I had a dream where I was standing in the middle of a drumming circle observing the layout around me. Out of the twenty chairs present, all were empty except for two which were occupied by a pair of enormous Anglerfish. Both looked equally grotesque with the odd combination of translucent skin and opaque eyes, and even though their bite was closed, an impressive set of sharp, pointed teeth that seemed taller than the height of their body was on full display.

By their nature, Anglerfish attract their prey by a large, fleshy growth from their heads that acts as a lure. In my dream, on the end of each antenna were the smallest of lights that shone quite brightly in the darkness, but it was only when I viewed it from another angle did I see that the light was made of a jelly and acted as a mask to hide a little hook inside of it.

Both fish remained stationary, completely immobile except for their lighted lures which whipped wildly from side-to-side as though they were searching for something, anything, to feed off of.

Despite the fact that these two fish were absolutely ferocious-looking, I would walk around each undetected, passing through their gnashed jaws and marveling at how something could be so blind to the world and so transparent to others, but still, somehow manage to get exactly what they wanted. I was completely and utterly confused by them.

"But they are supposed to be guardians," I said out loud. "Why are they so fearsome?"

An elder appeared at that moment, a little old lady wrapped up in layers of clothing and a staff in her hand. She wore the hide of a spotted animal draped around her shoulders with two braids parted on either side. She took her staff and stilled the antenna of one, pointing to the little light that shone brightly at the end, saying,

"A light is still a light. Only the soul gets to decide how it's used." And with the thud of her staff connecting to the ground, I woke.

Sitting with the energy of writing and lack thereof this afternoon, I asked myself what my resistance looks like. If it had color, texture, form, what shape would its energy hold? Then I decided to paint it.

My resistance takes the form of a spine. There’s a palatable gap between thoughts and actions. This is the space of Faith, where my Effort and Will are being challenged.

The internal landscape holds issues with Fear, Lack, Anger, and Failure; the four points of where my resistance is born.

Can I take time off to put pen to paper?

Will I have enough time? Money? Energy?

Will the interest in my work continue if I tuck away?

Who will fight against the experiences I reveal? Where is there danger in my sharing?

And of course, will I even get it done? Is this an effort doomed to failure?

‘Trial’ bears the energy of 8; dependability. Accountability. Discipline. Order. Structure. Creating a routine that doesn’t get lost.

Faith is the bridge that will bring me out of the ick in my head and into the creative space of passion. To pen a book, several even is a part of my life purpose. I just KNOW it. I’m more sure of it than my own name. You would think this would be an easy thing to just dive into, but it is the TRIAL.

On the external landscape, the curve of a spine speaks of a heart blossoming in the energy of discovery, love, purpose, healing. It bears the color of a career change. Of modesty. Of the refinement of one’s character.

This was a super interesting experiment that I’m quite pleased with. It was so easy to read. I think this deserves a trial in replacing the mini chakragraphs in the community-serving sessions.

Last night I awoke from a dream that began where I was standing inside an unfamiliar house. The colors were light; the room airy. The furnishings were modern with stylized geometric prints on the walls. I walked through each room in wonder, staring at the perfectly thoughtful placement of its furnishings stopping only as I came face-to-face with a senior man seated at an angular dining table. I noticed that his clothes were worn but tidy; patterned plaid and old, bibbed denim. A faded kerchief peeked out of his front pocket. He rested his hands on the top of a cane that had an elaborate carving of a mallard head, rhythmically rocking it back and forth on its heel. He stared beyond me to a shelf affixed above the doorway in the dining room. Upon it sat one of most elaborate carvings I had ever seen: a large, model ship that must have had over a thousand separate pieces. It was stunningly intricate and beautiful, yet completely out of place in this home of immaculate white linen and bold, crisp lines.

"I spent fifteen years building that ship," he said. "Each piece was carved, sanded, and painted by hand. You'll never find anything like it. I modeled it after my great grandaddy's ship. Never saw it but heard stories of it growing up. That's what I went off of—my memories of the stories," he said, tapping the side of his head with his forefinger.

A middle-aged woman suddenly moves into the room. She's carrying a bowl in her hands and places it on the table. She moves it from one place to another, turning it until it’s positioned perfectly to her perspective. She leaves the room and returns, adding more things and shifting them around until satisfaction. She looks much different than we do. It's as if her color is faded from our surroundings. There's a weird noise being emitted off her body; a low, buzzing hum. She is completely focused on scurrying in and out of the room. Some movements are slow while others skip ahead in time like an old video missing frames. If she sees us, she gives no indication.

"My great-granddaddy was an explorer," the old man continues. "A merchant. He traveled all around the world, buying and selling anything he could get his hands on. He learned the trade from his daddy, just like his daddy from did from his.
My father was an explorer too, only he never learned how to make good use of his name. He'd roam from town to town like a dog in heat. One sniff of something sweet and boy—he was outta there!" The old man claps his hands together for emphasis than stretches one arm out longer than the other. He gives a small chuckle at my surprise and leans back in his chair, heaving a sigh. With a flick of his wrist, he motions to the woman still skipping in and out of frame.

"She never could understand why I spent so much time on my carvings." He continued. "She grew to hate all my little projects. Once when she was five, she snuck into my workspace; the garage. It was off-limits to everyone, even my wife. That was my space,” he added sternly, pointing to his chest. "Maybe she jus' wanted to help, maybe she was just nosy; either way she made a big damn mess of things. Lord, you should have seen her." he says, his stern face carving a smile. "We were digging that damn paint out of her nose for a week. At the time I couldn't see the humor in it. At the time, I was too focused on what she did to my stuff. I was so damn angry, face scarlet red, the color of the mess of she left behind. It got the best of me and she never stepped foot in that room again. God damn, I regret that. I regret that more than anything else in my life.

"You ain't ever warned that wandering bones get passed down in your family, just like the color of your hair. If you're born with hot feet it's hard to stay still. You can't explain it, you just gotta go. But in order for me to tuck her in every night, I had to let my mind explore; let my hands craft the adventures where my body couldn't go. There's a penalty for that. I shouldn't have shut her out of her own exploring. I should have fed that fire in her. Now, the only memories of me sit high up on that shelf, out of reach and out of touch like I was, collecting dust in a life that's stuck striving for the perfection I taught her that she needed to hit." We were quiet for a moment and the house around us became still.

“If you could speak to her today, what would you say?" I asked softly.

"I'd say that red looks a lot better on her than white. That curiosity is a virtue and imagination is only good if you live through it, not in it.” He wiped a tear rolling down his leathered cheek and added, “I’d tell her that I'm real sorry for the way I chose to stay."

The dream began to fade as the woman continued to place things on the table. I watched her for a final moment as she sat down at the beautiful table she had created complete with a feast fit for the crown. With a slow hand and a quiet sigh, she lowered herself onto the chair at the tables head and laid down a plate for one.

May we be blessed with the courage to embrace adventure today in all it's messy, unpredictable, and creative glory.

Stories of the Dead
Mediumship Channel through Jamie Homeister

Black Widow bit me. She stood 10' tall in my living room, her back grazing the ceiling in rhythm with her breath. She hunched downward, bending her massive frame to meet me face-to-face, perhaps to show me my image reflected a thousand times in her own.

"This is sacred space here," I state firmly. "Only those of the highest and the best are welcome." She didn't move. She didn't flinch an inch. Instead, she held her ground and commanded that I get on her frequency. Her level. I understood very quickly that I had a guest in my home.

"Okay, Grandmother Spider, I see you and I acknowledge your presence. What is it that you want me to know?"

Satisfied, she shrank to the size of a penny and began to climb a single thread of gold.

"All stories of the ancient ones are stored in the threads of the Spider,” she said. "Like strands of your DNA, we hold the records of these tellings and help spin the strands of thoughts into a complex but cohesive structure.

All the great tellings are retellings the Story-makers adapted. The Story-makers must learn to come forth in new ways to reach the people of their times."

The widow spider reached to top of golden silk, a thread tied to the finger of an Abuela in the sky. Grandmother Spider climbed into Abuelas palm; Abuela swallowed her whole. As she opened her mouth a long, pink tongue unfurled. Hundreds of thousands baby widow spiders poured from her belly, crawling down her arms and hands. Each spun their own golden thread and dangled from her fingers, lowering themselves onto the people of the earth.

With the spiders bite, a human would become intoxicated by a gift of Creation; an idea, a solution, or story new to them. Where some acted on this inspiration others stagnated, lulled into stagnation from a false fantasy of perfection, followed by fear of an unjust lost due to theft by the unscrupulous or just poor timing. 

To those who chose to store the idea in fantasy or in fear, the widow spider would bare a red hourglass: their time was up and the intensity of the medicine began to wane. No longer were the perfect words present. No longer was the idea whole. The Spider's toxin, a gift of creation and innovation, had begun to wane from the mind of the living.

To those that honored Spider’s medicine with actions to shape the dream, they would receive more attention and more inspiration until all the singular strands of thought had been spun into a beautiful web capable of nourishing life on its own.