The Cosmic Womb

TRANSCRIPT:
Here is a dream that I cannot create imagery for and does not want to be flattened down by the written word. It can only be spoken and walked through with voice.

I am in a house, and it is my house, and it exists outside of space and time. I am hosting a gathering of people that I have known this lifetime, but from different places and ages, and some of whom have passed and are no longer living. But here they are, in my cosmic house. And I am preparing the space.

I am acting as a psychedelic guide, and I am pairing them up, men and women. One man, one woman, to embark on this journey. And this has nothing to do with sexuality or gender. This is just the symbol for the Divine Feminine Energies and the Masculine Energies. And those are, Masculine being our more action-oriented, discerning, rational energies, and the Divine Feminine being our more receptive, open, intuitive, psychic energies.

So here they are, paired up in perfect balance, and I am the psychedelic guide, and I feel very competent and capable in this role, but at the same time — outside of my dream body — I have a dual awareness, and this second awareness is my waking life awareness. “Waking Life Claudia” is there and she's there as the witness and the observer of this vision, where I am acting as the guide or the shaman.

That's when I realize that there is no sacred medicine to dispense to the people. That the path to these alternate realities, or to the ultimate truth, requires each woman in the pairing to spread her vulva as wide as possible for each man to enter by his head, as if it's a reverse birth.

This is the “The Cosmic Womb”. This is the Divine Feminine Womb. There's nothing sexual about this. It's just depicted in a very graphic way within my dream. And this is the point in the dream where my husband walks up to me and he says, “Okay, it's your turn.”

I very sternly shake my finger at him and I say, “No, I am not the portal.”

And then I show him a diorama of my own womb or vulva, only it's not anatomically correct. It's not a diorama of that. It is an ancient, petrified forest. And I say, “Don't you see? This is not a portal.”

And that's when I wake up and I have those words ringing in my head: “No, I am not a portal.”

And I sit with this dream for the whole month of October. And I have other dreams that shed more light on it. And then I come to an understanding of how to act as a conduit and a guide without being used energetically as a portal.

But beyond that, if I was going to bring it down to Earth, as close as I can to the 3D-level I would say that we are each our own portal. That this pairing up of the men and the women was not a message that we need someone external, like a priest or a shaman, to experience other truths, other realities.

It was just the message of the balance of both, of being grounded and yet open to these divine cosmic influences, and of experiencing existence that way. Through your own portal.

The lonely woodworker who was not lonely

This was a vision from a psychedelic journey on June 4, 2022

A man sat alone with his chisel carving animal totems out of wood. To outsiders he appeared lonely, practicing his dead art. But beneath reality — what they could not see — was that the man was never alone. He was a man who lived in two kingdoms.

His wood was infused with the wisdom of ancient, guardian trees, and the animals he carved out of them were ancestors and spirits who guided and inspired every cut he made.

Each creation of his was a merging of living energies and because of this he was always connected and beaming with life and never, ever alone.

Note: This post is an excerpt from my weekly-ish newsletter called Many-Worlds Vision.

The sad girl & the island

On a ferry floating across a body of water, I meet a young girl on her way back home. She is sad. Her eyes well up with tears.

She had lived her whole life on an island she thought was paradise. Before this voyage, she never knew what it was like to leave. Now, as her island comes into view, it begins to feel too small for her. She had caught a glimpse of a whole new world, and because of that she now had to answer to a new mind and a new heart that made her want more and more for herself.

The girl mourned her past perspective which had kept her satisfied and safe. She now understood she could never go back home. She was being pushed toward the unknown, and even though the guiding force is divine, and every new discovery would be life-expanding and destined for her, she was still sad and she cried and I cried with her.

How to draw closer to your mystery

The above audio is a reading from a transcript. It is a thirdhand creation story. They are not my words, but the story was told to me orally by someone I loved, and for almost twenty years has lived on a microcassette unplayed. It is an unearthed treasure and I wanted to share it with you.

The Labyrinth Theory

What I love about walking labyrinths is that the closer you get to the center the farther you are in distance. Life has often felt that way too.

A brief summary of the past 37 years: I am born to two teenage immigrants who speak no English. As they grow, I grow too. Their mistakes are my mistakes. I am uprooted and left behind. In my earliest memories, I am always alone. I write love letters to God and search for portals in trees. I will be the new girl in school 15 times. Being called “weird” or “poor” will never faze me. By age 10, I am irrevocably damaged and weighed down with worry. Poetry saves me. I write it all down — the dark parts and the dreams. I never stop searching for meaning. At age 17, I move across the country to survive on my own. Besides books and my own intuition — and the occasional Divine interference — there is no guidance. A decade is spent destroying when all I want is to create. After one near-death experience and three suicide attempts — at age 30 — I decide to get off Zoloft and heal through nature and talk therapy. I give up poetry for a brief time. I ground myself in the Earth. I meet my husband — my anchor. I grow beautiful friendships. I find my center. It feels a lot like the wonder and magic of my short childhood. All those years spent in the outer circles, I never knew how close I was to myself.

The Black Tapestry

I found myself in a dark void, surrounded by a primordial and formless space. At first, I thought I had lost all my senses. Everything was deep black and soundless and there was no gravity. I was a floating consciousness with no home. This is limbo, I thought — or maybe I just knew and didn’t think any thoughts. I seemed to understand things without processing them. This is intuition. This is clairvoyance. This is my third eye. Out of the void, a bolt of fabric came into view. It was also black and began to slowly unroll itself before me. A velvety, onyx-colored cloth expanding to the edges of my perception, until it became what I knew as my sole existence. All at once, an invisible hand started embroidering symbols and archetypes and allegories. I read the fabric from left to right — stitch by stitch — I was witnessing my life from birth to now. An orphrey of multi-dimensional imagery. Each symbolic stitching embodying a multitude of history and emotion and language. And the colors — such vivid hues of violet, orange, crimson and pink. It looked like something my long-lost ancestral aunts in Mexico might have sewn. But even though the colors were bright and festive, I was quickly overtaken by grief and discouragement. By now, the invisible hand had finished its work midway through the fabric, leaving almost exactly half of it blank. What lay before me was an unfinished tapestry so deeply embedded with neglect and loss and scarcity — all of which were at this moment so foreign to me. I wanted out of this vision, and hurtful reminder of where I had come from. My shapeless consciousness grew hot with shame, and pulsated with anxiety that spread outward into nothing. This must be how stars die, I thought. No, This is how stars die. I knew. Then came a gentle cooling. I was reminded — telepathically — that what I was seeing was my past. The other half of the tapestry still remained to be embroidered. They said it would be stitched by my own hand and with only the values and experiences that I wanted for this life. Symbols of love and animals and friendship and nature and art and freedom and magic, and these simple words do no justice to the rich power that lies behind them, because just like the embroidery they are a prism. Multi-faceted and pure light. An energy of such high vibration that it could only belong to the Gods. And as I began to accept this as truth — in the core of my being — my sadness gracefully morphed into rapture and gratitude and passion. This was an invitation to stand at the helm of my life. And I took it. And my own black velvet tapestry is just one of infinite tapestries eternally unfolding across the universe — a divine display of all the soul journeys that embark onto unknown space and create something beautiful.