“Dreaming with the Ancestors: A Threshold Between Worlds”

“The Woman and the Field”
A Parable in Her Voice

There once was a woman with skin kissed by the sun, whose dreams wandered long before she did. One twilight night, she found herself standing not in her own bed, but in a mansion she did not remember building, owned by a pale-faced lady whose eyes held storms and lullabies all the same.

“Come,” said the woman of the house, with a grip like history. “You need to see the field.”

The dream-walker hesitated, her bones humming with a rhythm older than language, but she followed. The door opened, not with a creak but with a sigh—a sound like truth being let out after too long hidden.

They stepped into the Field.

It rolled out beneath the twilight like a prayer whispered across generations. The air tasted of tobacco and tears, sweat and seed, and the wind sang songs her grandmother never taught her—but somehow, she knew every word.

In that sacred soil, echoes stirred.
From behind them emerged a man, Black and regal, bearing the weight of many yesterdays. He did not speak in language, but in knowing. He, too, said, “You need to see.”

Then came the women.
Hair braided like roads back to freedom, arms strong enough to cradle babies and burdens. Shades of mahogany, cinnamon, obsidian—each one a chapter in her lineage. They circled her like a womb.

“Did she harm you?” they asked, eyes searching, voices sharp.
“No,” she answered, but her heart beat an unfamiliar rhythm, one that asked: What kind of harm goes unseen?

And just like that, she was back at the mansion’s front door.
One hand on the knob.
One foot in yesterday.
One foot in tomorrow.
Behind her, the field whispered.
Ahead, the house waited.

She stood at the Threshold Between Worlds, not to choose between them, but to remember that she is both—daughter of survival and seeker of wholeness.

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The Lesson:
You see, child, dreams are not escape—they are summons. The ancestors don’t speak in plain tongue, they speak in symbols. The white woman? History. The field? Memory. The man? Legacy. The cornrowed women? Truth, love, warning, and wisdom braided tight.

And the door? That door is always there.
It is up to you to decide when you’re ready to walk through it—not to forget what lies behind, but to carry it forward like a lantern.

So go on now.
Listen to your dreams.
And let your living be an answer to their call.

— Elunai