On the Death of a White Bison
A week or so ago, I took an extra melatonin gummy before bed and set an intention to remember as much of my dream that night as I could. I have dreams every night, but they often leave me as quickly and inevitably as the need to relieve myself as soon as I wake up. By the time the toilet flushes and the brewer grumbles out the last trickle of coffee, I have been pulled fully from the dreaming world and into the day.
When I woke that morning, before rushing from bed, I grabbed a pen and notepad from my nightstand, and scrawled out the vision that had graced me in the dark.
I was on a Facetime call with my father and a friend who I look up to for her wisdom and grounded presence. They were standing over a White Bison, faces screwed up in worry and despair. The Bison had been fatally wounded, but was not dying quickly. With deep gurgling breaths, belying its resilience and stoic nature, the Bison sighed in resignation. “You must put it out of its misery!” I cried helplessly into my phone. My father and my friend looked to me for guidance, and I woke to the sight of my hands demonstrating how to mercifully cut the throat of a dying spirit.
As gruesome as the dream had been, I was not surprised. Dreams are often fraught with violence, horror, and discomfort. That’s how the soul sometimes moves, I suspect, like a tectonic plate that finally erupts with a burst of smoke and fire after eons of building pressure. What then, was burbling up from the depths of my subconscious?
According to a quick Google search, “The white bison is revered by many Native American tribes, particularly the Lakota, Sioux, Cherokee, Comanche, and Navajo, as a sacred symbol of hope, peace, prosperity, and spiritual renewal. The rare birth of a white bison is interpreted as a prophecy indicating that prayers have been heard and that a time of healing and better times are ahead.”
Was it hope and peace that I was imploring my loved ones to kill on my behalf? Was it a dream of prosperity that must die? That doesn’t sound good at all…
After letting this disturbing scene percolate for a few days, and integrating it with my recent challenges in the work place, I eventually claimed the White Bison as my inner martyr - the part of me that would abandon itself out of a sense of righteous piety. By weathering the abuse of a toxic workplace in silence, a piece of my self that needed to die was suffering, and the call to swift and decisive action was clear.
I must kill the martyr within me. The one that has bore the pain and injustice of the world on its shoulders must now doff its burden. With reverence, determination, and rose-thorn love, I must help the White Bison die, so that its spirit may guide the warrior that grows in its place.