I sit at my desk, the hum of the world still catching its breath from the night’s slumber. The sunlight is hesitant, as if it knows it should rise but isn’t quite ready to commit. This feels like the perfect time for some morning pages—a stream of consciousness that lets my thoughts spill out like water finding its course through rocks and earth.
I reach for my notebook, and as the pen touches the page, something curious happens. The words I write don’t seem entirely my own. Instead of the usual jumble of musings about my day or plans, the ink forms a river—literally. A small river on the page, its waters shimmering like quicksilver, twisting between the lines of my journal. I dip my finger into the ink and suddenly, I’m there.
The landscape is familiar but foreign, a half-remembered dream. Trees grow in spirals, leaves curling like question marks. A fox with emerald eyes stands on the path ahead, watching me. Is this some dream-shamanic journey I’ve wandered into? I’m not sure, but the ground beneath me feels solid, and the air is crisp with potential.
I walk toward the fox, and it doesn’t run. Instead, it speaks—soft, like a breath you’d miss if you weren’t listening closely.
“Write your dreams,” it says, its tail flicking with subtle impatience. “Record them. Live them.”
I nod because the fox is right. It’s time I renew that practice, time I dive deeper into the liminal, that in-between space where reality and dreams blur. Morning pages are the portal, but the dreamwork—the shamanic journeys, the hypnotic meditations, the sound of drums reverberating in the back of my mind—that’s the real work. The practice that weaves waking and sleeping into the same thread. I’m reminded of Robert Moss’ words—dreams and reality aren’t separate; they’re different lenses to view the same landscape.
The fox turns and darts away, and before I can follow, I’m back at my desk, staring at the now blank page. The river of ink is gone, but the message lingers in the air.
Later, in the afternoon, I make my way to Liverpool, and Joseph Campbell keeps me company. His voice echoes in the car, weaving the Hero’s Journey into every curve of the road. I can feel the myths breathing alongside me, the stories ancient yet evergreen. I know the power they hold—the power to reshape the psyche, to uncover those buried fragments of soul. His words about the hero’s call to adventure make me think of my own journey, not just through life but through the worlds that exist beyond the veil of this one. Perhaps I’ve been listening too much to the logical voices that try to impose order and meaning. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to “fall in love” with the pictures in front of me—be they tarot cards or dream symbols.
Rachel Pollack had the right idea. Her tarot explorations in A Walk Through the Forest of Souls were like nothing I’ve read before—less rigid, more fluid, as though the cards themselves were breathing, inviting me to ask them questions instead of demanding answers. It’s time to let them speak their stories, to let the images reveal what they want, without the weight of interpretation hanging over them like a fog.
I pull a deck from my bag as the car continues its journey north. The cards feel warm in my hands, alive. I shuffle without thinking, without intention, and draw three: The Fool, Death, and The Tower.
I chuckle to myself. Of course. The story of transformation, of destruction and rebirth. A theme echoed in every myth, in every dream, and in every creative endeavour I’ve ever attempted. It’s the same story I’ve been telling myself but hadn’t yet realised I was living.
There’s a flash from the corner of my eye, and suddenly the fox is back—sitting calmly in the passenger seat. It’s strange how normal this feels now, like the veil between reality and imagination is thinner than I thought. The fox yawns lazily, eyes on the cards in my hand.
“You know what this means,” it says, as if we’re old friends, as if we’ve had this conversation before. Maybe we have, in dreams I’ve forgotten.
“I do,” I reply. It’s time to weave the magic of the surreal into my writing, to infuse my blog with this very essence. No more boundaries between the real and the unreal. I’ll call upon the cards, the myths, the dreams—perhaps even the fox—to guide me.
The road stretches out in front of me, endless and full of possibility. The pen is back in my hand, and the ink, once again, is a river waiting to be followed.
