The Opening Word
Feel the weight of that word. It carries (within its seven characters) the power of an entire sentence;
your life sentence.
If you unpack the word, you will find layer upon layer of revelations and at least as many new questions.
For instance, if you are obscure (adj.), you are "not discovered or known about." You have been "concealed" such that you have also become unclear, uncertain, vague.
To obscure (v.) is to keep something from "being seen."
And so this one word, "obscure," reveals to us a myriad of other words, and with them, the multiplication of its power. Two of these words stand out among all the rest:
I invite you to sit with those two words for a moment. Let them sink in. Meditate on them.
Not Seen. Not Seen. Not Seen.
Feel them all the way through to your bones.
Isn't it amazing...
How those two words contain within them an entire lake of unshed tears? The entire heaviness weighing down your breath?
Look at how they act as the armor over your breastplate, the unnatural contraction across your back, the girdle of repression that has penetrated and made stiff the very bones of your pelvis, the very hinge of your jaw.
Isn't it surprising (and maybe even a little shocking) how those two, tiny little words have become the fibers of the wicked mask that has stitched itself over and into the soft flesh of your face?
So many questions arise.
But who wanted to be sure you would not be seen?
Breaking News: Children cannot REVEAL themselves.
Children are like sponges soaking up information about who they are, learning what is acceptable to show and what must be hidden away, concealed "for their own good."
I can hear now the sound of boots sloshing through mud. A young woman is fleeing or perhaps running to something, for something. Either way, more boots are coming up behind her, heavier boots, a multiplicity of boots. So many boots!
Underneath her tattered bonnet she conceals raven hair as pitch as night. Under her soiled cape, beneath her once regal bodice, a slightly bulging belly cannot really be disguised. That's all the evidence they will ever need to convict her of an unrepentant passion for something other than their god.
These boots pounding through the mud are ancient sounds echoing into the future as the strained whisper of your mother:
Don't you dare!
As the thunderclap of your father's refusal:
And the door fell shut and the mask began to stitch itself. Thread made of thin iron filings crept into the edges around your ears, across the soft flesh of your cheeks, over your nose, into your mouth...Like silent tear drops slinking down the contours of your face this mask fell atop your vitality. It conquered your originality. It occupied your soul.
With the years, you learned to still the yearning, hush the hunger, crush the flower of who you were meant to be.
You fell silent.
The mask spoke.
A conformist was born.
Or else you railed against these binds on the forbidden. You learned to agitate, aggravate, reveal with a frustrated vengeance. You hurled yourself against this unspoken history. You raged against the sound of those boots handed down through the ages in the hushed murmurs of the shush and the fetid stench of your skin chaffing and sweating beneath the ropes of restriction.
A rebel was born.
And still the mask spoke!
Another sound is calling to you.
It is the ticking of the clock that rises up from your belly like a warning and an indescribable temptation.
It is the rumbling of an insatiable hunger that causes you to bolt upright at 3 AM.
It is the sound of your heart crying out for an indescribable MORE!
Above all, it is the repetition of a name you do not recognize.
This name makes a stirring sound, like the song of a swallow. When you hear it, you feel free and bound all at the same time. You are drenched in hope and still hopelessly mired in other things.
The tension is driving you a bit mad in the most delirious, delicious way.
You long to follow this capricious voice. You sense that this name you do not recognize is your own. It feels like maybe it belongs to those ancient mud puddles and to the pounding of boots in the night. Running to something, running for something!
But this is not an exterior sound. It is not the voice of a neighbor, a carnival man, travel agent or adventurous friend.
It is more like an inner compulsion to search for something you have lost and for something else that will not be denied.
You wonder where this clever, unrelenting voice might take you.
You hear this word as a whisper in the dawn. And for the first time, there is a new voice, faint, far away, but also far from weak.
You feel almost as compelled to follow this sigh of a sound because, inexplicably, it seems to know the mysterious name without ever speaking it.
This voice in the dawn seems to emanate from your growing infatuation with POSSIBILITY. Or maybe your nascent fascination with POTENTIAL emanates from it?
You hear the whisper again, but stronger, closer this time:
You still don't know how to answer this call. But you know what it is after!
Did you feel that?
I think some of the stitching on the mask just snapped.
On the inside!
Jarring isn't it?
That's because there's some real work to be done here.
The final movements that layered the paint over the thin, wiry stitching of your mask weren't orchestrated by the hands of your parents. Nor did they arise from the lack of wisdom in your teachers. It wasn't your frenemies who did it either.
The hand that laid down the last brush strokes of your covering was your own, and so, the treasure you seek remains hidden even to you, especially to you.
But there is someone who can see the bounty. There is also something that will lead you to it.
It is this thing, this treasure link, that allows this curious, whispering woman to see beyond your clever camouflage.
Your dream is alive!
If you will slip your hand down and run it across the flesh of your belly, you will find that there is a slight, almost imperceptible bulge. Your passion has taken root.
The tick tock of your belly clock and your 3 AM hunger belong to this dream. The murmurings of your heart do its bidding.
And truthfully, for this dream, you would bleed. There is nothing you would not give to the hope of this calling.
You are certain now. The name is yours also and you want nothing more than to live it.
If. Only. You. Knew. How.
To Give In...
...To the Temptation...
...To Be Who You Really Are.
Take another deep breath. Pull all your energy and focus into your belly. Concentrate it again in the space below your belly button. Keep breathing until you find your center and until you feel yourself recede into the middle of you. Keep breathing deeply and intentionally until you feel the protective wall of your own spirit womb close in around you.
There, if you look around with the desire to see, you will find the reflecting pool. In its waters, you will see that the stillness of your carefully constructed self image is experiencing a bit of a disturbance. A rushing river of mysterious, rich, white liquid has broken the surface.
Though the recalcitrant mask persists on the outside, here, on the edge of your inner world, the flaking will soon begun.
The sutures will break if you let them.
Now look, over there, under the lamppost. She too has arrived, curious black bag in her hand, a large pair of bricks by her side. She is whispering:
Feel the dream quicken? See how it responds to her presence?
And she to it?!
Feel how, when she is near, the name seems to draw breath with you? And how the mask begins to feel somehow separate, not you, not yours?
Suddenly the ironclad stitches loosen.
On the outside!
She is inviting you to look again into the reflecting pool. She is asking you to see your feet on those bricks, knees bent, your bottom jutting towards earth.
(aka Slabs of Destiny)
It isn't time yet.
But the time is asking to arrive.
This scene is hungering to be lived.
She utters a single sound with her breath, a new word, an obscure mantra, a sacred song not yet discovered...
Your hips loosen and your jaw slacks.
The tension across your back releases. Your breasts heave.
The weight against your breath lightens.
And the journey begins.
If you choose it that is.
But first, allow me to introduce myself.
Rebecka Eggers, Dream Midwife, Meditation Improv Artist & Brand Storyteller...
...Under the Lamppost and At Your Side.
Again, I invite you to journey with me into the inner spaces and the hidden treasures of your dreamscape.
This will be a journey of transitions and revelations made possible through the power of transforming words and the seductive influence of beautiful, challenging imagery. It will also be a ritualistic, heart-centered experience and an intellectual awakening. Mind and heart will come together in powerful, ecstatic partnership.
Together we will gently remove the mask and bring your dream into this world.
And you into your dream!
Through a series of inside-out movements we will cross seven thresholds together and we will traverse the magnificent terrain between...
I can already feel your dream moving in my hands.
This is your time.
Oh, and before you go, a word of caution, insinuation, perhaps,