The Seventh Direction

PART THREE: Stalking Violet. Episode 34

                                                                         [Old Dorothy narrates —A.A.] 

When I next saw Aces she mentioned eagerly, though warily, how she seemed to be coming into her own with her intuition. We had already talked a bit about what Dreamtime had taught me about intuition (as we so-called it) and how much it was, or should be, a part of our everyday lives. I had told her that my dreams weren't just dreams anymore: that I was beginning to sense/feel my Dreamworld more as a reality, a reality that was extraordinary, somewhat mindboggling, and soon to be my next reality . . . a place from where I could do so much more. "And it's within our sense/feeling-world that intuition develops and guides us to an ability of seeing more in everything and doing more with it," I had said. In league with Great Spirit, it was largely my intuition that was leading me to where I was going, I'd informed her. She seemed to understand.

But when I first told her that within my new reality (in Dreamworld) I was a seventeen year-old woman with all the wit and wisdoms (few as they may be) of the old woman talking to her: with all the memories of everything I had ever experienced (from an early age on, and a few from before, from Long Ago), she looked at me bewildered. However, as I told her more of my Dreamtime stories, I soon realized that she was coming to know the new me, maybe even seeing me in her mind's eye AS the seventeen year-old! Still, I often had heavy-duty dream-experiences that couldn't be shared with Aces. Not in the way that I was experiencing them. No, these things might be a bit too much to handle for a kid just opening up to new thoughts and feelings; they were often too much for me! I had to take care with communicating my stories to her, so that her own feelings and intuition could guide her. Aces, God love her . . .

Then something almost backfired.

I was noticing (a few days later? Hard to keep track) how synchronous the events in my life were becoming, where they were leading me as I grew in and through Dreamtime. Yet . . . it still hadn't gotten any easier for me to get back here! Actually, it got harder for me to leave the New Reality the deeper I went in! Mm-hmm. I'm not yet ready to leave this life. I'm still a bit afraid—and I'd had the thought that the nurse's former mealtime wake-up calls had served the purpose of bringing me back. Not yet ready to leave—not yet finished on this side. That will soon become obvious. There was still a lot of work for me to do  here . . . and Aces was a large part of the picture, and I had information for her, though at the time I hadn't made-conscious what that information was. So it was near disastrous, that idea Aces had—her "awesome" idea that got me over the hurdle of being bothered by staff while I was sleeping/dreaming. For in resolving that problem another problem was created: I would have nothing to help call me back here to finish what needed to be disclosed to Aces; not to mention the work and the sorting out of my dreams (and what not more) to be done here on this side of life, necessary if I were to gain the "fuller" understanding. (Sigh.) Still, my heart had suggested then, that all was as it should be. My mind, all the while, thinking that my time left here (in the thick of the Old World) was growing shorter.

So, we decided to have a telephone put in my room (problem solved) so she could call me at 7:00 p.m. on the nights she wasn't working—till I no longer needed to return. The nurses had thought a telephone somewhat odd, but had humored us. We had felt it somewhat sad as we'd looked at each other, silently acknowledging a time soon coming when we might never see each other again! (Yikes!) Aces and I had held our gaze for a long time, God love her. She and I had been highly connected in that moment . . . I think so, telling ourselves that one never knows ("never knows"), and the sadness soon dissipated, and we moved on to other and better things.

Aces started it, by saying she'd been noticing some unusual occurrences—queried that perhaps her intuition was involved. "Coincidences keep happening," she'd said: like her putting catfood out, and seconds later the pet leaps through the catdoor. Too, her coming up with the idea of me faking invalidity, and as she realizes "yes!" so does the Sun strike her eyes through partly opened blinds in her kitchen. More: "Dorothy, the other day I was sitting having tea and thinking about the foothills, Mom's place, and how much I had loved living there . . . and work," she'd said; and as she opens the morning mail, right there in front of her is a job-opportunity come her way via the nurse's registry she works for. Her eyes had grown wide. A hospital in the area needed help in their trauma unit and had to look outside the area. "No takers," she'd said eagerly, "and it's only forty or so miles from Mom's place!" Apparently the hospital had contacted the Registry, whom thought she was capable if available for the job, and—well, that's when my curiosity got the better of me, and I'd asked when the starting date was. She'd said they had left it open: to give her (Aces) time to think about it, but that she shouldn't take too too long. 

(I'd felt a bit foolish but totally human for asking, and let it go at that . . .)

I had answered her query, best I could, agreeing that maybe her intuition was involved, but that intuition was more than we gave it credit for. I had told her that if I could get into the flow I might be able to speak a dream, or a new-reality vision I had had, that might help her (myself too, I'd said) gain some insight into the larger definition. "Only help." But I didn't say that. I only said how important it was for each person-seeking to find out on their own where their intuition lay, and how they might best access and relate to that part of themselves, themselves. I hadn't intended to, but in the end I ended up telling her that it's the "route" one travels toward their realizing  intuition whereby intuitive-feeling will travel back to them—a similar but different key process  for each and everyone seeking. "This, then, is how I came about my own larger definition—or version—of intuition." I'd said, in attempts to break it wide open:

"There was confusion at first, Aces—inward chaos, bewilderment, when I began to realize my dreams different than to what I was accustom," her brows went up, "especially when I found myself wide-awake in a vast valley of forest. Oh, I knew I'd been there before, love. But I was so disoriented, due my dreaming had changed its pattern, that I felt myself . . . I felt detached from the scenery around me. Not groggy. But dizzy-like, with nothing familiar to hang on to."

I started searching for something ". . . solid," I had told Aces; I'd looked her straight in the eye. With no physical senses working, other than my eyes: no smell, no sound, no feeling of the ground beneath my feet, my search suddenly and surprisingly came to an end as I floated down an old, familiar path (intuition, I guess) and stopped before a thicket, a grassy opening about seven feet square (49 sq. ft.), hidden to any passersby by thick bushes. (All but hidden, I suppose.)

Then I had the thought (image, I'd told Aces ), of myself laying there, and instantly took up the position. I curled up in the sanctuary of thicket, got comfy, and then the real dreaming began. "I felt a calm, peaceful energy in the thicket, love," I'd said: "The deer must have once used it, I think so, for their gentle nature seemed to reach out and comfort me—and it was then that a brand new feeling of dream-sleep came over me, and an angel appeared." I'd told Aces intuitively  that the dream was a teaching dream. Then I'd paused and raised a brow, to see if she remembered our little talk about angels. She'd smiled. (I didn't tell her about the baby deer at the orphanage. The little fawn that lost her mother that I'd brought up, fed milk from a baby bottle, and snuggled with.) 

"I can't say for certain that the angel was Mother Mary," I'd gone on, "but whoever she was, it is she and what she brought to me that this dream is about. Her capabilities, as well. So hang on, dear, we are now seeking our way to a larger definition of intuition. Ready?" Aces had nodded, wide-eyed. (Off to the thicket:)

"Mary's image floated otherworldly above me, love. There above the thicket. She let down her glowing hand, and I took it, and we were off. Speeding beyond my Sunday school lessons, we soon came to hover above village where people (priests, workers, children, all dressed in a biblical-type clothing) were moving about below us. The buildings looked to be worlds apart—they appeared to be immaculately designed, seeming to have strategic arrangement in this foreign yet familiar world. And I'd felt it familiar, so familiar! as angel/Mary left my side, floated down and flooded into a little girl of about six or seven years old." True.

But I hadn't gone on disclosing the story to Aces the way it had come through in Dreamtime. No, the abrupt shifting of scenes, and the new concepts unfolding, and my way of perceiving them, might've been too confusing and might have overridden the gist of the message. At the time, I wasn't sure I could've expressed its complexities, anyway. I'd told her this, and recommenced talking it through with Aces in mind, hoping that she would create her own story round the truth. Or . . . vicy-versa.

First I asked her if she had had a religious upbringing and believed in God. She answered saying that she had had a church life, and: "Dorothy, you know I believe in God!" We'd laughed then, at my needless question and her tone of voice and punchy face telling me so. "Go on," she'd said, got to her feet, looked at me funny, and started wandering my room, her eyes up, searching the upper corner of the room, as if (what?) . . . then she poked a finger, once, twice, three times, at something in the air, and began both hands jabbing at who knows what! 'Shadow-boxing with nothing in particular . . .' 

I'd stayed silent a moment, to gather my thoughts and to enjoy her exquisite footwork. 'Dance like a butterfly, sting like a—'