Come with me to the sea . . .

Dreams last night involved being dragged out to see by the undertow. The beach was a familiar one, (and importantly, a lake and not the actual sea–many of my Poseidon dreams take place here). There was warnings of big waves, and there was a storm, and so naturally I was there. The water was all grabby hands and sentient enough to seek my out and drag me down down down.

Is it wrong that this makes me feel loved? This is a huge, huge part of why dream symbolism is so specific to the person. Dreaming of an aggressive sea, and being pulled under the waves, should be terrifying, and in the dream, the actual transition was terrifying. But once under the water, I was introduced to a whole society of People, who spoke to how important the violent water was, from time to time. Dreaming of drowning makes me feel sought out, chosen, held close, beloved, etc.

Much as I’ve enjoyed having dream-Poseidon show up all anthropomorphic in my dreams, dreaming of Him as the sea, as the water, as something that’s not remotely human or even human-seeming, has been comforting in a way that dreaming of Him embodied never is.

A few days ago, when considering the incense holder issue all over again, a solution was found by re-using a baby food jar and some sand, and it become about re-using instead of buying something new, and that was equally comforting. I realized that the ease on my buying-new-and-mass-made-statuary taboo was discomforting, and I don’t like it. I haven’t taken Him up on that; I bought prints, but those have never been off-limits.

Hours at my day job have increased back to 40, and I’m finding that I have less time to write and less inclination to write (fiction) during the week. (Well, what passes for the week for me). So I guess I’m going to be going back to my writing on the weekend* schedule, and that’s going to be good.

I’m knitting socks with some delicious BFL mix in a gorgeous dark blue.

Things are good.

 

 

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