I dreamed I saw myself at the top of a staircase, softly lit, as if by the moon.
I thought I recognized the stairs, as the one that led to my grandmother’s attic, or the one with soft pine treads that opened into the studio where I first practiced yoga.
But no, it wasn’t either of those. It was something better. And at the top of those stairs, I beckoned myself up.
to beckon |ˈbekən|
to make a gesture with the hand, arm, or head to encourage someone to come nearer or follow; to summon (someone) in this way
ORIGIN Old English bīecnan, bēcnan; related to beacon.
From the lighting in my dream, I’m not surprised to discover that the word beckon is closely related to the word beacon, particularly in this aspect of its meaning:
a light set up in a high or prominent position as a guide; “a beacon of hope”
ORIGIN Old English bēacn [sign, portent, ensign,] ; related to beckon .
It’s true that I’ve felt this beacon, this warm beckoning, before—each time I fell in love. From behind the curtains of my highschool auditorium, a stage hand beckoned my heart with his humor; and years later, from the end of a banquet table filled with blue claw crabs, a new waiter became the beacon of a lifetime with his warm eyes.
On both of these occasions, fear followed the beckoning–the fear of attachment to something that can be lost. Long before I was beckoned by these young men, and long before life had personally acquainted me with loss, I began to practice my defense of it.
At first, I practiced the death of my grandmother because I loved her so; and later, when she died unexpectedly, I practiced not feeling anything at all so that nothing like that could ever catch me off guard again.
When I first fell in love, I practiced attracting others so that I would always be assured of “someone”–without needing “anyone.”
Once married, I practiced holding my cards close to my chest so as not to loose the upper hand.
All defenses were lost or abandoned or worthless once I became a mother; and yet, I knew enough to keep other interests alive given that this particular love story always has a sad ending.
With my boys at ten and fifteen, the current of that ending has swept me up in its tide.
To what reckless love then am I beckoned now? And why in the attic?
If I were to use my understanding of the chakras to take this interpretation one step further, I would recognize the attic as a place aligned with the third eye, with spirit, and with self knowing.
That part of me that can’t help but feel attached would attribute this dream to new role that has quickened inside me–coupled with the fear of loosing it from my grasp. This makes me want to find several others positions for which to apply; But this time, I’ve said no to the use of defenses. I want to resist any urge to rehearse in the darkness.
This time, I want to bask in the beckoning of that light–without protecting myself from its glow.
Kelly Salasin, November 1, 2010 pm
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