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I was getting close—just around the corner. Three days had passed since last seeing them, alive with butterflies and inching toward the garage roof of a neighbor. Joy infused my steps with giggles as humid breezes fanned my cheeks.

Up ahead, brilliant yellows seemed to stretch into the morning sun, guffawing. Then, they appeared: rows of sunflowers, bleached strips securing their heads to stakes. Awed, I stood among them, looking up. Bees alighted upon their daisy-like heads and did their bees-thing while a solitary blackbird cawed. Quintessentially summer’s gift, I lodged this multi-faceted image in my heart for a later time.

That time is now. Like those sunflowers, their heads trained upon the sun’s beneficence, from sunup to sundown, I depend upon Creator Sun, to keep me vibrantly alive as I move through the continuing diminishment of my lungs, increased weakness, and occasional brain fog. Eventually, these symptoms will contribute to the death of my body and the consequent release of spirit.

In a related sense, after sunflowers wither and die their seeds are harvested, supplementing diets with protein, Vitamin E, and heart-friendly good fats.

So the imprint of death coexists within the living, until exhausted and disintegrated—No warding it off with miracle fixes or geographical cures. It’s always been that way, evidence of an inscrutable wisdom is at work in our lives.

It behooves us to pay close attention and learn.


At midnight, this dream startled me:

A festive mood circulates among well-wishers, dressed to the nines, seated upon white folding chairs in a large clearing encircled by virgin pines. Beneath a brilliant sun the wedding party make last minute adjustments to their floral gowns, tweak daisies and yellow coneflowers in their bouquets while sharing stories of the couple. Near the tulle-decked canopy stands the minister who reviews the readings for the ceremony. Suddenly, like a summer squall, a pall douses the guests—the bride has died.

 This dream mirrors extremes in my psyche: vibrant health and death. Such information corresponds to my hospice experience, the richest period in my life.

Despite occasional symptoms that unnerve me, vibrancy of spirit permeates my diseased eighty-four-old-body with fresh élan. Each day’s adventure increases the aching for ultimate communion (the wedding) that awaits me. I am ready, but as in the dream story, I’ve still more dying to experience: The skid marks of self-absorption and rage, imprinted upon my psyche by a lifetime of chronic pain and illness must be addressed.

As in the dream, harmony evidences the Sacred-in-our-midst: the bright spirits of my helpers, the camaraderie of CPA recovery, the greening outside my study windows, the laughter of helmeted kids on scooters pumping along sidewalks—Above all, those moments of cherishing the hidden treasure in the field that Jesus talks about.

As also in the dream, summer’s riotous colors play upon my imagination, jostle words into figures of speech for use in my writing. Even yesterday’s squall refreshes my spirit.

Such dreams afford significant guidance and companion my nights/days as I move through end time, with its grace-in the-moment.


At midnight I awoke with this dream:

The Eyes of Isis has just been published and drawn rave reviews. I’m eager to buy my own copy.

 For the remainder of the night, sleep came in fits and starts, given my body’s memory of touring the Egyptian Temple of Isis with a Jungian study group in 1996. It was the last temple built in the classical Egyptian style, with construction beginning around 690 BCE.



Overwhelmed then and now by the Sacred Feminine, my psyche thrummed with energies opening onto vast realms beyond imagining. Who would have thought I would revisit this sacred site of Isis in my dream? Would find such nurturing as I await my transition? Would again feel at home within Isis’s protective arms?—No matter the centuries that separate us, Isis first mentioned in the Pyramid Texts, c. 2350–c. 2100 BCE. The priests of Heliopolis developed her myth that spread throughout the Greco-Roman world, its mysteries practiced in her Temples.



Isis’s devotees yearned for spiritual growth in this life and a high place in the afterlife. In this striving, they leaned into her motherly wisdom and compassion, sought the succor of her healing, and welcomed her presence at the weighing of heart ceremony in the underground Hall of Osiris. I share their yearning.

The dream seems to invite deeper penetration within the eyes of Isis opening out upon bliss, and not lose heart with the rigors of my transition. This is working out.


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