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At 4 A.M., I awoke with this awesome dream:

I stand alone atop a steep hill as soft breezes caress my cheeks. Pinpricks of jeweled tones stud the night sky like a Moroccan shawl.

I perceived the dream as a gift from Creator God; its colors were flickering, inviting. Never have I experienced anything as beautiful—like screening the entrance into eternal life.

I’m grateful.

At 7:15 A.M., I awoke with this instructive dream:

Jesuit friends invite me to join them for meetings before the opening of the retreat at their facility located on the Atlantic Coast. A reserve on my usual room, with the floral chintz shag and matching bedspread facing the ocean, awaits me. Other laypersons have also been invited. A friendly Jesuit smiles as he eases me into an armchair in the conference room. The topic under review is the culling of four Jesuits on staff, their services no longer needed.

Deep within my psyche, Jesuit friends, symbolized by masculine energy, affirmed my efforts to integrate the disparate pieces of my unlived life before spirit leaves my body. For what felt a long time, their warmth and camaraderie encouraged the arduous continuation of this work.

The topic of the conference, the culling of four Jesuits on staff, their services no longer needed, suggested outdated defense mechanisms that no longer work in my psyche: fantasy, idealization, dissociation, and denial. Such block the conscious embrace of reality where life happens: From childhood, I was only able to look around life’s corners, not participate. These defense mechanisms had kept me safe, in my self-imposed prison, but no longer are they useful in my search for psychic integration.

Awareness of their continuing presence demands activation of the “conscious contact” of Step Eleven. Only HP can release me from this tyranny, for that is what it is.

The dream’s setting, the feminine container of my room with the floral chintz swag over the window facing the ocean, supports this endeavor. I have only to be willing to participate, one moment at a time.

Like stage prompters, March’s lengthening sunrays split nail-hard buds tipping shrubs, perennials, and trees. Promise of fresh greens, whites, pinks, and yellows rouses hope in psyches starved for color’s kiss.

It’s happening again. Let us give thanks …

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