip from. Just a parking lot between him and freedom, or in this case, a pickup truck.
He took off and escaped the ensuing fog. The fog of all that sought to contain and keep him. Hold him down. It felt like people. He looked anxiously over his shoulder. He had come a long way, this barren parking lot was the last leg of the journey before that slip of freedom. A parking lot with no cover. No trees, few other cars, nothing but washed out asphalt. Nothing to camouflage him. Nothing to conceal his escape.
But he made it. And that’s all that matters.
I feel no urge whatsoever to interpret any aspects of the latter dream. It just flows out of me as I remember it, as I recall it bit by bit. The interpretation is intuitive, it comes naturally, like the same whimsical Cosmic deliverer who fed me this man’s psychic experience is whispering in my ear what this means. I just…know.
I know because I’ve been planning my escape, too. I’ve meticulously planned out my retreat. When to hastily bolt across that parking lot, my eyes fixed on that pickup truck.
There are parts of me, parts of my life, that no longer serve me. Attitudes and beliefs that have grown damaging. That have become heavy weights around my ankles, slowing me, making my journey unnaturally laborious. I see them, I feel their weight lovingly, I thank them for the grounding effect they have had. And I envision releasing them.
Tomorrow’s new moon is in Aquarius…again. A second consecutive new moon in the same zodiac sign is rare, and it signals opportunity of epic proportions. A chance to begin again. A second chance, if you will. A “do-over.” Anything, any intentions, that fell to shambles from last month, any bits of this year that felt spoiled or tarnished by moments of imperfection (also known as LIFE, you know, being human)…those are the target of February’s new moon intentions. Those are the seedlings that are shrieking for love and attention, shrieking for water. Rosewater. Healing and acceptance, asking, beckoning, begging you to wade in…take a seat. Stay a while. Cup your palms, let the water flow through your fingers, the salt cleanse your atmosphere.
So wade into this river, the healing body of your consciousness. Let the flowing rhythm wash over you, lick the salt from your lips. Fill your bottle, fill yourself, and don’t listen to the fears of your own psyche or anyone else’s. Be bold…cup your hands…drink the rosewater. Lift your face towards the flurry of salt.