Around 7 A.M., I was roused by this corrective dream:

I‘ve finished my book, and before submitting it to my publisher, I draw up a list of marketing and sales questions to review with my brother John. He meets with me and responds to all my concerns in an English that I do not understand. I’m uneasy. I still need help

How well I remember my elation when the manuscripts of my two memoirs were finally clean enough for the graphic designer’s artistry and subsequent self-publishing, in 2012 and 2015, respectively. At the time, I was reminded that no book is ever finished; only abandoned.

In the dream, my book suggests the full rendition of my life, not just the published accounts of my character disorders and Twelve-Step recovery. No longer willing to work on my book anymore, Iabandon it, but not before beefing up my marketing skills, in hopes for a profit. I expected John’s guidance for this, but was nonplussed by his unintelligible comments. I seethed, stymied in my tracks, like an entrapped black bear. I roared.

An honest take on this dream speaks to my impatience with the dailyness of my increasing symptoms and limits, to my pride in shortchanging my life and thwarting further spiritual growth, and to my greed in making a profit, undeserved of me. Obviously, my publisher is not willing to go along with my plan of abandonment, as spiritual as that may sound.

I only have this twenty-four hours in which to wiggle around, in hopes of deliverance from my arrogance. And there will be other twenty-four hours…