Wyzard's Wyld Euphorium

Welcome Back to the Threshold
It’s been a while since I’ve posted here. Life, grief, healing, and the quiet weight of unseen work have kept me inward. But lately, something is stirring—a return of dreaming, a whisper from spirit, a familiar ache that says, “It’s time again.”
So I’m stepping back into this space—not with answers, but with echoes. With dreams. With stories. And with the same intention that’s always guided me: to speak from the bridge between worlds.

Title: The Bridge Between Worlds

I haven’t remembered my dreams in a long time.

Not in the vivid, soul-shaking way they used to come. They just… stopped showing up. Or maybe I stopped hearing them. Either way, I assumed the dreaming had gone quiet. Until recently.

Now they’re pouring in. Flying fish gobbling up swarms of insects in the middle of a garage, strange intruders breaking in, abandoned dogs tethered to their puppies with dishtowels. Not exactly bedtime fairy tales. But they woke something in me.

And maybe that was the point.

I’ve been feeling it for a while now—that restless ache. The sense that I was given gifts too big to keep tucked in a drawer. Healing, knowing, sensing, seeing. Yet the world around me hasn’t always asked for them. And I’ve asked myself more than once, “Why was I given these gifts if there’s no clear path to use them?”

But lately, I’ve begun to wonder if the path isn’t in this world alone.

My father used to say I walk in two worlds. And I think he was right.

This physical body of mine aches, often more than it should. I feel fatigued for no obvious reason. I’ve long suspected that what weighs on me isn’t just my own pain—it’s the weight of other realms. Maybe my soul is clocked in elsewhere, doing work I won’t remember until the veil lifts. Maybe my dreaming stopped because the work moved beyond what dreams can carry.

But now that dreaming is returning, and with it, a sense of urgency. Like the gate is swinging open again, and I’m the one standing there, holding space between dimensions.

And my granddaughter—only four, a little wild light of spirit in a body too small for all that magic—has just discovered dreaming herself. She wakes up shocked, asking me why there are pictures in her head while she sleeps. I tell her she’s not broken. She’s remembering. Like me.

And maybe that’s what this is. A passing of the torch. Or perhaps a relighting of my own. A reminder that my gifts aren’t wasted just because they don’t show up in ways the world validates. That sometimes, the most sacred work happens quietly, invisibly, between breaths and dreams.

So I’ll keep dreaming. I’ll keep listening. I’ll write it all down.

Because I am the bridge. The gatekeeper. And I am finally walking through my own door again.

And this time, I know what side I’m on.

Both.