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At 6:15 A. M., I awoke with this encouraging dream:

It is winter, dark outside. After long decades, I return to college, brightly lit, with my belongings and discover my old small room has been completely renovated in engaging pastels of creams, greens, and strawberries—a suitable milieu to continue my studies. As I begin settling in, a former classmate says excitedly, “I didn’t know you were here!” then sits on my new desk chair. Others who I’d studied with also fill my room that overlooks the street below. Occasional noises, the only drawback.

This encouraging dream reveals fresh beginnings in my psyche. Again, the winter, dark outside suggests the shortening span of my life—a critical reminder to live in the now and to let go of yesterdays and tomorrows. I’ve still much to learn.

The college, brightly lit, suggests advanced learning, the opportunity to deepen my knowledge of human history, free from idealism or romanticism or muddled thinking. I’m clearly ready.

And my old small room felt like the one at the Junior College I attended, the first time away from home. In the dream, though, its colors gladdened me. The Interior Decorator, aware of my preferences, had created this environment for new learning, despite its hardness, knowing that I would feel at home.

And a former classmate, as well as those who later fill my room with feminine energy, suggests a plethora of positive support and encouragement. Joy abounds.

Lastly, the occasional noises speak of irritations woven into life’s fabric, also sources for new learning.

This encouraging dream still lives on, its beeswax fragrance, a source of contentment  … 

“Here! Take the end of your stick and I’ll guide you to the treadmill,” said a petite woman, her thick white hair bobbed below her ear lobes, her soft grey eyes and mouth suggesting they’d been partners for a long time.

Ahead of me, leaning against the wall of the corridor at the YMCA was another senior, also with curly hair and a neat mustache. His unbuttoned long sleeve shirt appeared threadbare with washings, his Stars n’ Stripes suspenders hitched to faded jeans, with no hips to hold them up.

He knew what to do. With both hands he gripped the end of his white cane and followed, one slow step followed by another, until they stopped behind the treadmill. After she helped him climb on and set the controls, she turned on the one next to his, and together they walked.

This elder man was no stranger, although drastically altered in appearance. On my way to meetings, most Sunday mornings, I used to watch him climb the hills in my neighborhood, his blind stick instructing each step he took. I often wondered who took care of him, his grooming and attire always in good taste. Never was he without his high visibility vest with safety stripes that complimented his khaki pants. He seemed aware of seasonal changes and the beauty around him. Although he was alone, he was always companied, his joy overflowing.

Then, I often bemoaned my sightedness that missed out on life’s fullness. It still occurs.

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