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At 2 A.M., a recurring dream woke me:

It is Sunday afternoon, the sky clear. Earlier, I had parked my Toyota on the corner of Lindell Boulevard, largely empty of cars. After I unlocked my car and positioned myself in the driver’s seat, I turned on the ignition and placed the gear in reverse. Slowly, I accelerated. From the right fender came scraping noises. Rather than stop and investigate the source of the problem, I continued heading toward home.

 At 8 A. M., I woke with this dream:

Exhausted, lethargic, brain-fogged, I request spiritual direction from Mother Schroen, the Mistress of Novices. I wish to leave the noviceship. When others did so, I felt the pull to do, as well. The morning of the appointment, I arrive at the bathroom, the indicated place for the meeting. I’ve a great need to urinate, but the water level in the toilet bowl is too high. If flushed, it would overflow and I wouldn’t know what to do. No sign of Mother.

Both dreams address deep-seated, obsessive fears in my psyche. True, during waking hours, I monitor my overall functioning, making necessary adjustments for shortness of breath, weakness, and dizziness when still under the side effect of Dexamethasone. But my Dreamer spins other scenarios, closer to the actual truth for my continual spiritual awakening—manifest through the practice of the Twelve Steps.

CPA’s Step One counters my unmanageability by reminding me of the powerlessness of my terminal disease. Let go and let things be as they are. In Step Two, I deepen my faith in Higher Power’s will to restore me to wholeness. And in Step Three, I again surrender my life and will to Higher Power’s plan for me, despite recurring impatience. Then in Step Seven, I humbly ask for release of the obsession.

 It works, until the next relapse.

Sweetness, the aftermath of a dream, enveloped my waking moments like the profusion of summer vine clematis trailing over a trellis. I smiled, deeply, knowing that I am loved unconditionally, as is everyone else.

Early this morning, I awoke with this corrective dream:

Anxious, restless, and hungry, I turn over in my hospital bed and check the wall clock—still several hours before the breakfast trays will reach our floor. Then, I pull the mask over my eyes and doze, until roused by the food cart’s rumbling in the corridor. More time passes and no breakfast. “Have you got a tray for Moloney?” I finally yell. An aproned server stops by my door and says, “No—Didn’t get an order for one.”

 After a short interval, he returns with hot biscuits and gravy, bacon, fruit juices, and coffee, all of which trigger the inflammation of my rheumatoid arthritis, if eaten.

Anxious, restless, and hunger suggest multiple faces of anger hiding out in my unconscious, out of reach from my blogger’s mind; how easily it has spoken of acceptance of the terminal malaise in my body. Yet, decreased breathing in tow with weakness has opened me to the biology of my body. Such has cast me within a deeper dimension of suffering, a new marker along the path toward my transition. Only with its recognition can I unite with the Passion of the Cosmic Christ in our midst.

Another take on the dream suggests my need for closer scrutiny with the “feedings” of news outlets, slanted by journalists’ and talk show hosts’ politicization of their stories. Instead of being informed, confusion and overwhelment result. Few ask my opinion, anyway. Given my present circumstances and limited time, other resources can better keep me strong in spirit and teachable.

With the Crucified, I pray, “Passion of Christ, strengthen me.” from the Anima Christi, attributed to St. Ignatius of Loyola, (1491 – 1556).

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