The Third Shaman

Dream journal: 3 minute read

Something is wrong. For roughly the past month I’ve felt sad, disconnected, listless, apathetic, isolated, anxious, and marginalized from my own life. Wait. I know this.

Holy shit. I’m depressed.

I haven’t been depressed in literally decades. This is not normal. Something is definitely wrong. It’s just starting to dawn on me what the cause might be.

As my waking state of mind becomes apparent, my dreams present a recurring theme, alerting me to what needs attention. Exactly a month after the ayahuasca shaman’s appearance and La Murga, the Dreamworld drops this little gem on me.

6/13/24

Friends and Family

Hamstrung by a surprise Covid relapse, I sink gratefully into a shivering, sweaty sleep at 8:00 pm, eager to leave my body to its own devices for awhile. It’s not long before I’m elsewhere.

From the billowing white canopies overhead, I quickly deduce that I am at the imaginal open-air bazaar Robert Moss has written about. A deep breath confirms it. Horse dung and cardamom. This must be the place.

Barefoot and clothed in snowy linen, I find myself in a narrow stall, squatting like a country chai wallah on a ragged carpet spread over the earthen floor. Before me lies an array of goods, flea-market junk by most standards. This includes rusty things I can’t identify, various animal bones, and an assortment of partially disintegrated Egyptian mummified cats.

They’re all arranged atop a coarsely woven, hooded white cloak, which I instantly recognize as belonging to Gilead. I call this his Druid’s cloak, the one in which he appeared when we performed a healing together shortly after our introduction. I have recently discovered myself in visions wearing this humble yet stately garment.

Glancing up from my wares, I see I have a customer. Moss himself stands before me, cottony white hair falling just below his ears. His spreading midsection is sausaged into a cable-knit vest in varying shades of brown, over a brown shirt. His figure exudes a deceptive air of professorial tweediness. He does not smile. On his chest, suspended from a leather cord around his neck, rests a viper-head pendant carved of cobalt blue lapis inset with lambent white-opal eyes. I am reminded of Whitebear’s lessons on snake magic, the cross-cultural phenomenon of shamanic initiation through snakebite, the initiate transmuting the poison.

I nod to Moss. Sweeping an outstretched arm over my spread of dusty goods, I inquire, “Finding what you’re looking for, sir?”

He squints skeptically at my offerings. He strokes his clean-shaven chin for a moment, musing, then points to Gilead’s mantle. “What do you know about this?”

“Not for sale,” I reply curtly. Of course he’d notice the one thing of value here.

I try to turn his attention to the fusty Egyptian cats. Sunlight glows through the luffing white canvas. Moss frowns. The viper eyes flash opal lightning.

Attempting to sweeten the feline mummy deal I offer, “You’re getting a friends and family discount.”

First the ayahuasca shaman, issuing advice — and a warning. Then Whitebear in the dream Rara Avis, reminding me not to neglect my gifts. Now Moss. I suspect “What do you know about this?” is a real question, rather than an offer to purchase. He’s calling me out. I’ve been using a great gift from the transcendent realms for peddling junk. Gilead is a healer. His gift is for transmuting poison.

I’m the first to admit I’m a notoriously hard-headed student. When three shamans appear within a month of dreams and offer a nearly identical message, is it time to pay attention?

To be continued. . . .

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Photo by Annie Spratt

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