A Warrior's Dream

I had this odd dream, where I was in a war torn country, with a host of other Americans, some journalist.  We were in a city controlled by rebels so the surroundings were austere amongst a graveyard of automobile hulks.  And every person I met, wanted me to write a poem about them.  I had to keep asking their name, none of them familiar to our Anglo way of naming. I never had any paper.  So I was trying to take these mental pictures of the person and attempt to catch the character of them scribbling down on scraps of this and that.  There was a man with a purple turban and he explained in his broken English that many asked him why he kept it on in the appalling heat.  But wearing it was his devotion to God, and when it became too much for him to bear, he said, God always sent a breeze to cool him.  

  I had commented that yes I thought life was like that.  Where something that appeared to be suffering was just stripping away what we had attached to in a way, making us aware of the gifts that life was right before us.  There was a woman, named Joyce.  She was fierce in her manner and abrupt in her movement.  None of her efforts were wasted on superficial motion.  She was purpose in carnet.  I wondered when I awoke why she was so compelling, in my dreams.  I recall she carried her scars without remorse and her eyes would tolerate no disquieting masquerades. 

 I suppose that in my fashion of seeking that characteristic, I see reflected my own uncompromising attitude toward adventure.  Come prepared to dissolve into its seduction.  Because like that rebel woman warrior who had such charisma; commanding almost reverend respect amongst her peers ~ what really mattered were actions on your principals.  She was the lioness for her clan, so it was obvious and agreed within the host, that she was invincible; almost to the point of  sacred, possessing a magically protection of righteousness.  She aroused a seductive magnetism to me.  But then, confident women in a world who rejects what they've been taught about submission are a rare precious find. It's a feminine oxymoron for our social order that praises models and demure bright eyed sirens.  Forgetting the true character of feminine creation; powerful tempest, relentless in her objective, and destructive to any barrier that prevents accomplishment of her purpose.