As I have been building this digital space, I find myself thinking about what it means to trust the process of our own evolution. Sometimes, our spirits understand where we are going long before our logical minds catch up.
Recently, a dream came to me—urgent, a bit violent, but beautiful. I woke up with the vivid sensation of having been a human who needed to find a wild, ancient power to survive a sudden crisis.
As I ponder the symbolism now, I realize this dream is a blueprint for everything I want this blog to be. It is an illustration of owning one’s power to rest in The Quiet of a spring day, to shift Boldly into our strongest selves when tested, and to Fearlessly confront the hard forces that try to diminish us.
Here is that dream, written down as I felt it.
I was taking it easy. It was spring, the early-blooming time of the year. The cottonwood trees were shaking their puffs of cotton on the air, white down drifting like silent thoughts. The willows were coming out in golden-tinted green, weeping over the bank. Mother Earth was stirring and urging on the awakening new life bursting within her. From their hideaways, animals and birds were peeping curiously, tasting the warming air.
Needing fuel to start my fire, I went out to gather dry wood, the snap of twigs a satisfying rhythm. Out of pure joy in the beautiful spring day, I began to sing.
I walked to the river’s edge where the earth was baked dry and hard. Spring rains had not yet come. I started across the stones of the empty riverbed, my boots clicking against the sun-warmed gravel.
Looking up the river, I noticed how peaceful it was—just a gentle trickle winding through the valley, a silver thread in the sand. I thought of turning back to my camp, but it was such a beautiful day. Wanting to feel the wide-open space, I decided to keep exploring.
As I continued across the riverbed, I began singing again, my voice echoing off the canyon walls. Suddenly, I heard an ominous roar.
What was that? I looked up. There was not a cloud in the sky. There was no sign of storm.
But a sudden, primal danger gripped me. My human chest tightened as the air turned heavy, tasting of ozone and panic. Looking up the river, I saw it: a great, terrifying wall of water rushing toward me. It wasn’t just water. It was a churning chasm of pure, unadulterated fear, an ancient, paralyzing force demanding my erasure. It wanted to swallow my voice, to drown my right to exist.
I knew what I had to do.
Human legs would never outrun this fury. Panic fused with a dormant, wild power deep within my marrow. I didn’t just change; I remembered who I was.
My spine lengthened, vertebrae popping in a fluid, stretching arc. My human chest expanded, ribs flaring to house lungs that demanded the whole sky. Muscles grew thick, bunching with explosive, heavy strength as my frame dropped, anchoring into four powerful legs. My fingers fused, hardening into solid, black hooves that struck the stones with a new, resonant thunder.
I was Horse. Horse was I. My vision widened to take in the whole horizon. My ears pricked forward, capturing the symphony of destruction.
Every equine muscle strained as I flew, the ground blurring beneath my hooves—strike, fly, strike, fly. Closer came the mad river, crushing, foaming, sweeping all before it. I heard the splintering crack of trees and shrubs and watched them fold into broken, twisted masses, tossed like straws into the sand.
The flood hissed, a deafening, watery throat trying to swallow my stride. But my spirit flared in defiance against the roar. I would not be silenced. I would not be overtaken or punished by this phantom of terror.
Closer, closer came the river. I knew that if I were caught in the middle of that seething cauldron, I could die buried in the sand, my spirit suffocated by the very fear I was fleeing.
I anchored my mind into the rhythm of my gallop, refusing to let the panic consume me. The spray lapped at my hocks. The shore shrubs held on with every root strength they could claim against the weight of the water.
Then my hooves found firm footing. Up the bank I went, tearing into the dry, stable earth. I had outrun the wave.
I came to a stop on higher ground, snorting and breathing hard, my massive horse chest heaving. My flanks lathered in sweat, legs shaking all over from the sheer kinetic ordeal, I stood there as Horse and watched the torrent thrash helplessly below me.
Slowly, the wild adrenaline began to recede, and the shift began to reverse—a slow, aching, beautiful unraveling. My broad shoulders narrowed, the powerful hooves split back into soft, flexible human hands, and my spine shortened until I stood upright once more. I patted myself dry, steadying the deep trembling in my chest.
The fear still lingered, a cold, phantom shiver under my skin, whispering that I was small, that I was weak. But as I looked down at my human hands, I felt the lingering gift of Horse. I felt the memory of that wild, unstoppable stride still vibrating in my bones.
Horse had given me its instinct: fear is just a current, but the earth beneath me is solid. I let the breath go, and with it, the cold shiver of the flood washed out of my body.
I sat on a large rock for a bit and watched the river rush by in its destructive path. The thunderous waters churned, trying to cast a shadow over my existence.
But sitting there in the sun, the truth of the dream finally hit me. The flood had not come to wash the valley clean; it had come to test if I remembered my own weight. The roar was nothing more than the phantom of old fears trying to tell me I didn’t belong. But the horse had reminded me of my own thunder.
“Not many people ever survive me,” the river thundered, a deafening throat of gravel and foam. “I am the terror that buries the living in the dark.”
I met the river’s gaze, unblinking. The lingering fear tried to pull me under, but the memory of Horse stood firm inside my chest. I spoke into the roar, each word a stone: “I have a right to this breath. I have a right to this ground. I have a right to seek my fire, to sing my song, and to run wild when the darkness chases me. You cannot punish me for existing. I belong to this place.”
Dream Reflection
Looking back at the river now from the safety of dry ground, I see that the flood is fear itself. It represents the overwhelming, chaotic forces of the past four years of my life—the conflict, external crises, unmet needs, and overwhelming stress that threatened to upend my world and swallow me up.
The river, however, is something else entirely. It is not the enemy. The river represents my life’s natural path and the steady, quiet momentum of moving forward. This is the true rhythm of my spirit—it is not chaotic or frantic; it is peaceful and calm.
“The Horse and the Flood” taught me an important lesson. We do not have to fold like the willows. When the old phantoms roar, we can call upon the wild strength in our bones, stand tall, and remember: we have a right to be here. We have a right to our natural rhythms and our true spirit.
This dream was my spirit understanding exactly where I needed to go, long before my logical mind could find the words. By stepping onto this new path, I am choosing to trust the process of my own evolution.
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