Welcome to the VBT Stop of Authoress known as DreamShield and her book "The Sorcerer's Dream".
Bio :I am Alysa Braceau, Dreamshield.
I've written about my apprenticeship in the art of mastering concious dreaming. Among other things I learned about techniques for conscious dreaming and traveling in the dreamtime and to receive information about healing. In the dreamtime, I also received my name Dreamshield.
I've studied social studies, qualified myself as journalist and writer and have done courses and workshops (before my apprenticeship) such as aura-reading, ThetaHealing and healing with gems. This, in my quest for spiritual deepening.
One of the things I have encountered and describe in my book is that reality is much more comprehensive than it first appears to be. If you want to be free, want to feel free, you will have to face spiritual, physical and emotional blocks and work on them to release them. And that is one of the ways to develop awareness and the healing of yourself.
Sypnosis of The Sorcerer's Dream
The Sorcerer's Dream
An Initiation into the Sorcerer's World
The riveting autobiographical account The Sorcerer's Dream written by Dreamshield takes the reader throughout the magic realms of the unknown and mastering conscious dreaming. This book, that follows in the traditions of Carlos Castaneda and others, gives a new approach to the traditional training of women sorcerers.
The author describes her initiation into the surrealistic world of dreaming and magic, following the teachings of 'Man of Knowledge' Running Deer.
In the heart of Amsterdam, a thrilling stride unfolds in obtaining the knowledge of the Second Reality on the way to the ultimate goal: finding the Totality of the Self!
The combination of unusual instructions and experiences within the sorcerer's world and the level-headedness of a very Dutch woman offers the reader excitement and contemplation on the way to the source of this reality, finding the ultimate self through the experiences and understanding of Dreamshield herself. Up until the last page the reader remains intrigued whether Dreamshield will reach her goal.
Right by the author's side or facing her stands the character of Running Deer. Sometimes mysterious, then challenging, strict as a guru, or vulnerable as a visitor in a foreign country. However, the precise description of these distinctive steps on the road to her initiation stand like milestones in the landscape of this unique history.
Dreamshield (Alysa Braceau) is a freelance journalist who writes for newspapers and magazines. She has a Healing Practice and gives workshops about the Art of Mastering Conscious Dreaming and Dream Healing. The Sorcerer's Dream is her first book.
About this first publication she says: The theme of these passed four-and-a-half years have been the sorcerers tradition. I have carefully recorded my personal experiences which has finally led to this book. Apart from that, writing it has given me great pleasure. The Sorcerer's Dream has become more than a personal account because the interested reader is presented with the technique to learn and practice the North American tradition of the Art of Dreaming (the skill of conscious dreaming) him/herself.
Book Excerpt From Chapter One:
Vidar 26 June 2004
“Can I help you?” a hurried voice asks from behind the counter. I look up absent-mindedly and order, “an Indian soup, two cheese sandwiches, a cappuccino and a glass of water please.” I turn around with a full serving tray and see with a quick glance to my right that the terrace is packed. I walk to a table further down the hall, which has a view of the terrace.
It is one thirty. Rush hour in the spiritual centre located along a canal in Amsterdam. I did not come here for the Ayurvedic massage, yoga or astrology, but for lunch. Apparently, there are several courses going on, as the line at the counter has never been this long. People are busy talking to each other, standing in groups spread out in the hall, sitting at one of the tables inside or outside on the terrace where they can enjoy the first rays of summer sunshine.
Distracted, I dip my bread in the soup. In a gymnasium, some fifteen kilometers from the ring road, I drag myself for the second and last day through the Magical Passes of Carlos Castaneda. I was hoping the magical movements would make me as light as a feather just as they did two years ago. At that time they freed me of stifling emotions, which easily dragging me down and freeing me of my inclination to nag about everything. However, this time I feel no difference at all. I cannot appreciate the movements. As everyone in the entire room releases graciously, I stay invariably behind.
This morning while I was driving my car I had already decided where I was going to have lunch because there are no cafés or restaurants near the gymnasium, which is alarming for someone like me, since you could say I have a healthy appetite. I was quick to remember this spot. They serve a nice vegetarian lunch and I enjoy wandering around in the bookstore.
While I eat my soup, four women at the table in front of me are busy talking and laughing. They are most likely of Surinam or Antillean descent. I think they are discussing the workshop they are attending.
My thoughts drift back to my friends Antonio and Camillo. Two years ago, the Magical Passes were held at the RAI Congress Cent, where a few hundred people from all over the world filled the room. After reading the books written by Carlos Castaneda, Florinda Donner and Taisha Abelar, I was excited to hear there would be a workshop in Amsterdam, so I immediately enrolled. During the past years, I participated in a whole range of workshops and courses in the field of spiritual and personal development. To mention a few, I did meditation, yoga, healing with precious stones, intuitive development, aura reading, rebirthing and trance dance. The more obscure the better, as far as I was concerned. However, nothing appealed to me more than the adventures of the sorcerer’s apprentices.
Thinking back to that day, I wanted to prepare myself well for the big day, I opened my closet and quickly shut it again. Except for grubby sweatpants I had nothing nice to wear in which I could move freely, so I headed into town where I bought a pair of black Capri pants, a modern gunny and a tight red top to make it slightly more exciting. Even though I dragged myself through the original workshop just like today, it had a benevolent effect. I wonder why things are different this year.
Perhaps - two years ago - I sought refuge in the vibrating energy of the room or was it because I was meeting the Mexicans, Camillo and Antonio? On the other hand, maybe it was the combination of the two? After everyone had settled down on the floor after the first lecture, the Mexicans sat next to me and looked at me curiously.
“Are you from here?” they asked, and “Where are you going?” they asked me during the break. I did not know anybody else and felt relieved to be approached, and before I knew it, they introduced me to a group of Mexican friends.
After the workshop Camillo, Antonio and I continued talking on into the wee hours of the morning. Antonio spoke a few words of English but that did not make any difference as Camillo translated - he had lived and worked in the United States as a teacher for years. I bragged to them about my dreams and they listened and gaped at me when I told them in my best English about meeting sorcerers in lucid dreams. With a slight sense of shame, I confessed they had accurately pointed out my weak spots and said things about me that I would never dare to admit to myself.
I remember we were talking about relationships and especially about the problems they had. Camillo sat to my left and Antonio to my right. Once they started talking about their relationships, they never stopped. Camillo was very much in love with his girlfriend, but she did not want a steady relationship. She told him a relationship hampers the freedom of a sorcerer. He hope she would change her mind, but in his heart, he felt exactly the same way. Antonio’s relationship problems were the opposite. He wanted his freedom but his girlfriend (he was crazy about her) tugged at him and demanded the next step in their relationship: marriage and children. Gloomily the Mexicans gazed in front of them.
They started a discussion and I felt like they were forcing that nonsense about freedom on me. I believed that so-called freedom is an excuse for not wanting or keeping a steady relationship. I said they spoke nonsense and brought myself forward as an example. As a modern western woman, I had a relationship and in the meantime was free to do whatever I pleased, to a certain degree of course. I leaned back in my chair and looked at them commiserating.
I concluded that we were dealing with a cultural difference because it was written on their faces that they did not understand a word I was saying. At least that is what I thought until they said: “we follow the witch,” toasting their glasses against mine. That night we finished several bottles. Actually, they seemed to me like a couple of easy opportunists, but I was flattered that they had called me a witch. It was something they would regret, because that night, they even started smoking. We said our goodbyes in the middle of the night and I could not withhold my tears. Perhaps it was because I had never felt so light-spirited, unconcerned, and especially completely at home. I will miss them terribly.
Bitterly I realize that this weekend’s workshop stands in sharp contrast to last years, if only for the fact that I miss my Mexican friends. I take a bite of my sandwich to comfort myself. Maybe I will see them at the next workshop in Mexico City. Another voice tells me “no.” Enough is enough. I need to put energy into my family and my work. At present, two months after my maternity leave, I am finally getting the hang of things at a publishing company with career opportunities.
Suddenly, I look toward my right. A dark man moves slowly past me wearing an Indian headdress and starts a conversation at a table in front of me. He was an incredible show-off, probably hoping to attract women, wearing that headdress.
However, the calm look in his eyes and his unobstructed way of talking to the women around him contradicts my first thought about him immediately. Shortly after, the dark man slowly walks past and gives me an open look with his kind, dark brown eyes. He is a heavy built man approximately in his mid-fifties, wearing his dark straight hair in a long ponytail. As I eat my soup, I look back at him just as openly. A few minutes later, he and the feathered headdress passes my table once again, towards the ladies, who await him longingly. I am quietly starting to become curious and begin to wonder what kind of workshop he gives. As he talks to the women, he frequently looks my way as if he knows me from somewhere but does not remember from where. At the same slow pace, he walks back and once again, we look at each other openly. I become more curious by the minute, no, I mean every second. I want, or rather, I need to know who this man is, where he comes from and especially what he is doing here. As he walks past once more, I do not think I can stand it any longer.
My question “What do you teach?” pulls him towards me. The man stops abruptly and walks towards me cautiously.
“I teach people to heal themselves,” he says. His voice sounds warm and sympathetic.
“Okay,” is the only answer I can think of as another question pops up in my mind. However, the question is not necessary as he starts talking himself. He says he is a medicine man and with the help of drums, he is capable of bringing people into a healing state. “Sounds interesting,” I try to encourage him, because I have always been very interested in everything about healing.
“The rhythm of the drums produce theta-waves in the brain which activate the self-healing powers,” he explains. His head turns to the right toward the open door on the other end of the hall where people trickle out, to indicate where it is taking place.
“Where are you from actually?” I ask him most sympathetically. I am used to turning a man inside out with questions and if you do it in a nice way, it is not necessarily annoying.
The man tells me he comes from the Southeast of the United States and he curiously asks me in turn, “Have you ever participated in Indian rituals or ceremonies?”
“You mean shamanism?” I ask. He shrugs and looks as if he is saying, “give it a name you like.” I stare in front of me and go into a kind of trance in an effort to dig into my memory.
I am playing for time and tell him that I have done so many things and I recollect that shamanism was also one of them. I tell him about the trance journey experiment I made, combined with the modern psychotherapeutic techniques, which made me find my lost soul again, or at least part of it.
A tall, middle-aged, strawberry blond woman signals towards the Indian. She is wearing traditional North-American clothes. She is standing at a table a few yards in front of the door and gives me a friendly nod. A few people surround her. I think they would like to pay, perhaps he has the change. The dark medicine man excuses himself and walks towards her. I quickly stuff my sandwich down my throat and hope he will return as soon as possible. As he walks towards me, I wash it down with lukewarm cappuccino.
The Indian continues the conversation where he left off. He tells me he gives teachings in original shamanism and goes into the subject of an upcoming event. “If you are interested there is going to be a weeklong festival in July where shamans from all parts of the world exchange knowledge. There will also be healing rituals.” That sounds wonderful. However, camping out for a whole week in a primitive Native American lodge, hanging around in casual clothes, standing in line for a cold shower and going to filthy bathrooms, is not for me.
I look disappointed and tell him: “Too bad that’s right in the middle of my vacation.”
He puts his hand in his pocket, rattles the coins, looks towards the strawberry blond woman and nods. He has to finish the conversation and says: “We also have a small, exclusive group of people to whom we teach more in-depth knowledge, but that is not until somewhere in September or October.”
Small and exclusive, that suits me much better. I eagerly ask him for more information. He writes down my address, promises to send me a flyer, and hands me a yellow-brown business card with the words “Running Deer” on it and underneath in small letters Vidar, his Western name. He puts the address information in brackets, and tells me he will be moving soon. Three-quarters of an hour later I continue the Magical Passes with renewed energy and meet a kind, big man from Colorado, teddy bear-like, with whom I dance the tempestuous northern and sensible southern wind.
Check out Dreamshield's Website - http://www.dreamshield.nl