Dreaming in Forest

My body tends to dream in rhythms highlighted from unique movements made during the day… and so last night I dreamt in Forest. 

I scrambled through a dense old-growth forest, blanketed in green, to an opening. The clearing revealed itself slowly, like most good things do, and it was laden with rows of worshippers. It was a diverse group of mystics, people and animals, and my senses revealed I had been looking for them, but was only able to find them in the way you find something without asking for directions. 

It didn’t seem as if I was surprised to locate this worship festival, but as I waded into the clearing the group elicited a low hum. Swaying. Like the spruce tops hemming them in. Sheltering them. The movements were reminiscent of ones I had experienced while sitting atop a pee bucket as our skiff glided along the smooth water of Silver Bay the day before.

The irresistible fray ushered me in, a voiceless welcome, and I joined the swaying worshipers, slipping in between two unrecognizable faces. Smooth, effortless, like the cold body of a trout released to its home stream. And with the same caress in which I release a trout, hands were placed upon my back. Gentle. Warm. The friendly but mysterious touch was an invitation to join the movement. To sway. To sway in rhythm with the words they were chanting, calm and slow. 

When I had arrived in the forest clearing I hadn’t been able to hear any voices, but the elixir of the place bore small sprigs of song, music as small as the needle at the end of a towering hemlock bough. Moving closer I still couldn’t pick up the sound, only the invisible vibration. Mystical but hospitable. Not until I joined the group as a willing participant did I pick up the subtle chant. 

Each syllable was drawn out, emphasized. Bailamos. Bailamos. Bailamos.

And we danced in the spirit of the Divine, ever-present in the old-growth rainforest. Unquestioning, we danced. We swayed among the beloved community of creation, intertwined with Creator who has always been inviting us to join the dance. Natural. A birthright.

In my dream the forest was sacred, the chanting sincere, and I was not a bit surprised to be singing out the Spanish word, bailamos. After waking up, serene and replenished, I found myself searching the faces in my leftover dream. I could not identify anyone, but I am certain I would have found many of my nature mystic heroes. It was the sensation of the experience in the clearing that let me know Howard Thurman had been there. Randy and Edith Woodley had been there. Barry Lopez had been there. Francis of Assisi and Clare of Assisi had been there. The brown bear who inspired me to write had been there. Maia, my old nature loving dog, had been there. I’m sure the edges of the clearing hid the faces of the Great Blue Heron and the levitating hummingbird, and the flittering Kingfisher. But they had been there. 

And for a night worth of dreams, we danced, partaking in the gifts of the sacred forest.