It’s been weeks since my nightly “Cocktail” of morpheme and Lorazapan afforded me a window through which to glimpse my dreams. This morning at 3:15, I recorded these corrective dreams:

I offer to help my sister shop for khaki pants. Department stores, boutiques, and thrift shops fill the day, but nothing is suitable. Finally, we discover a beauty salon/specialty store and go inside. The first pair that my sister tries on fits perfectly except the lengths are two feet long and will need altering before wearing them.

I watch a young woman care for a viable two-trimester baby girl sucking her thumb and kicking her right foot in the air. Breezes fondle her new hair. I’m amazed.

Shopping has never appealed to me. Helping my sister shop for khaki pants suggests holiday scatter-shot in my psyche that ramped up anxiety, loneliness, even grief. Unnecessary exhaustion blanketed chronic fatigue, even pulled me apace from Twelve Step work in Chronic Pain Anonymous.

The lengths of the pants require radical altering. This is where AA’s description of humility comes into play: getting right sized with the resumption of Twelve Steps: living fully in the present moment, the Source of grace.

The second dream also stunned me. The young woman, the baby’s mom, appears impatient of her daughter’s lung formation and essential weight gain, the third trimester’s critical tasks. Despite inexperience, she would provide for the needs of her daughter. Such also reveals my impatience with birthing my spirit into eternal life, for which I’ve no experience. Again, my unconscious need to control the uncontrollable begs for an even deeper humility and acceptance of my humanness.

In time, I will die, as will everyone else. I just don’t know when, despite my readiness.