The Stories Need Mending

I have been unable to write for the blog since the last post in March. I tried and tried and weird things kept happening from losing text to glitches of all kinds. Finally, I witnessed the blog and got that I would be shown in good time when to resume but it would probably be after the presidential election. So I've been waiting for signs. A powerful dream last night seems to be the sign. Here goes:

Dream: I am in the 'Story Vault', a repository of all the stories of humankind and even the whole universe. It is like an enormous, dark, empty-seeming bank building. Not at all an orderly place like a library. Instead, it is full of holographic fragments darting to and fro, flashing past me in the dark.

They move so quickly I can't make out what they are. I am frightened. It feels dangerous and anarchic. I strain after the flashes: a whitish partial face, an animal galloping at a distance, can't make out what it might be. I wonder, is this what the Story Vault is always like? Or are we in a time of such chaos and change that the Story Vault has been shaken to it's core. I awake, surprised to find the world retains its orderly shape.

I decide to use Active Imagination to 'dream the dream onward':

The Story Vault is open and we are all granted entrance. I find a spot in a corner. It feels good to lean against a wall. Flashes of images dart and fly by. Some are silent others make a whistling sound. I stay quiet and wait as my eyes become accustomed to the dark. The temperature is cool and there is the scent of moist earth, the sound of leaves stirred by a light breeze. My hands begin to tingle and pulse. There is a wedge of sensation in my neck below my right ear. Now my feet are tingling too. My breath is even and light. I feel a warm light pulsing gently up my spine. It flows to my optic nerve and gradually my eyes are illuminated. They cast light into the dark space. I move my head slightly, right and left in a slow sweep of the interior. Gradually I can focus and see. From a long way off a train whistle sounds and a light resolves into the front of a locomotive. The train and its cars are not solid but are a filigree of light, dancing photons, lacework momentum. "The industrial past" says a gentleman in a brocade vest and gray suit. He tips his hat and disappears into the inky dark that folds into the space left by the departing train. A pinpoint of light blinks out in the distance.

A chorus of chanting, faint and far off. I strain to hear it. Horse hooves clatter on cobblestones. Closer now, the chants emanate from a group of women of all ages in white shroud-like garments. What are the words? No words, sounds: 'Lo oh oh oh low way low a you low away lo oh oh way'. Comforting. I rise up, thinking to ask where they are  elderly crone with oak leaves in her long hair fixes me with her kind gaze.  Like a ribbon into my mind from hers: 'The stories need mending,' come along and join us....