Last night I dreamed that I was in a dark smokey club somewhere in the region of Basin Street and there, only a few feet away from me, was young Elvis with his bible black hair and sly, shy smile, singing , it seemed, just for me.
I was entranced. Later in another room I had him to myself. He was leaning against a wall, taller than me, pulling me gently into an embrace. Then, as so often happens in my dreams, he pulled away and without a word went into another room, to gaze soulfully out of a window. Then I knew to leave him alone, because being left alone was a precious gift that few gave to him. I abdicated in that loving moment any further chance of the ecstasy that his intimate presence might have given me.
I don’t see Dr Henck any more. Haven’t seen him for years but the memory of my precious sessions with him is still alive. I would opt to lie on the couch, pull the soft blanket over me and tell him my dreams. His gentle voice would answer from somewhere behind my head, empathising, reassuring, urging me to deeper waters, until one day something was released into the room; something so powerful it was palpable and as it dispersed, both of us (I could swear it was both) shed tears of wonder and gratitude. That was the work done. No analysis as such, just a psychic husbandry of some sort, beyond words and the rational mind. Thus something shifted deep in my cells and healing took place.
I had the same feeling as I walked away from Elvis last night. Even in the dream state, it is good to pack up one’s power nice and neat and walk away from the forbidden. To trespass on another’s soul space is not good practice. So icons form a crucible for psychic change and because Elvis burrows deep (for whatever reason) he still carries healing energy, even in dreams.
This morning I wake vibrant and ready for the day. A little guilty around the edges maybe about the post on homeopathy(The Wisdom of the Cells), in which I omitted to mention that allopathic medicine had saved my life. It was back in the 60’s and I was researching native medicine in the Amazon Basin, assisting my soon-to-be husband, who was a Professor of Pharmacology. And there, far from civilisation I fell sick beyond the reach of pharmacology. It transpired that I had an ectopic foetus splitting my fallopian tube and the internal bleeding was sapping me of my vital force. A missionary doctor, who had done a brief internship with a surgeon, saved my life with a scalpel, Dettol, cat gut and the courage born of desperation. There are indeed situations that require allopathic intervention and they are life saving, as darling Mimi will vouch. I needed to say that. The lack of gratitude was snagging on my soulspace.
The days are opening out nicely here in England. The sun is climbing higher and The Warren is boasting fresh carpeting. New beginnings. Hope- full I have bought myself a short(ish) skirt and leggings (black not leopardskin). The over- the- knee boots are out of hiding. I have been in mourning and am now free to flirt again. I love life with its cycles and patterns; its challenges and its losses. Oh and its delights! I love the way my dreams come up on the button. I love the Elvis of my dreams.