I’m uneasy with another corrective dream:

It is night. A former classmate hosts a lavish party. The commotion of music, chatter, shrill laughter, and tinkling glasses of bubbly wines unnerves me. In no way is significant conversation possible. Then, Rachelle, one of the guests, takes possession of the dance floor, with solo gyrations in sync with the music. Clown-like circles of rouge cover her pasty cheeks. A narrow black belt nips her waist like twine on the end of a sausage link, over which her red blouse and navy skirt jiggle in fleshy folds.

I cringe as I record this dream with its recurring theme: chronic noise of my own making that blocks significant learning from Higher Power, that plunges me in painful isolation.

As in other dreams incorporated in this blog, night suggests the culmination of the day’s activities, or on a deeper level, the end of time. With increased symptoms of my terminal illness an undeniable fact, such dreams warrant close attention.

The lavish party speaks of my being dressed to the nines, feigning smiles, and being miserably bored, not unlike attending such gatherings in younger years.

That there is a Rachelle in my psyche gives me great pause. Like the wildness of my obsessive thoughts under cheap carnival lights, Rachelle high steps, twists and twirls, claps ringed hands above her horsehair wig, yells piecemeal lyrics. There’s no stopping her. Her garish make-up, her tasteless attire, her aging body gone to seed, and her self-absorption—all revolt me. Yet, she reflects multiple shadow issues I’ve accumulated through decades of mindless living.

But Rachelle is also my teacher as I deal with the inevitable diminishment and death of my old body. It doesn’t take much to set off such protest-racket that further worsens my breathing.

Whenever Rachelle surfaces, I’ve work to do.