On Norway Time 1 + Camilla Wells Paynter: Writes, Dreams n Owls

Hi there! Sorry I’ve been away for so long. My honey and I visited Norway for 3 glorious weeks. Then there was one heck of a hangover to recover from, in terms of having experienced first-hand a safe, clean, g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s land where taxes and laws actually allow all of its citizens to prosper. I’m still reeling over seeing a cradle-to-grave free health care system that includes the right to choose, free prenatal care, not to mention a year off for new mothers and 3 months leave for new fathers. Anyone who is disabled, including oldsters, has secure housing. Education is paid for. Mass transit works. Pollution is so low that one is encouraged over and over to drink tap water. Crime rates are low. Political divisions, bigotry, and our mounting number of people without homes are nothing compared to what we’re undergoing in the U.S. My mind continues to explode over all the ways that being relieved of our myriad stressors could improve our lives and relationships. It’s no wonder that Norway ranks far higher than us for happiness and infant mortality!

(Note: all posts about our visit to Norway are here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here and here.)

In the meantime, I’ve been hard at work on my site. Whereas I’m on WordPress’s “Personal Plan,” their tutorials are either overly basic or they’re geared toward more costly plans that allow for plugins, as opposed to just widgets. Surely I’m not the only WordPress blogger who finds selecting a theme to be an utter time suck of a nightmare. In a perfect world, one could search through their themes by more than merely the very broad categories that they provide.

Hopefully, as a result of toiling over this site, it functions smoothly and more straightforwardly. Please let me know if you find it to be otherwise.

Now onto today’s guest blog post. Blogger/poet/writer/artist Camilla Wells Paynter has been beyond patient about waiting for me to get back to blogging. She describes herself as “A life-long student of the Dreamer’s art.” For several years, she studied with a Sámi-born medicine man — the Sámi are indigenous to the Arctic and Sub-Arctic regions, including Norway — as well as Robert Moss’ School of Active Dreaming. She regards her personal experience of the mystical as the truest form of knowledge.

Click here for her book, The Shadowdancer: Field Notes of a Psychic Naturalist, in serial form right here on WordPress.

Wind Under My Wings: What I Learned from Dreams and Owls by Camilla Wells Paynter

I awaken from a dream with words of clear instruction: It isn’t just that you create art, it’s that art creates you.

I had bought into the cultural view that nothing productive or socially useful comes from art, so like a lot of creatives, I worked at office jobs and adopted a different persona, one more likely to gain the approval of others. Now the dreamworld was knocking at my door again, urging me to accept that my art and my self are inseparable.

Later that day, I’m running trails in the woods. With each automatic pound and spring of my feet, each rhythmic breath, I experience a wonderful euphoria – the “runner’s high” – and my mind wanders in contemplation of this dream. I recall how I’ve been finding many barred owl feathers. I’ve come to learn that in my personal dream language, the feathers of the barred owl represent my intuitive and creative gifts. Lately these feathers have been dropping out of the sky and onto my path, both in the forest and in my dreams.

I’m deep into this reverie, when my cadent footfalls approach the ancient tree I refer to as the Mother Maple. Coming alongside the grove, I make a quick, impulsive decision to pull over.

Nearing the tree, I hear a strident “pip-pip-pip!!” The alarm call of robins echoes through the forest.

“Why are the robins sounding a warning?” I ask, placing my hand on the tree.

The answer comes in a subtle wuff.

Turning my head upward in the direction of this new sound, I see her. A young barred owl. She is at most four feet away. She fluffs her feathers and stares straight at me.

The scene has the appearance of something mythic – the immense, grandmother tree, her burled umber bark, velvety mosses and dripping ferns draped over networks of twisting branches that overhang the forest like a mantle of green lace. And now, perched on a blanket of moss atop a massive gnarled branch, an owl.

The bird scrutinizes me for a moment. Then, instead of flying away, she makes a flap and a hop two feet or so closer. I’m stunned. The owl wants a better look. Sticking her head out in the weird way owls can, she tilts it to one side and regards me with her huge, catlike eyes. She strikes this pose directly above me. I could reach up and touch her.

We have a real moment, the owl and I, observing each other for a long time. She begins to make hissing sounds, reminiscent of a frightened cat. Later I will learn that these soft, close-proximity vocalizations are associated with nesting, mating, or asking for food. They’re the owls’ tender speech.

As I’m speaking quietly to the owl, I slowly remove my hand from the tree. She watches the trajectory of my hand carefully, following my movement with her entire head – owls can’t move their eyeballs in their sockets. Though vigilant, she does not fly away.

The robins are still going ballistic. One of them dive-bombs the owl, who ruffles up to deflect the smaller bird. Shrugging the robin off, she remains on her perch just above my head. She is invested in being here.

I am deeply touched. I haven’t just found a feather, instead, an entire owl has found me. I know the owl has come for a purpose, to bring her message in person. I thank her and pronounce to her out loud these words, “I am an artist. I will speak for you, and I will believe in my dreams.”

I made a promise.

Our communion continues as the owl and I converse softly, each in our own language. Prolonged direct eye-contact is usually a sign of aggression in the animal world, so periodically I glance down to show her that I mean no harm. Once when my eyes are toward the ground, I feel a cool, oddly isolated breeze. When I look up, the owl has flown to a branch farther away, perhaps to another tree, though in the web of branches it is hard to tell where the Mother Maple ends and her children begin.

I now hear a group of runners approaching. The owl has already heard them. I take my cue and disappear onto the trail so as not to draw attention.

The breeze I felt was the wind of her wings on my face.

Have you ever had other-wordly experiences with non-human creatures? Daily, my dog teaches me how communication can transcend speech.