I love this image, but can’t find its source,, apologies to the photographer.
Two nights ago, an enchanting storyteller appeared in my dream. She glowed from within, embodying her yarn with captivating gestures, her eyes saying – you’re loveable. Her whole being was a joyous dance. She flicked her fingers before my father’s face, touching his chin – making him laugh – his freed anima, maybe?
Ah, dreams are wonderful, unpredictable like liquid mercury, living silver flowing into shapes.
It was heart-warming to see my father laugh and absorb the affection, the irreverence, the humour. He did not retreat into silence before the piercing wit of the storyteller. The probe was softened through caring eyes … a miracle.
Alone, I could not have invoked such light-hearted banter with a father, who pulled the drawbridge to his heart ever since I dared to think independently. The dream vision lifted the cloud of my helpless woe.
After the dream, I recalled part of a poem I wrote long ago. Daughters may recognise the patriarchal fault in the lines of this poem, the discrepant realities that want bridging. It’s the same old story that could teach us, in the words of my late teacher, Fazal Inayat-Khan:
‘We are not here to agree with each other, but to create beauty.’
Truth worth seeking springs from the middle of each moment. Evolved individuals don’t see a women as inferior to men. The concept has harmed, and still harms, the psychological growth of both men and woman. Yet the deeply-etched hierarchical system keeps working its mean distortions across the globe.
He rests in stasis – cast in stone,
placed high in a niche
of this grand cathedral.
Sculpture Park, Churt, Surrey, UK
His daughters wake
and dare looking up.
What are they meant to do
with this apostolic vision
in their genes?
Someone tell them now,
tell them how the vacant room
was always theirs to own.
Here – sun streams through
rounded glass – crimson,
amber, cobalt, gold and green
play across crisp white walls.
Here – colours soften light,
a child can breathe deeply,
is free to release stale sorrows
and style fresh dreams.
Dad, we kick your ghost
out of here … no more
bargains with your fear.
What’s the cause of this stasis, so feared – like dying life, or living death? I think it’s war, each new war piled on top of other wars, and the unbearable injustices my father, many fathers, and mothers, were, and still are, subjected to. I shake my head, I nod my head, and somewhere between all contradictions I must accept the inherited traumas of humanity and seek life and joy with each new day.