Dreaming Animals
Exploring dreamwork and our deep relationship with animals

The first story was a dream. Long before words. Long, long, long before complex language, or tools, our deepest ancestors were dreaming.
The proof is obvious: a dog, curled in slumber, her paws quivering with what is clearly a sleep-paralyzed chase, her bark muted to a chittering whisper. We all know she is deep in dream—it’s such a universal experience we recognize it immediately. Even the octopus dreams!
I am a lifelong student of dreamwork. Many of my most potent dreams have been dreams of animals. When we dream of animals we have entered a deep place in the dreamworld, for we have left our human-centric world and entered a forest filled with other ways of knowing and being. These are the dreams that wildly inspire us, or shake us loose of our moorings, and deliver us to the mystery of life.
This exhibition, Dreaming Animals, explores dreamwork specifically through the lens of these potent animal dreams. My deeper goal with this body of work is to communicate the power and wonder I’ve experienced from my own dreams, and activate a curiosity about how dreaming can carry us through dark labyrinths.
Look for the links underneath some of the images that will take you to the story of that piece!

The Fox’s Gift
pastel on board
12 x 16″
A fox stands in your path.
Between you and the fox is an egg glowing with a strange and impossible light.
Is it a challenge or a gift?

Snake Egg
pastel on board
7 x 10″


Liberty Leading Her People
(after Delacroix)
pastel on board
24 x 36″


White Wolf Queen
pastel on board
16 x 20″

Click here for more about this piece!
Once, many years ago, the shores of Lake Superior gifted me a dream. That dream foretold many, many things: a betrayal by a man of influence, the arrival of a beloved animal companion, and the work that we would do together—both the man and the animal.
The dream is still revealing itself to me. Because dreams are living things, or something close to alive, which we still don’t have words for—numinous, maybe— potent, suffused with more-than-this-world consciousness. When I try to track the story of this dream, and its impact in my life (so far)—it isn’t neat and tidy. It is definitely NOT logical—it’s like walking through a labyrinth where every turn leaves you confused, but with goosebumps. But maybe more than anything, this dream showed me the dreamworld is real, that dreams have incredible power, and if you turn towards them, they will guide you through your waking life in a way that absolutely nothing else can.

The Golden Horse
pastel on board
18 x 24″

A brief introduction to the lovely golden horse…
Through the course of a long dream, which included a carnival, a Taylor Swift concert (?!?), and the digging of artifacts, a doll was discovered and then, by a curious, extended process, she was transformed into a transcendent golden filly. She was the most beautiful, graceful horse, and when she turned her soft muzzle towards me we were both lit with joy.
When I wrote down the dream, I could recognize some of the alchemical process contained in the dream, but what captivated me then, and now, is the feeling I had, this deep connection, a shimmering tenderness between the horse and myself.
To make this piece I wove her into the scene of a January sunrise I experienced with a very dear friend. She becomes a golden horse of the dawn, the light of rebirth and transformation, but also soft, ephemeral, cast with shades of lavender, gold, pink, and peach. Of all the pieces in my show “Dreaming Animals,” this piece feels like it emerged from a closed space in my heart that is now lit with a tender beauty.

Gifts of the Dream
pastel on board
18 x 24″

This piece is part of my essay on Helene. You can read it here.

The Great Bat Flies Over Mountain Gardens
During a Penumbral Eclipse
Pastel on board
18 x 24″

About the Great Bat, Mountain Gardens, and Time Looping…
On the night of a penumbral eclipse (when the Earth passes through the outer shadow of the Moon), I woke, and sleep-stumbled out of my bedroom out onto the deck to see the subtle light changes of a penumbral eclipse. Without my glasses, and half asleep, all I could observe was the strange quality of the light. But I nearly tripped over a chair and, because my deck was in the process of being redone and had no railings, I was certain I was going to kill myself so I went back to bed.
And then I had this dream.
I had journeyed to Mountain Gardens, that small bit of paradise created by the wizard Joe Hollis. He had passed away many months before, but in the dream he was very much alive. I sat with him on the deck that overlooked his magical gardens and, further out, a layered horizon of mountain ridges. (This was not the actual Mountain Gardens, but a dream version.) It was a summer night and we could see and feel the buzzing of life in the dark understory of the forest as we looked up at the sky.
In my dream it was also a penumbral eclipse, but here the sky was a vivd pink scattered with small clouds and a slightly dimmed Moon. And then a great bat—massive, archetypal, breathaking—was flying over us and we understood immediately that it was a great gift to see this Being. We were awestruck into silence. After the moment passed, Joe stood up and said, in his matter-of-a-fact way, “Well, that makes for a good night.” And off he went to bed.
Nearly a year after this dream, during a bout with covid, I watched the film, Paradise, about Joe’s life and death, and in one scene a close friend says, “…I saw what that meant, when someone spends like decades accumulating everything that there is to know about some particular subject, like bats.”
Shortly after I had another dream. I went to Mountain Gardens again (this time in its waking life location), to visit Joe as he was preparing to die. He’s in a rocking chair, surrounded by books and herbs and young people. I go and sit next to him and say, “I have to tell you about a dream I had. I guess I’m time looping, because I had this dream after you died.”
“Oh, time looping,” he says, “I love time looping.”
So then I tell him my great bat dream, how we were here at Mountain Gardens, and there was a penumbral eclipse, and it was summer, and the forest was wild with sound, and how the sky was pink, and a great bat soared overhead, a huge bat, an archetypal bat. And he was especially fascinated with this. He was asking about what kind of bat it was, and I had to explain that it was a bat that doesn’t exist in our reality, it was just too big.
“And then you got up,” I said, “and said, ‘that’s a good night’ all matter of a fact,” and I touched him on the shoulder and we laughed. I got up to leave then, not wanting to take up any more of his precious time.
I wasn’t close to Joe, but certainly was inspired by him, and what he had done with his life, as anyone who knew him was. But in the Otherworld of dreams, sometimes the gates open, and the Great Bat flies in. We are left awestruck and humbled with the gifts we are given, in this realm, as in the in-between. There is no cessation of wonder.

Forethoughts in My Grandmother’s Garden
Pastel on board
16 x 20″


Opening
Pastel on board
16 x 20


Two Owls at Dawn
Pastel on board
7 x 10″


The Lord and Lady of the Forest
Pastel on board
18 x 24″


The White Deer
Pastel on board
7 x 10″


Dream Council of the Deer
Pastel on board
21 x 35″

This piece is like a visual container for my philosophy on dreaming.
Read more:
In this piece, three realms interplaywith each other.
In the center we have a harem of does sleeping around a small spring. A massive buck watches over them as they dream.
Above them fawn spirits frolic through the trees.
Below them the Great Mother Deer browses on the lush foliage of the Otherworld.
The deer have gathered for a dream council, to call fawn spirits into their bodies, into this world. The fawn spirits are the fights of the Great Mother Deer, the White Deer of the Otherworld.
I am not so great a dreamer as to be able to enter the dreamworld of the deer, though I did receive some insight from the Great Mother Deer, because I felt that, to depict her, I needed to have not only an understanding of who she is, but also her permission.
In dreams, we dip our toes into the Otherworld, a place unconstrained by time and space. I’ve experienced this frequently enough to see it clearly. It often looks like a sort of precognition showing up in dreams, though it is usually only recognizable in hindsight. Sometimes I’ll have a dream that is obviously telling me of events to come, but that obviousness is only apparent after the fact. Sometimes I will only recognize a figure or event in my dreams years after the dream, and the recognition is sudden, like a veil has been lifted.
How could I not recognize that before? I will ask myself.
But that is the way with dreams. They truly are of the Otherworld, and to make the connections with this world, to weave the two together, is not only a process we can’t control, it seems to require the consent of the Mystery.
There are ways to prepare the threshold, however. Bringing a dream into this world, by writing it down, telling it, exploring it, and then visiting it from time to time keeps the threshold clean and open. But the realm of the Otherworld is beyond time and space, and messages come as they will, or not. But when they come, when dreams are clearly speaking to our lived experience, even if it is in riddle-speak, it feels activated, and feral.
The Otherworld is a place of meaning and numinosity, and I’ve come to believe it is also a realm of collective experience, past and future.
That is, at least, what the Great Mother Deer told me, in epiphanic fashion, when I asked her who she is.
This, then, is my big dream theory. That it is through dreaming that we evolve, both individually and collectively, both human and non-human. Because in dreaming we are able to access a realm beyond time and space, that, if we are lucky and the Mystery allows it, we can receive the insight and information we need.
I’m convinced that all the great leaps in human evolution came from the Otherworld, and were delivered by dreams. Whether remembered or not, veiled or unveiled like an epiphany, all the insight, inventions and information bubbles up from the Otherworld, into consciousness, into the waking world, into physical form. We can’t control it, but we can honor what comes by making it manifest in the world. And perhaps, like the deer in this pastel, we can gather together in dream councils for the good of our species, and for the good of the great living Earth.

The Crossing
Pastel on board
6 x 12″


A Ribbon of Light
Pastel on board
16 x 20″

Read the story behind this work:
In the empty forest of winter, two Cooper’s Hawks approach a holly tree. The tree is lit by a ribbon of light that has unspooled from a weak winter Sun. The ribbon wraps around the trunk, about to touch the earth. Underneath the leaf litter a red-bellied snake, a ribbon of darkness, awakens.
Several years ago I dreamt I was standing in a field. Above me two hawks were tangled in battle. From them a long ribbon fell to the earth. I reached up to pull on the ribbon, but suddenly there was an older woman standing near me. Don’t pull it, she warned, but I did pull it, and a part of a hawk’s wing dropped to my feet.
A few weeks later, I am walking on my little path, and there, at my feet, amidst the prickly leaves of a holly tree, is the fragment of a Cooper’s Hawk wing.
In my dreamwork practice I keep running into these seams of mystery, where dreaming gets tangled up with waking life. Something is happening, but what does it all mean? My logical, waking mind wants to untangle the dream and apply it to waking life, like a recipe delivered from the unconscious to the kitchen of the psyche. Let’s cook something up! But the dream refuses to be pinned down; slippery as a salamander it eludes my grasp.
I’m beginning to believe, from my own experience, that dreaming, as well as certain creative states, belong to different states of consciousness altogether, and in these states, the world is not at all what we have determined it to be. When we dwell in these different states of consciousness we likewise dwell in different layers of reality.
So what does all this dreamwork all mean? I don’t know, and maybe I don’t need to know. But that doesn’t mean this work is without meaning. Quite the opposite, it has immense impact, value, and resonance in my life. There are other spheres of reality at work here, and I am but a humble explorer, cooking things up in my creative laboratory, filled with wonder and covered in pastel dust, and absolutely guided by unseen forces.

Blood on the Snow
Pastel on board
16 x 20″


Black Snake at Dusk
Pastel on board
7 x 10″


Nothing Is Ever Lost
Pastel on board
7 x 10″


A River of Crows
Pastel on board
8 x 10″


Seven Crows in Panthertown
Pastel on board
8 x 10″


Dreaming Bat
Pastel on board
7 x 10″


Regal Moth in a Solar Eclipse
Pastel
19 x 29″”
