Very often when I write or recall my journeys, dreams and visions then the words just fall out onto the page fully formed as if they live already in another world and I am just opening the door to let them in. It may well be that is exactly what is happening. I feel a very different energy about me when I am writing and a heightened sense of awareness and connection to the deep past so I call these writings Ancient Voices.
Sorting out Dreams. These are an extension of my daily concerns and worries and I can see clearly what issues they relate too and what daily happenings they are born from.
Wake up you have not been listening Dreams. When I first began to ‘wake up’ to Spirit, I had a lot of these dreams which often had common themes. I dreamed of cats or babies that I had put in a cupboard or forgotten to feed or nurture in some way. When I began to consciously work with my spiritual gifts then I had less of these dreams and more waking visions and words that came to me and flowed out through my writing.
Personal Prophetic Dreams. These are ones that have actually come true concerning my own life and that of my family and close friends. I dreamed my granddaughters before their arrival, saw houses that I was to live in and events that were to come and in these dreams I was given dates and shown very clearly places I had not yet been to.
End of the World Dreams. Ever since I can remember I have had these dreams where I have to leave somewhere because of some impending upheaval. I am packing up things I need to take with me, always practical things like camping and survial gear, useful items that will be necessary like food and water and always weapons for hunting and protection. Usually I am having to do this quickly, speed is of the essence and I have to balance the use of an item against its weight and importance. In these dreams I have seen floods and storms and seen the Sun and stars change their positions in the skies as the Earth moved.
Past Life Dreams. The thing I have noticed about these dreams is that there is an absolute clear sharpness about the detail in them and they do not fade like mist if I don’t write them down as soon as I wake up. In these dreams I am me but not me. Often my children, family or close friends are in the dream but again they look nothing like they do now and yet I recognise them.
I have also had several dreams which seem to relate to the most ancient times and in these dreams there is no speach only an awareness of feeling and a visual clarity like even the air itself is new and fresh.
I have seen the greatest warrior that ever lived tear himself out of his grave within the Earth and rise up sword in hand. He threw his shield into the sky and it became the sun and so great was his blade that it was too bright to see, so much of the sun did it reflect.
He threw from him the rocks and earth that had been his bonds and shook his mighty head and roared his battle cry. As he stretched his limbs the rocks flew and the Earth trembled, the seas grew mad and the darkness was torn to shreds to blow away upon the wind.
He bore great scars upon his body, great wounds upon him which had healed in puckered flesh.
He pulled me up onto his horse to ride with him. I feel his strength behind me as I ride, protection at my back, his sword in front.
A journey to return to my people, my place, my life.Waterfalls and rocks. Dark, high mountains. Bears and eagles. Cruel eyes of the Hunter.
“Daughter of the Caldevi, Child of the forgotten ones. Your Soul has blown upon the winds and floated in the seas of time. Your People call to you and sing you home. Gather up the bones of your life and walk to greet them. Stand in the sun of your youth and call back your song. See where you belong, from where you came. Gaze into the pool of Souls and sing yours home to you. Call to us and we will follow across the bridge of time.
Remember now all that you have been. Remember why. Hear the call, the cry of ages. Pull your Soul about you as a cloak, pick up your shield and pull your sword into your hand. Hear it sing. Hear it call. Hold it high. Stand tall and be all that you have forever been. Be again.
Be and become.
“Wings of the Dragon, Protection of the Bear, Circle in the woods, Mist upon the Air.”
I have seen the wave that does not drown, the fire that does not burn.
I have seen the Earth flow green and molten and the seas shine like silver.
I have ridden the Dragon across the skies and seen the Earth awake beneath our flight.
I have ridden the horse through the woods and seen the light upon the trees.
I have lain in clear pools and felt my bones turn with the seasons.
I have stood upon the shore and seen the warriors arrive from out the West. Seen their shields catch the sun, become the light, dazzle all my sight, root me to the Earth, tie me to my heart.
I have seen them come and I have seen them go.
And I have seen the woods awake with the caress of a green hand that stirs the circle and spins life from it. Seen the circle grow and light and life take wing and fly across the land.
I have felt the rising and the falling and the rising once again. Thick green power, strong and dark and sinuous. Clear silver power, bright and sharp and cutting to the heart of all. Golden power, warm and blood and full. Dark power, the ending and the beginning and the end once more.
All bound within the beat of wings, the breath of fire, the Western seas, the land that lies beyond.
The circle of the Dragon that spins life and renews itself across the span of ages. The fire that burns and heals, the teeth that tear and cut, the eye that sees though the doors of time are shut. The Dragon, the circle, the unending and renewing.
It is Winter and the Grandmother sleeps. All about her children creep, hiding from the ice of her cold fingers, fearful lest she wake angry with them, afraid that this time she will not wake and her white hard mantle will lay across the land until the Earth breaks.
But in her sleep the Grandmother turns and dreams. She dreams of warmth to thaw her bones, she dreams of food to fill her belly. She dreams the running water of the streams and the deepness of the wells. She remembers how light are the steps of youth, how fresh the beauty, how full the hope which nothing binds. She recalls the fresh green and gold of the first morning. All these things she dreams and her memories bring to her skin a warm touch unfelt through the long held darkness.
She stretches to free herself from the cold grip of the age. She hears the cry of the newborn and the Grandmother awakes, a smile upon her face. Lightly she rises and dances on the dawn, Grandmother no longer for she has dreamed the Maiden and formed her from her sleep,
“Go Daughter. Dance the Spring from the land, call the energies of the Earth and sing of all that life will bring. Weave new life upon a tired web and dream yourself a new dawn.”
The Maiden knows that all is possible, that life follows death and that we must all dream our future into being. For from her aching limbs and crackling breath did not the Grandmother dream the Maiden who dances for her? As the Maiden will call forth the Mother when the time is right and the Mother will whisper her secrets to the Grandmother when the ages call her. And so they pass from hand to hand, from heart to heart, from breath to breath the Old knowledge, the love and the new hope.
The Old One stirs and sends her cold breath to test her children, to see who will stand and who will flee, who will live and who will die. She tests us and probes with her bony fingers, reaches into our chests and feels the beat of our hearts. Does the beat stay steady or does it race and burst its bounds, flee from her touch? She waits, she tests, she sees and she hears.
The Old One walks upon the land and over the icy wastes rides the Wild Hunt, dragging all with them into the dark of night and endless winds. He teases the Old One, makes her blush and cackle and recall the days supple limbs held lovers tight and black ropes of hair wound about their necks. She rattles her bones at him and laughs and knows he has seen through her guise for she is the Goddess guising. He sees the Eternal Mother beneath the guise of the Crone and is not afeared of her. He knows the Grandmother and she knows him. Together they ride the winter skies.
For what reason have I come out of the ground and ceased my wanderings in the eternal halls of the dead?
Why do I fly no longer on the wind?
Why am I bound to this Earth with heavy limbs and slow?
Why are my dreams and thoughts as mists and whisps blown upon a careless wind?
Why has the sleep of ages ended?
For what reason do I walk once more upon this Earth and bind myself to its troubles?
It is strange to be of this world and yet not. The cares of this world assail me but I know them to be but chaff on the wind. We are as nothing against the Endless Ones and no matter how far we travel it is but a step on the treads of time. But travel we must for to stand still is to die.
Grow or die.
The crow sat upon the roof and called and I heeded her call,
“Come to the hills to meet with the Dark Mother. Sit at her fire and hear her words. You are no longer children. It is time to come into your power but never think it will be easy. If it were then many would be there.
Be sure this is your choice.”