First, you should know I believe we birth God. She-he springs from our minds like Athena from Zeus' headache. The human mind swells with its need for magic like a belly filled with waters and life.
Or: We shape our gods with our hands. We model clay idols and weave stories. We write books. In the stories we find our myths and truths that overlap. Our art and fiction are the things that live between the lines of our science, that deepen and saturate our existence with color and meaning.
I dreamt that my mother and her sister sat together on Grandma's couch. I went into the room and whispered to my aunt, "Does she know that she was dead? Did she experience lost time?" Aunt P answered without speaking: "Yes but she doesn't talk about it." We accepted that she was Back, and I sat with mom and talked about the holiday meal. We told stories about Grandma, and in the dream she had died in her home, in comfort.
In this dream I am glad my mother recognizes me, because an old woman had taken my skin. She'd switched the outer layer of our bodies by accident when we touched. My skin was 57 years old. There were more wrinkles, finer creases, spots of age, and it was the color of weak tea in a glass. Shades darker than my own skin. Mom would be 57 now, but the old woman wasn't her. She was a woman I know whose life, as I see it, is wholly defined by worry about her children.
The dreamscape shifts, and I'm in a new-age shop, searching for a spell that will trade back our skins. I'm worried and fighting inside with the vanity that makes me covet my younger face. Finally I stop looking. I'm busy helping my friends who own the shop with events for our Holly. (This part is real, though the shop is a dream place. Tomorrow is a fundraiser for her family and all of my Wiccan friends will be there.)
When I am no longer worried about my old skin, my hand begins to peel, and my own skin is under it. I hurry to a mirror and happily peel the skin away, then uncover my face, finding it as I remembered- beginning to age, but soft and healthy.
My adult skin is much nicer now, after pregnancy, than before. The new lines suit me much better than the toxic-looking breakouts from before the baby. It was a long, ugly adolescence.
After the dreams of stolen youth and visiting mom, I dream of Morpheus, the Dream God. In my dreams, of course, he wears the names and mythology of the Sandman. I have asked his sister Death to let me keep Mom. Dream explains that she has denied my request, but that he has decided she can live in the Dreaming. When I learn this, I am beautifully at peace.
I'm feeling this dream truth ripple through me this morning. I am stepping out of my worried skin. I'm starting to let go of the childish, simple ache for mom to have not died. I'm learning peace with her absence and understanding that it's a necessary truth to own. I still mourn hard, almost ten years without her. But it is beginning to change, and to feel different.