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  • Writer's pictureLoveday Funck

How We Connect in Our Dreams

Updated: Nov 3, 2021

Artists want to sell art on the internet. The best way is to they tell an engaging story about their art piece, something about how the purple flowers bring back warm memories of their childhood spent frolicking in their grandmother's garden or how the rustic barn they've painted conjures up images spent in endless summer meadows and breathing good, clean country air.

I can't do that. I'm a surrealist which means my art is basically just weird. I work with a lot of dream imagery which can be harder to connect with on the plane of nostalgia. I like to think my work inspires imaginative thought and play. I like to think it makes the viewer think, to connect with something deeper. I do know that the people that like my art, really like my art, but most people are always just going to think I have one heck of an imagination. Maybe. Or maybe it's something a lot bigger than me.

After years of the constant ping of emails and Facebook, I know that I don't have the concentration power to read and comprehend like I once did, but after many brief info articles and You tube videos, I want to think that I have a basic grasp of the Collective Unconscious, as originated with Carl Jung.

Short version: the Collective Unconscious is this storehouse of universal meaning and symbolism that we share as the common species of humanity.

I really like the idea of that. I would love to believe that the polar bear that keeps opening my kitchen window to steal my spatulas is the same one teaching you to roller skate in the cosmic nebula. We share that: that polar bear and it's meaning.

What else might we share? In my dreams, sometimes, I return to the same place, visit with the same people, am shown the same imagery over and over again. I know that there are things I need to learn, that I need to understand on a deeper level. I will keep going back until I do.

Deep in the forest, in a land covered in snow, in the Always Cottage, lives the Eternal Crone.

She's always dressed in voluminous black, a shapeless robe with the hood worn up or down. Her features are worn and wizened with the years. Her hair is thick, long and white. She is the Eternal Crone.

She always seems pleased to see me, no matter what guise I arrive in. She's always busy, chopping carrots and potatoes for the stew that simmers in the large pot bellied cauldron in the fireplace.

By the hearth fire sits a dark haired girl, cuddling a small brown rabbit. The rabbit seems unconcerned that sometimes the Crone is preparing rabbit for the stew.

The Crone never volunteers information, although she will provide answers to specific questions. The truth must be worked for. She won't dole it out like sweets to a spoiled child.

It's cozy and comforting by the fire. Sometimes the Crone will throw her bone runes. One visit she insisted that I learn to make my own. The future is always in a state of flux. Free will and, always, free will if you are brave enough, and if you are strong enough.

It always seems to be twilight in the Always Cottage. The Crone strings intricate mobiles of bones that clink eerily in the evening breeze. The carrion crows sound their caw in the endless half light.

Just as the rabbit is a promise of new life and the eternal rebirth of potential, death is a constant presence; the essential balance in the cycle of life.

There is a purpose and shape to our journeys and our dreams. I try to explore that in my work. I want to find those connections to something deeper that we might all share. No matter what face we wear or what skin we wrap ourselves in, the Eternal Crone will always welcome us and allow us a place by her fire.

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