Cosmology of a Dream


Cosmology of a Dream

And we woke,
to find we were still dreaming,
and it took time
but now we knew

How vast the empire
populated by warring thoughts
defending against tides of change,
resisting truth to the death

But truth, like light
does not disappear
or surrender
the way we, so tired, can

And when we let truth
slip in to plant its seeds
the dream itself will start to smile
the sweet smile of the free.

Tammy Stone Takahashi


To Catch a Dream


Let something catch your attention.
It has already taken you out of
the stronghold of your tenacious mind.
Give it its due. Look from all angles.
Try to find out what has arrested you:
Colours, shapes, textures, surprises
That give rise to an array of feelings.
It did not scream out to your senses
Because of what it, in essence, is,
But because of who you, uniquely, are.
Let it be your starting point, your guide,
As you go inward, as a scientist would,
To observe the foundations of your self.
What makes you sing? Cry? Laugh? Hope?
What brought you here? Who is the dreamer?
What is the dream? Where will it take you?
How have you been hurt on the path of life,
And who have you hurt, what are your regrets?
Excavate the marrow, the heart, the blood
That connects you to your ancestral tribe,
The womb of your mother, the great deep blue,
Find the dance that spans generations
And culminates in your life’s expression,
Free, always free, you must fight for this,
For the truth in the discoveries you have made.
Now, with this great determination of truth,
This intimate encounter with your lovely self,
Turn back to the world. You are ready to see.
It is ready is ready to be seen. Magic begins.
– Tammy Takahashi

My Dream of the Sun


In my dream this morning,
I was in the ocean, maybe waist-deep,
with another woman, and there were
children all around.
Without warning, it seemed,
the sun was before us,
not looming or hovering, exactly,
but larger than life, or rather,
filling the very edges of our existence,
magnificent but not blinding
in its fierce yellows and oranges.
I’m not sure if we were supposed
to be there, so close to the sun;
I didn’t feel I was always meant to be there,
but I didn’t feel like an intrusion, either.
Maybe it’s just how it was, in that moment.
The sun sliced through the water,
where I imagined it submerged,
arriving from the other side of the world,
gaining strength and momentum
from the seahorses and mermaids
and all the other creatures we’ve
seen and imagines and hoped for.
No sooner was it hovering, briefly,
right in front of us, never burning
us with the heat that fuels the world,
than it rose, quickly but not rashly,
like an eagle soaring in the sky,
like a butterfly zipping between
the flowers of her sustenance,
upward, so high, it knew where to go.
I looked up, astonished, and exclaimed:
Wow! Is this how it happens everyday,
if you are close enough for it?
– TT


june 20




Imagine the life you’re living now and simultaneously, the legend it has somehow already become. You know this because you can feel it as you are, where you are. You can see the future as real as a painting changed because of your life and its story. Do you know this state of things? For me, it’s being curled up in a rocking chair, or maybe a leather armchair, with a crocheted blanket hugging my legs. I’m drinking some kind of detox herbal tea which I finally enjoy more than coffee, maybe with clove in it, and I’ve added lime to it because I learned in Southeast Asia that lime makes many things taste better. I might be old, with most of my life behind me, but I get the feeling that this is me, now, that I’m waiting for the phone call that will change my life, ignite the legend that everyone already knows about because the world feeds on folklore now as it always has. But what is it? What is this legend that has already been written? The phone rings but I’m caught up with a cloud outside my window and I don’t answer it. I can see it through the window. In it there is a field, and the burnt yellow of its ground tells me it’s autumn. I turn around and see a vintage poster of The Wizard of Oz hanging behind me. Its predominant colour matches that of the field in the cloud outside my window. And then I appear. I run through the field, my long curly hair flying behind me. Soon after two other women come into view. We’re all laughing, like we know we’re in a cloud. We stop under an enormous Banyan tree and catch our breath for a moment. Then the second woman, a dear friend from the looks of it, starts to sing in a certain beautiful, unique way until a large branch begins to descend to the ground. It’s an invitation. Bemused but enthralled, I climb the branch and it’s a lot longer than I would have thought. It’s certainly not going into the centre of the tree, where other branches would grow out from the trunk. I walk and I walk; it feels like I’m in a forest. But the sky is red and the animals don’t look like any I’ve ever seen. “It’s okay, look up,” the third woman says. We’re all walking together now. I look up and as I do, the sky begins to break up. The red scatters and falls away to the sides like curtains at the theatre. What I can see now is an endless row of rope ladders, and three of them come down. “Ah,” I say. We climb the ladders, roll up our sleeves, and prepare to drop all the others down for the rest of the world.