I spent the evening with my benefactor; my teacher, my shaman.
He is an Hablador. A Storyteller. A very rare type of shaman who heals with words, and the spaces between words, and the spaces between us and our shadows and our light.
I can feel that I am still not completely back from this Space, this non-ordinary reality. The Dreaming. Walking Between Worlds. These words and this cadence are not mine. They are from the ancestors; passed down through energy and breath and laughter and tears. The language so old it lives in the rocks, in words so old they have been polished into brilliant silence.
The Dreaming is not something that can be explained with words, because there are no words to describe the chaos and the quiet and the heat and the waves of energy that make this place live.
Regular People think the Dreaming happens in horizontal, nighttime sleep situations. They think lucid dreaming is the same as working in the Dreaming. It's not at all.
Lucid dreaming is good, but the Dreaming I'm talking has nothing to do with lucidity and everything to do with primal instincts that rise up out of your mouth like snakes and give you the words; the answers to the questions you have never heard.
You slip through the wormhole of the Nagual, and you are in the Dreaming, where everything and nothing happens in a single moment that lasts forever.