Kieran of Ireland and the Sainthood of Dream History

Detail of a stained glass window depicting Saint Kieran
(St. Brendan's Church, Ireland - Photography by Andreas F. Borchert)

"Kieran of Saighir was the first saint born in Ireland...Before she conceived Kieran in her womb his mother had a dream: as it were a star that fell into her mouth; which dream she related to the magicians and to the knowledgeable ones of the time, and they said to her: “thou wilt bear a son whose fame and whose virtues shall to the world’s latter end be great [i.e. notorious].” Afterwards that holy son Kieran was born..." Life of S. Kieran of Saighir. at Celtic Literature Collective

Strangely familiar to the origin stories for Buddha, I first read about this aspect of Irish history in Joseph Campbell's Occidental Mythology. Reflecting, I see similarities to Mexico's Virgin de Guadalupe, who was seen in a vision (see also my post: The Imperial Ethereality of the Christian Cross), to incite the mask of christian history over the indigenous face. I wonder, was the story more brutal, covered up by fables of dream and superstition, to align with dominant perspectives on native irrationality.

See related posts: The Mother of Buddha Had A Dream & To Dream Is To Conceive An Other

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In the penthouse suite version of my tiny apartment, I cavort around the fine art, baby grand piano, clear glass tables and impeccable wood floors with my mother. She is youthful and gay, enjoying the space with matchless ardor. As I look into her face, I begin to call out for my wife. “Where is she?” I ask pleadingly. Strangely, the stars shine clearly outside, entering our dimly lit space through the window. We are high above the smog and pollution, high above the human world of earthly obligation.

Cupid and Psyche in the natural bower by Hugh Douglas Hamilton

As I step down, to visit my grandparents in their New York home, I wait, fixed in place within the center of a foyer condensed by the continuous movement of relatives up and down the stairs. The air is heavy. I embrace each family member longingly, and with a strength characteristic of my waking need. Our grandfather is dying.

Interior by William Gerard Barry

Later that night, my wife and I decide to cross a high river. Our kayaks soon tip in the rushing torrent, flooded with murky water. We swim earnestly to the edge, where my wife quits on me as I gather strength enough to submerge in a second-hand craft to retrieve one of our vessels caught in the shoreline brush. Sitting in a sinking vessel, with only a dilapidated, half-worn paddle, a family of ducks begins attacking with an incessant hunger for my pruned, sore fingers.  

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Where am I falling?
Who do I call?
I have fallen, I am getting small.

- excerpt from "I Have Fallen"

The Dark Ages Revivified by the Colour of Welsh Dream-Lore

Pont-Rhyd-y-groes, the bridge over the Ystwyth

"As soon as sleep had come upon his eyes, it seemed to him that he was journeying with his companions across the plain of Argyngroeg and he thought that he went towards Rhyd y Groes on the Severn...this tale is called the Dream of Rhonabwy...no one knows the dream without a book, neither bard nor gifted seer; because of the various colours that were upon the horses, and the many wondrous colours of the arms and of the panoply, and of the precious scarfs, and of the virtue-bearing stones."

- excerpt from The Mabinogion by Lady Charlotte Guest

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Emerging from the final step of competitive glares and adolescent misdirection from the fair of scholastic races, I flee a field trip in Boston with a bunch of docile, bored Canadian tourists. These are my old stomping grounds, and I know a restaurant where my brother’s reputable. So, I saunter over.

The restaurant owner gladly greets me with the warmth of an old family friend. His restaurant, of aesthetics, which call to the sleek mindfulness of the Netherlands, is overwhelmingly chic in its opulent splendor. Utilizing just a small space, he manages to accommodate the finest tastes of the city.

As I step out over a neat veranda, I see the resplendent visage of architectural prowess, gathered from a hillock vista overlooking the downtown core. Majestic crimson checkers and dazzling cerulean pillars angle with perfected arches and pristine domes. The city has sure gained a wealth of ingenious focus. Staring out over the brink of the ocean cliffs, the Atlantic assuredly behind me, I gather my eyes, besotted with the dizzying color palette of form in the buildings below.

After quickened absorption in the wealth of tones outside below, I clamber upstairs into a hollowed attic within the restaurant. There, I am met with hostility from a ghost and small red fox, which to my contempt, I kill over the metal ledge of a bed. Stupefied by the unintended violence, I climb into a top bunk and lay to rest. The ghosts may transcend the locks, and the smell of dead flesh is their very calling.

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Interpretation: Experiments With Conventional Dream Definition 

After contemplating the recent series of interpretations based on the application of generic dream dictionary usage, I have experienced the truth that in fact, the interpretation is in the writing, that meaning that in creatively writing the dream with imaginative insight into the narrative structure and enlightening detail, the interpretation is made, not as a definition or forecast, but as an act of creative impression in the waking mind of the public collective, where art and dream interfuse in a subtle rendering of meaning in the act of envisioning the import of the imagery on waking, through conscious language, yet still poetically, in a language that minds the unconscious relativity of creation, as a holistic creative act in tune with the entire phenomenal experience of being human. That finally, the dream and its interpretation are one.

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and so the strung chords of the world's birthing are plucked
duly, with grand motion over the starboard ocean rains
tunneling into a thunderous vision,
the pierced hawk
eyeing ground from atop the archaic skies of timeless dream,
the soundless above slips beyond the social canopy

...

our once upraised wilderness
now chained
to European drug lust

- excerpts from "I, Internalize My Body"