Around 2 A. M., I woke with this piece of a patriot’s dream:

I am in the American Revolutionary War.

Only this fact remained. No story accompanied it, but it’s still something to work with.

My recent completion of David McCullough’s John Adams (2001) and 1776 (2005) opened my psyche to the conflicted beginnings of America, culminating in the bloody war for independence from Great Britain; it dragged on for seven years. No wonder my Dreamer came up with this fact, given my present waiting.

Evidently, my life instinct wars in my unconscious, in view of the newly discovered riches of existence that I’m loathe to leave. In solitude and silence, I’ve learned to see with my heart. Surprises abound. More of God’s face shimmers upon the unexpected, like the torn leaf of the London plane tree outside my kitchen window, its rift increasing with September winds. Such tingles my core and begs for more.

So what about my role in the American Revolutionary War? The Dreamer seems to want me to figure it out. Two options open before me: a fierce combatant against Creator God and His will for me, with greed demanding more than my eighty-five years of life. Or a patriot decimating psychic entities wanting my death before it happens and keeping me alert at my word processor, despite the heaviness of my symptoms. I choose the latter.

Long ago, I was told, “Keep writing into wholeness!”—No matter what happens.