World Dream Bank: SOULBOARD

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SOULBOARD

Dreamed 1989/1/12 by Chris Wayan

My horse runs on damp sand,
under East African glare:
a riftlake shore.
In that vast and endless clean,
we come to a spot
where something's wrong.
But what?
My merely human mind
is spirit-blind:
I only scent the crisis
My horse can see.
He must solve it,
yet he looks to me!
Why?

Kilimanjaro on the horizon.

When out of the bush
The lion-head rose--
Terror-flower!--
Gunless I snarled
"Stand! Hide your fear!"
He reared, defied,
slashed air
with a scythy hoof.
That lion backed off.
My horse faces a lion

When a wildfire corraled us,
Horse wide-eyed, in Hell,
As flame slunk inward,
grinning for the kill,
I saw the nearest hungry wall
was thin! "JUMP!" I howled
and my horse leapt through
light's fangs, to life.
Danced on smoky ember-eyes.
Being brave for me
saved his life. Our lives.
So, he trusts my discipline.
But here he has to lead the way.
I can't see the hazard:
It's off reason's turf.
Now, his obedience is crippling.
Now, the shore-waves rippling
cast up a soul-board,
passed hand to glassy hand
over the sinuous creamy sand.

my horse faces a wildfire

A long driftwood oval
holds my soul, my horse's soul.
In the warm lakewater,
Vermin have gnawed it,
Bored it near death.
Coiled wormy scars
bite at its breast.
"Termites of Tame," says a Voice,
and I know it's true.
Our spirit's eroded, though putty or new
Bark fills the deepest holes
Discipline gnawed:
A half-healed soul!
Termites of tame. Over-ridden!
He's paid such a price for courage:
Turns ears away from urge,
To listen to my voice.
How do we heal a soulboard?
First, it matters where

My Aboriginal soul-board floats in, somewhat gnawed away
the wounds and wouldn'ts are.
If the edges, not the heart,
the board may chip--but stand.
If only I'd concentrated more
on our soul's hurt core...
left the damn rim for last,
instead of impartially
salving every scratch--
Too late. We'll see.
See if our soul
will snap
or bend
or stand.
I can help his trial
If only I'll:
See with horse eyes,
Shut up, sniff, and hear,
Fear what I fear,
Refuse to press on,
Kick bravery away,
And really wallop reason.
Sidle up to mares, but run
If they stink or they make fun.
Eat what my gut calls good crude food,
Never EVER work except in the mood,
And laze around where it's warm.
Oh, and bite authorities on the sly,
Then run like an African storm.

My horse rears

NOTES NEXT MORNING

Horse, African lake: I just read Beryl Markham's biography "West with the Night"--before she became a pioneer aviator, she rehabilitated a ruined racehorse on a Kenyan lakeshore. Flew along the sand...
The soul-board is an Australian not African institution: the carved board holding a people's collective soul. But private: it dies if strangers see it. Then the tribe is doomed to fade.
Fixing a soulboard with putty is not accepted shamanic technique. Hokey. Hopeless. Yet...
My soulboard half-healed! Even souls exposed to vermin like colonialists can heal. No guarantees, but if you learn to trust your horse--no, if your horse learns to trust your horse...

LISTS AND LINKS: Africa (Kenya?) - horses - lions - fire - out of control! - instinct - fear - down with hierarchy! - weird dream devices - symbols & icons - the soul - termites - healing from abuse - freedom - shamanism - pure digital art - dream poems

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	My horse runs on damp sand, under East African glare: a riftlake shore. In that vast and endless clean, we come to a spot where something's wrong. But what? My merely human mind is spirit-blind: I only scent the crisis My horse can see. He must solve it, yet he looks to me! Why?
	When out of the bush The lion-head rose-- Terror-flower!-- Gunless I snarled "Stand! Hide your fear!" He reared, defied, slashed air with a scythy hoof. That lion backed off.
	When a wildfire corraled us, Horse wide-eyed, in Hell, As flame slunk inward, grinning for the kill, I saw the nearest hungry wall was thin! "JUMP!" I howled and my horse leapt through light's fangs, to life. Danced on smoky ember-eyes. Being brave for me saved his life. Our lives. So, he trusts my discipline. But here he has to lead the way. I can't see the hazard: It's off reason's turf. Now, his obedience is crippling. Now, the shore-waves rippling cast up a soul-board, passed hand to glassy hand over the sinuous creamy sand.
	A long driftwood oval holds my soul, my horse's soul. In the warm lakewater, Vermin have gnawed it, Bored it near death. Coiled wormy scars bite at its breast. "Termites of Tame," says a Voice, and I know it's true. Our spirit's eroded, though putty or new Bark fills the deepest holes Discipline gnawed: A half-healed soul! Termites of tame. Over-ridden! He's paid such a price for courage: Turns ears away from urge, To listen to my voice. How do we heal a soulboard? First, it matters where
	the wounds and wouldn'ts are. If the edges, not the heart, the board may chip--but stand. If only I'd concentrated more on our soul's hurt core... left the damn rim for last, instead of impartially salving every scratch-- Too late. We'll see. See if our soul will snap or bend or stand. I can help his trial If only I'll: See with horse eyes, Shut up, sniff, and hear, Fear what I fear, Refuse to press on, Kick bravery away, And really wallop reason. Sidle up to mares, but run If they stink or they make fun. Eat what my gut calls good crude food, Never EVER work except in the mood, And laze around where it's warm. Oh, and bite authorities on the sly, Then run like an African storm.