At 7:30 A.M., I awoke with this surprising dream:

I’m sitting in my living room, still wearing my gown and robe, my morning care interrupted by Tootsie who wears a T-shirt and shorts and sits on the sofa across from me. She laughs deeply as she explains her knee-length cast, its back attached to a board with large wheels that helps her walk.

The dream’s surprise visitor, Tootsie, was a nun like myself, with whom I had lived in New Orleans in the 1960s. Long deceased, I’d not thought of her in years, but her hilarity still hangs out in my psyche. In the work of Dr. Carl G. Jung, she becomes my extraverted shadow: a reminder not to take myself so seriously, given my nagging symptoms.

There is laughter, merriment, long hidden beneath years of diminishing health and my efforts to keep up with my interests. Not always strong enough to give them expression, I’m still tickled within.

In my psyche, a lightness of spirit delves into the God-care that surrounds us. As the Tootsie in my dream, I’m nudged toward an even deeper surrender to my eternal destiny, beyond all imagining, no more living within the constraints of time. It will happen; that said, the Inner Vanquisher has no business with me.