I have many names.
After I wake my wife in the morning, I tell her what is going on in my head, and I tell her who is out speaking to her. Sometimes it is Story, sometimes Kai, sometimes Angela or Kodiak. Or perhaps it is one of the kids — it might be Bobby, or Kassie, or Woo.
We are all different.
And I believe I have back-lives too, lives-once-lived. I have seen Mongolia, I have been Inuit. I have followed a Mennonite creed. I have been a hunter, a mother, a spirit-talker.
The richness of these lives — these persons, these souls — flows like a river in the Spring floods. I am either everyone, or I am a leaf lost in between the ripples and carried along wildly. There is hardly time to follow this pulling everywhere it wants to go. But I feel best when I attend to the whispered urges and pay them respect.
I grow weak when I do not pay attention. In these times, I am wounded and bleed Spirit from me. But to heal I have only to listen and dream, and honour the dreaming.