Ferryman

Charon the boatman has a very defined task.

Newly lost souls
One side of one river to another.
Deposit.
I recall him depicted as callous, cold, darkly-clad bones, perhaps emaciated. Indifferent and uncaring.
All those things we, still round and warm and breathing, might associate with the shore of the stony waters at the end of life.

After all, by that point, anything that can be carried must be left behind.

This business of living though
makes me wonder.

Because I've also sent so many on.
Not to death, I hope, of course.
But, to their other lives. The person they'll be tomorrow. The place they'll be next year.
The soul the universe is helping them become.

And I did it, never in callousness,
sometimes in confusion or conflict
sometimes with fear
sometimes in ignorance
often in sorrow,
even when with gratitude,
always with love
always with love

And many have also sent me on before.
Guided me patiently over my own rivers, to my other side,
where they set me down
and I go on
alone
but hopefully not without memories

I've crossed many rivers,
oceans even
at the patient hands of those who
whether in ignorance or wisdom
waited, led, or advised
until I climbed out onto my own path
extending from the other side
and began my journey
away from them
toward another river.

It makes me wonder:

If perhaps this business of living
might be a sort of many-transfer shuttle.

We humans live many lives in one lifetime.

It makes me wonder if this might be life:

A series of drawing near enough to see others closely enough
To love them enough
to

guard them when they can barely stand,
witness them through their valleys,
wait with them across their rivers
send them on when they reach their shores,

To love a pilgrim soul
is to journey with it
and then send it on to become itself.

It's an uncomfortable love
that stays with me like a companion,
consoles me,
as they go.

Instead of coins
I hope they keep my memory behind their eyes
I hope they don't forget the me that was.
As I turn and step uncertainly
into my next boat

looking up and being recognized
by a loving
sorrowful
peerless
Charon

After Easter

I suppose the trick to things that come back to life
is perhaps they
haven't died

Just,
it was cold.
And so they hid themselves.

We all do what we can
and when.

This .... Dream

I think there are dreams we can wake ourselves up from.


When you learn lucid dreaming, the first step is to observe.
Observe because your dreams give away patterns, cues.
You try to notice when a pattern is happening, and this is your trigger
Your trigger to ask yourself: is it real?

I always fail this question.
I convince myself that it is, even when it isn't.
I still can't lucid dream.

But I noticed that being awake,  the same things happen.
There are patterns, cues; I find myself making the same assumptions about people, about myself
When I know my patterns, I can ask: is it real?

Maybe it's also a dream. The kind you can wake up from or choose to steer differently.
I suppose much of life is a layering of these dreams that recur until we can observe them.
Even if you don't know how to wake up, the next question can be: is this the dream I want to have?