walrus dream
and the material bridging of aliveness
I am in a faerie forest, and everything—tree, rock, hillside, path—is a formation of moss.
Thick, ancient, and singing.
I stand, submerged in the lush green, my legs enveloped in porous spongy earth.
To take a step requires a full lifting up and out of my body. I can still hear my giggles. And the choir of elves around me.
I look up and there he is—a walrus.
His head as tall and wide as the landscape in front of me. Brownish gray, bright round eyes, long banana-shaped tusks reaching low beneath the moss.
I think of Snuffleupagus. You’re a snuffleupagus walrus! Wait, why are you here? I’ve never met a walrus before. I don’t even think about walruses.
I realize I’m inside a dream and I reach out to my angels, please, oh please, let me remember this dream.
I look down, my body waist-deep in folds of moss, and turn to look behind me—baby walruses. A tumble of small wiggly bodies and tufts of whiskers.
Hmm. Big walrus. Baby walruses. Me in between, held snug in a blanket of moss. I consider a worry but don’t feel it.
The walrus doesn’t move or speak. He only watches. It feels like he is smiling.
I look to my left and see a ravine, a chasm within the moss, too wide to cross. On the other side there are children, human children, lots of them, playing, laughing, jumping, squealing.
An arm reaches across and takes hold of my hand. I’m pulled up and out and over to the other side.
I’m held in a shimmer. Soft and slow and quiet. A place inside a place. It is vast. And full. Full of what I sense but cannot see.
The walrus appears. His head, fluffy, full and whiskered, each eye a perfect circle of crisp white light, and those tusks, two marble columns, curved strong arms for holding on.
I smile and say, thank you.
There is no next or ever after. A perfectly complete, simple slice of scene. And the gift of remembering this dream.
This dream that traveled the walrus to me and me to the walrus.
He stays close. As I write this, he spans the space across my studio.
Whenever he appears (many times a day), he fills the whole frame of what my human eyes can see.
I’m submerged in the moss of his presence.
His eyes are always open (he doesn’t blink).
He is still and steady. A warm cloak, but not around me. In front of me.
An enormous walrus is my aperture.
The only thing I can do is laugh and stretch into the promise of his eyes.
He shows me what is real and one step away.
He is not a symbol, not a metaphor.
The walrus is alive—a breathing bridge, story, seed, prayer, and friend.
There are bridges everywhere in this vastness we are learning to see (again).
Bridges of aliveness waiting for us to say hello, delighting in our surprise, and reaching out their hands for us to hold.
Thank you, Walrus.
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In love and gratitude, Melissa
