08/27/2013 by syrbal-labrys
I went back to sleep this morning, after my Minotaur husband left before dawn; I had just finished the Tuesday Tarot post on “fives” in all their rather “fifth columnist within” glory. Raindrops were falling outdoors, I seriously was hoping for a good rain and whispering from my heart to the damp weather…”Go south to Yosemite!”
And I dreamt. A very confusing dream it was, too. I was demonstrating how to ice a birthday cake. I bake and cook a lot. I hate making birthday cakes although I love eating them; I find the decorating and such terribly stressful. So even in my dream, I escaped on the excuse of needing more supplies. But that is when it got really confusing. Because I found myself, with a bag of cake decorating supplies, in a great cathedral! There were no pews, instead there were rather nice upholstered chairs, but all turned away from the altar, facing the walls of the cathedral instead. A priest was processing about…and yes, having been Catholic once, I recognized the ongoing thing as the “Stations of the Cross”. As he came to each “station”….those images usually representing Christ’s torturous walk to his death, he would point at a parishioner, who would rise and read the applicable prayer and meditation. The acoustics were lousy, I couldn’t hear anything but a murmur of the voice.
I was sitting quietly, wondering how I got there and how to discretely leave without disturbing the congregation because they looked curiously intense and tearful, when the priest arrived at the wall-mounted image nearest to me. To my surprise, he walked over and handing me his sheaf of papers and gestured at the image. I stood up and walked to face the image, which to my surprise, I did not recognize at all. I thought, “Just read the prayer and then leave these people to their devotions.” I looked down at the paper, there was the Roman numeral “V” at the head of the page. But the words made no sense, although in English, they in no way resembled the usual prayers for the Stations of the Cross. Stalling for time, in my confusion, I genuflected before the image on the wall and hunted my totally inadequate memory for words appropriate to use.
But rising and looking up at the image on the wall, I saw that it was not of Christ and the drafted Cyrene being forced to help bear the cross towards the hilltop…it was an image of Mary!
Time froze in the dream. And then I woke. It was the idea of the divine feminine….even relegated to ‘saint’ status, the idea of some female elevated above mere birther and cleaner that had drawn me to the Catholic Church at age 17. And it was Marian theology and devotion that kept me in the Church for most of the next 17 years. And when I banished the crucifix and other signs of the monotheistic faith I was leaving behind in 1986, only the image of Mary remained. She was my first “goddess”… ever a symbol of what I DID consider divine IN women, the humanity and sympathy. The first mystical and inexplicable moment in my spiritual life involved her. August is the month, of course, when the Catholic Church celebrates her “assumption” into heaven, something I had entirely forgotten till I saw it noted on a calendar on Sunday.
So, as I fear my nation venturing where any brighter angel would fear to go…into another possible Mid-east conflagration, to dream of her assuming the position at the number five…that number of nadirs, and of conflict…I admit, it stirs the irrational dread in me. It makes me feel like a gibbering idiot. But I can’t escape the dread, bolstered by a dream that makes no sense to me. And while I may be acknowledging that I feel irrational? I am not so irrational as to consider opening a THIRD war as the last two have damned near bankrupted the nation.