This corrective dream woke me at 11:30 p.m.

“Let Johnny Depp handle this for you,” I was told as someone placed an envelope in my hands and left.

 In the dream I was unfocused, not wholly present to my circumstances. My affect must have enlisted this unsought attention.

I’ve no image of someone, other than his voice repeating the directive several times. Nor do I recall the story or the setting from which this directive was issued.

After an online search of fifty-seven year old Johnny Depp, I shuddered with his creepiness: cunning as a snake, manipulative as a pimp, and stealthy as a thief. And in Jungian psychology, he corresponds to the image of my negative animus corroding my instinct to live.


Obvious questions followed: what was Johnny Depp doing in my psyche? Why was he singled out as source of help for my dilemma? If I did need help, why him, given spirited guides I’ve consulted in the past?

Certainly the weekend’s eruption of nerve pain in my left knee, the phone contact with the on-call hospice nurse, and the first time taking Oxycodone with its mellowing effect red-flagged my body’s continuing diminishment over which I have no control—and in its wake, dissociation from my body.

Then, spiritual insights gleaned from significant readings, breathless interludes of prayer, and phone contacts with my CPA sponsor could have messed with my groundedness. Like everyone else, I still pee and poop and use underarm deodorant.

For me, it’s about waking up to my finite humanness and throwing away the envelope. Ultimate direction flows from within.