Around 7:30 A.M., I stirred with this corrective dream:

My anxiety mounted with meaningless background noise as I waited for my masseuse. I looked forward to her soothing touch, especially upon my spine. The door opened. She was ready for me. There, she stood, but drastically altered: her head unevenly shaved, her slit-like eyes trained upon me like a hawk’s, her gap teeth resembled a clown’s, her lanky body covered by a neck-to-floor soiled sheath. She repulsed me.

Within the depths of my psyche lives my drastically altered masseuse, eager to knead her powerful hands within the contours of my body/mind. So unlike her former Feminine self, she repulsed me. Only later did I realize her clever disguise as the Sacred. The dream ended without my taking action.

Given the hectic drift of my ego, it’s no wonder that she revealed her true self. I needed the correction to slow down, especially since daily walks in the air-conditioned YMCA have energized me, a tad. My body is still terminally ill, despite obsessing on more outings with my portable oxygen and mask—Even entertaining the notion of taking the Pfizer vaccine. Such is the meaningless background noise that annoys me like thousands of fleas on holiday.

I no longer need to be out in “the marketplace” as little appeals to me. No need to fudge around the edges of my daily routine that has kept me steadfast for almost two years of hospice palliative care. Certainly, more prayer and rest will help assuage my masseuse’s outrageous behavior. She’s got my attention, that’s for sure.