After ten hours of restful sleep, I awoke at 7 A.M. with this healing dream:

It is Sunday afternoon. January’s bluster nips my cheeks as I hurry toward the conference room at The College Church. Some old friends still remember me as I take my seat. Other parishioners buzz in anticipation for the program: the origins of Southern spirituals, their history, together with black and white sketches that line the walls. I’m pleased that the Black presenter will respond to my question.

I still smile with this dream story—depicting me alive and well in mind, spirit, and body—with no sign of morbidity.

January’s bluster suggests the continuing hardship of managing with less-than-perfect lungs, moving into each twenty-four hours with my helpers. Sunday speaks to a more mindful pace of living.

The College Church, the dream’s setting, comes as a surprise. In May 2007, another dream demanded I leave, as it no longer challenged me. In subsequent years, negativity clouded other College Church dreams; but not this one. Perhaps it has morphed into my psychic church, wherein I’m put to the test, daily, moment by moment.

Within my psyche, Some old friends welcome me, suggesting a deepening relationship with who I am becoming. Their graced company offers consolation.

Southern spirituals, the subject of the presentation, speak of grief, still lodged in my unconscious, yet to be fully experienced. Still an onlooker to this process, I own having made several ill-designed forays that dead-ended.

And my question suggests ferment, again in my unconscious, allowing words to coalesce in meaningful searches as I continue digging deep into my flawed humanness for the meaningful.

And my trust in the Black presenter suggests my Higher Power, attuning me to His will with each breath and informing me of this process, only when ready.

So I’m grateful for this arduous work that’s keeping me conscious, more than I have ever been in my life.