Tag Archives: dreams

Oh, my dears. It’s been a long week. And it is Friday night. The sky is dark, the moon is traveling past the stars, and much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.

In Alfheimr, home of the Light-Elves and one of the Nine Worlds of Old Norse mythology, the erter vinter (winter peas) dwell. These tiny elves sing and fly through the heavens on the dreams of dead animals. They smell like salt and when they sing make whistling and tinkling sounds like bells and chimes in the wind. They are happy beings and welcome spirits to heaven with a warmth that seems unfathomable for a Norwegian winter.

Here on earth, we live with the Dark-Elves, creatures dark as pitch and thick with evil. It is easy to become mired in their darkness, to believe the terrible things they whisper, and this is exactly what they want.

As is written in the eddic poem Gylfaginning:

That which is called Álfheim is one, where dwell the peoples called Light elves [Ljósálfar]; but the Dark-elves [dökkálfar] dwell down in the earth, and they are unlike in appearance, but by far more unlike in nature. The Light-elves are fairer to look upon than the sun, but the Dark-elves are blacker than pitch.

Yes, the erter vinter are tiny. And yes, they are silly and happy creatures that could easily somersault across the palm of your hand. But they battle the dökkálfar each and every day. They ride on clouds of otter dreams, singing songs to remind us of the simple strength of the snowflake and to remind us that our world is beautiful and that we are each loved. The dökkálfar are fierce and impressive, but the erter vinter are fiercer.

And they’re cute, too.

The next time you succumb to the insidious whispers of the dökkálfar, take a moment to listen for the chimes and bells that are the songs of the erter vinter. Take a deep breath of the salt in the air that means the erter vinter are near. Let their soft songs seep into your subconscious. It can be warm even in the coldest winter.

Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.

Oh, my dears. It’s been a long week. And it is Friday night. The sky is dark, the moon is traveling past the stars, and much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.

On bluffs high above a rough grey sea, The Bird watches white caps grow and break. The Bird is thoughtful; thoughtful when it walks, foot in front of foot, along the beaches at dawn. Thoughtful when it sinks below the surface of steaming hot springs in the winter, when the air is so cold that breath crystallizes on our lips. The Bird is thoughtful when it dries its wings in summer breezes, letting each feather flutter just so. But The Bird is not thoughtful when it dreams at night, safe in a nest that is both above and below danger.

For in sleep, The Bird does not think. The Bird does. It changes shape so that it can race caterpillars up rose stems, brilliantly colored and vibrantly energetic. It warbles opera like a diva, changing timbre to scat along with Ella or Cab. It dives from sheer cliffs, spinning through water and earth like a great drill. It drinks mugs of magma and dips its toes in erupting volcanoes. It dances with tornadoes and dines with Plato in Atlantis, seated on settees made of shipwrecks.

You would not know this, looking at The Bird. Thick browed and nearly silent, The Bird will fool you. Unwittingly, it will fool you. It stands on bluffs high above a rough grey sea. It does not speak of its dreams. Tell The Bird of your dreams. Sink below the surface of hot springs in winter. Let your breath crystallize on your lips and hide within the steam. Get your wings wet and let them dry in summer breezes, making note of each drop as it evaporates and becomes something new.

Then, when you sleep, dance with devils, race the rain, slurp up stars and do. Be The Bird.

Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.

It’s time for bed here in the old house on the back of the hill in deepest, darkest Brooklyn. The jellyfish are swimming lazily in their room, the MoodPaper is pulsating a nice lavender hue, and the dragons are done with their Thursday fire-antics. Bubo is off hunting beneath a waxing crescent and I am ready to dream the dreams of dreamers.

This video should help your mind adventure in the shadowy space. Tell me about your dreams in the morning, won’t you?

Gulp. The world’s largest stop-motion animation shot on a Nokia N8. from Nokia HD on Vimeo.