That’s right, it is the celebration in honour of Dis, amplified to honour all female ancestors in Scandianavia’s strong heritage of leading ladies. Hardly thinking of it, I dressed nicely and met a friend who suggested I change clothes if we are going to spend time with cats at the shelter. That was the plan: spend the day hanging out with cats at the animal shelter, and then close the day with a little feast, after which I would do my usual tree meditation. I work night shift at a residence and can’t drink mead to celebrate occasions such as the assembly of Dis, so instead I pulled out my tea stuff:
(To be clear, I wasn’t working during Thorrablot and my buddy & I went fullscale on the mead. Neither do I abstain nor do I imbibe excessively; the Havamal is clear on overindulgence.)
Back to my donning of new clothes. I pulled a t-shirt from her chest of drawers, giving little thought to the image of a skeleton in Harley Quinn’s hat and a Ouija board theme. We spent the whole day with all sorts of cats at the shelter. I was even befriended by a tabby named Malibu, who I nicknamed Mal. We were saddened at three pm when the shelter closed and we had to part.
I lounged about my friend’s house and did little but chat with a stranger online about the situation on the Korean peninsula. After feasting, I drove to my spot and communed with the tree that welcomed me. Her name is now Mal.
I set up my tea as usual and buckled in for the long haul. I would be working at this residence for 24 hours and phasing in and out of the early morning fog. The gift was waiting when I awoke, my account of a dream that went like this:
I’m in a house that reminds me of my childhood home. Several people come and go for what seems to be an atypical party. People find places to sleep, but by morning, everyone has left. I knock on the door of the room where my grandparents used to sleep. I ask who is in there, and there is only one person, but I can’t see her face. I offer to make us breakfast and she tells me she still has her makeup on and she’s ready to go, but if I’m making breakfast, she stick around. Her makeup is garish and harlequin. She says she’ll make me crazy. I wake up.
On the shirt I’m still wearing, the one I slept in, the skeletal Harley Quinn beams. The Ouija words read, Crazy Love. This dream links the past with the future, as if the discernment between the two is unimportant. Am I five or thirty-five? Am I loveless, or caught in love’s death-grip? Is my repulsion attractive? What in this life have I signed up to do? There are no wisdoms from this dream. There are only questions. I can’t get that harlequin face out of my mind. It’s both terrifying and enticing. My eyes slowly close now, and I wonder if tonight’s dream will be behind the scenes, or if it will force me to ask questions for which I have no reasonable answers.