Fragments from the Shared Field

A glimpse into Dreamweaving

Dreamweaving isn’t a workshop, or a ceremony. It is a held, liminal space where something ancient stirs—the communal, the imaginal, the universal.

Whether online or in person, each session begins with the same quiet settling. We arrive, together but separate, each carrying the residue of our days, and step through that separateness into the ritual of Dreamweaving. In person, the frequency of sound takes us beneath the surface of waking life; online we turn cameras off and connect through audio alone.

Great River of the Unknown
May the Dreams within us speak their truth
Beyond the edges of you, or I,
May we place our hands in the cool dark earth
And drift together downstream

And then the dreams begin to speak. They are told aloud—not interpreted, not analysed, but spoken and received in a shared field of listening. Images ripple out, echo, transform. Grief meets joy, the past meets the present, and something unspoken finds its way into form.

Sometimes the experience is light, strange, full of laughter. Sometimes it brings us into contact with difficult things we've been holding for a long time. Either way, it tends to leave us changed—more porous, more present, more real.

Below, I share the words of Anna Halsall, Poet and Maturation Coach, who came to my last in-person Dreamweaving x Soundbath in Camden in May. Rather than explaining what happened, her writing carries the transmission of it—its quiet depths, its unexpected tenderness, and the way it shaped her return to life.

A sound bath takes us in. ‘Sound bath' feels a bit of an undersell: this is an artistry of sonorous sound, guiding us beneath the surface of the everyday. The waves wash over us and I feel how tightly I’ve been wound over these past weeks, a palpable wire coil about to explode. The shame rises of the anger and tension that’s come out at my loved ones. I exhale: my body arrives in the room.

The first dream spoken is of waterfalls, turquoise pools, a child playing. Only later, as the dreams weave further, does this voice name the loss to which they awoke. For now, we open with the magic of a child.

Water moves through the dreamspace: pools, oceans, then sharks, and terror, then buoyancy, and into grief. I am taken aback to meet again the grief of my baby losses. But this time a new beauty comes with it, calling up the 3D reality of the white rose bush we bought in memoriam, growing on my balcony and now in flower—penetrating fragrance shooting through.

Babies, mothers, fathers, grandfathers are spoken. As we sit, and listen, and feel, two souls arrive with me. A family elder, who died last week, in the midst of messy and painful family breakdown. He had been ill for a long time, yet a huge loss is present. A serious man, a university Dean, with a home and a family and a passion for learning he took deep into retirement; a man who was serious about life. His wife has reached out with an olive branch to the other side of the family for the funeral; an act of love he inspired.

Then, as memories of school are spoken, I recall how, in my first year of secondary school, there was a house fire on the estate round the corner from my home. The following day we learned it was the house of a boy in our year—an 11 year old boy who had come home from school to find his house burning. He ran in to save his mother and younger sister. He lost his life to this act. He was the boy who took a briefcase to school, who was bullied. Yet he was the boy who ran into a burning house to save his mother and sister. He was a boy who was serious about life. A tree was planted outside our comprehensive school in his honour. I wonder if it’s still there.

I didn’t expect to meet and honour those remarkable human beings in the dreamspace. I didn’t expect to meet that grief on a Friday night in Camden. And I know, from other Dreamweaving experiences, that that isn’t always what rises.

I also know that slipping beneath the surface of the hardworking mind, to explore the uncertain, almost untouchable space within us, reignites something. For me, meeting my tightness, my shame, my sadness, my loss, its beauty, and the magnificence of human life has had me step back fully into my life.

Today I feel more real, and solid. I can see my children - not just be irritated by their requests and demands—but be irritated and hear their needs, and most importantly, love them.

Today, through going there, to the edge of life on a Friday night in Camden, I am here.

What you’ve just read is not a testimonial—it’s a fragment of a shared field—what happens when we listen deeply, together, in a space where nothing needs to be solved, only spoken. A field where memory, emotion, and imagination move freely, and something inside begins to uncoil. Where life, in all its rawness and mystery, becomes visible again.

If you feel drawn to this unique way of entering the wisdom of your dreams, there are two sessions on the horizon:

— Monday 28th July, 7:30–9:00pm (online) · a quiet space to drift inward (£12)

— Friday 1st August, 7:00–9:00pm (Camden, London) · with sound as a second language (£40)

Both are open to those who feel the call.