Witchvox Article

Author: GreenRain
Posted: November 1st. 2009
Times Viewed: 1,201

Forewarning: This may seem odd.

Just about everyone (well, everyone who can recall their dreams) can point out a dream that influenced their thinking, made them realize something, worked them up to do something they should have started long ago, or any other various amazing and profound dream statements. Perhaps the dream included a blessed vision of Isis, a symbolic group of friends holding hands, perhaps a cricket leaping past a fireplace. Maybe the images in that particular dream didn’t make sense to others when one retold the dream, but made sense to the dreamer. Dreams like these, if I have one, generally make me go, “Oh. What a lovely way for Goddess to show me things.” (Or God, but sometimes the dreams have a feel toward one or the other or the union, I think.)

So how profound a dream I have been given by Milady, with such wonderful symbolism as Fruit Loops.

Yes, re-read that sentence; your eyes are not deceiving you: “Fruit Loops.”

I warned you.

So, let’s discuss this dream, shall we? I’ll try to help the reader see it.

I’m walking through a building; warm and old, a still cinnamon-and-gingerbread scent reminiscent of a beloved grandparent’s home drifting over deep chestnut- and cherry-brown antiques. The floor is a hardwood, but not cold; nothing in this home is uncomfortably temped. Dark corners are not eerie but mysterious; I’ve become like a small exploring child, my naiveté only matched by my curiosity. I touch upon an ornate dresser-- Grandmother always called ones such as this “bureaus”-- and the warmth from it courses welcomingly through my being.

It is quite dark. The light that silhouettes this cozy dwelling is only the soft, flickering glow of candlelight, though no candles are within sight. I’m safe, safe to curiously nudge my way through the mounds of books that line the shelves, not covered with haunted house layers of dust, but loving and gentle use and perusal. Old, worn edges denote eons of reading and re-reading, reading aloud, happily studying. For a bookworm such as myself, this only emphasizes the beauty of…. wherever it is I am exploring.

Down a hall and around a corner, a glow catches my eye. Still the same candle-like warmness, but this one pulses to a slow beat; it appears to be moving away. Beckoning tenderly. I follow it. No fear of the unknown in this place.

As I round the corner, though the light doesn’t change, the scent does ever so slightly. Incense. Sage, sandalwood, and patchouli overlap and mingle with the warm gingerbread of before. Wisps of smoke confirm the scents’ identification. The ground cools; no longer the heated wood but a cool stone, ancient, but not freezing. Merely cool.

Standing with her back to me is a beautiful Woman. Her hair is the most beautiful shade of pure white, aged but maintained, and though She hunches under the weight of obvious years, this otherworldly beauty radiates from Her. The area around her has become a lovely dark gray stone, lined with shelves of bottles and jars of every shape and color. Before Her, just visible around Her form, a lovely bath-sized cauldron based with firewood that remains unlit. She stirs at this cauldron, humming a tune I’ve surely never heard before but also have known my whole life. I’m close to Her now in my curiosity; I can smell the deep but sweet scent of that gorgeous hair, feel the warmness of Her black-blue cloak draped over Her age-curved back.

“Hello, child, ” She speaks. Not a whisper, merely a casual volume. She knew I was there, but this realization doesn’t frighten me in the slightest. Her words do not startle me, but wrap me almost in an embrace. A cat slips affectionately around Her legs, purring against Her before intermingling with my own legs and subsequently disappearing to some place, as cats may do. I smile.

“You want to know what I stir?” She asks. I nod; though She doesn’t face me, she saw the response and steps slowly aside. Curiosity getting the better of me, I peer over the edge. What shall I see? What wonderful shade of ancient potion, what reflective surface of the most shimmering water?

I look into the cauldron and see…

Fruit Loops.

In milk.

Puzzled, I look upon Her face for the first time. Her skin is heavily lined and marked by age, but still beautiful. Were She human, I would put her at least at 90. She, of course, is more. Her smile, giving way to diminished teeth (for even they have aged) , is not surprised, but it also doesn’t laugh at my newfound confusion. She still stirs the Fruit Loops.

I’m not embarrassed-- for one thing Milady has taught me is to never be afraid or ashamed to look at Her-- though I do watch Her actions more closely. Her stirring is less of a stir I notice now, but a skim; She lifts the spoon, observes the spoon of cereal, then puts the spoon back the same way and repeats at a different location on the surface. Sometimes she gets the same loops, sometimes not. She doesn’t tip the spoon when She sets the loops back, so some stay more often than not.

Before I can think of a question to form, a device like a mallet but slower and crueler lowers into the cauldron; from whence it came, I do not know. A few loops are crushed before the mallet is done, and bits of the loop float to the top like the crumbs present in a cereal bowl that finished up the box. Askance, I look at Milady.

“Every time it appears to break them, some remain uninjured, ” She responds, not stopping her skimming.

“Oh, ” I respond, as if all is explained, then stare back at the cauldron. “But the ones that aren’t hurt, are bigger, ” I mumble, random knowledge. “So they don’t stay on the spoon much longer.” She looks at me, Her expression that simple smile still, but Her eyes tell me to continue.

I take a deep breath and attempt to work it out through saying my thoughts aloud. “The broken ones, since they’re smaller, have more surface area, so…. They are more likely to end up on the spoon.”

Milady nods. “And the crumbs, my dear?” she prods gently.

“Well, ” I mumble, and watch the bowl. “The crumbs mix with the milk, at their most broken down, so they always end up on the spoon, in a way.” Her smile brightens, and I feel spectacularly bright. For making observations about Fruit Loops.

“And you know, my dear, what the device which crushes them is called, ” She states simply.

And of course, I do. “Religion.”

“Very good, ” She praises. “And what of the ones that only get crushed once?”

“They… don’t get as close to the spoon, ” I revaluate, knowing but not saying that the spoon is a good thing, so those unbroken ones miss out.

“Ah, ” She says slowly. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the cat jump onto on of the shelves to curl into a nap. “And some of those silly ones would rather only be crushed once. Like that man at the store.”

I know (of course) what She refers to: There was a man at my work. I asked him, within polite conversation, if he had ever looked into the Baha’i Faith (a faith I had, in my love for religious studies, recently been reading of) when he had responded that he didn’t have to look at anything else because he served Jesus.

This dream I wake from ever so slowly; not by alarm as is usually necessary during the workweek. So I have time to think about it. The profundity of it lingers on me. I realize in those awaking moments not to have felt insulted by the man at the store, but I do slightly feel bad for him. Because Milady, I believe, was showing me that studying what others think, gaining knowledge was part of the beauty. Learning about our fellow person involves learning about their beliefs and why they do what they do, but also gets us closer to them; just like the mixed crumbs, boundaries between one and another blur, and we all benefit by getting closer, though we may not know it, to the spoon. Which is a good thing.

My wife mentions her dream that morning (anime-related) and I try to explain mine. She was a little confused, and I did babble most of it in one long run-on. Maybe she’ll understand what I meant if I show her this slowly and meticulous written version.

Sometimes Goddess can show us things in symbolic and profound and beautiful ways.

But sometimes, I suppose She just shows us with Fruit Loops.

Copyright: Fruit Loops breakfast cereal is from Kellog's brand.

I'm also posting this as a blog on my myspace and note on facebook. Facebook name, Jessica PllbtnotTelling

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GreenRain

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