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At 9 A.M., I awoke with this coaching dream:

Someone gave me a gift. I pull apart the tissue paper and discover a large folded rectangle of peach cloth, my favorite color. I shake it out. In my hands, it becomes a belted leisure gown, something that Mother would have enjoyed wearing in the 1930s when it was fashionable. Later, my brother Mark joins me and explains the artistic significance of the designs woven into the luscious fabric. I’m touched.

This view into my personal unconscious heartens me. The Someone suggests Creator God, giver of all gifts wanting the best for me, even to the color of the garment, peach, a blend of orange, yellow, and white that symbolizes the divine feminine.

The belted leisure gown speaks of change, given my aging and illness and less need to adhere to my daily routine of self-care. Fit in what is possible—the essentials—and let everything else go; they’ve served me well, together with two years of on-going hospice care. My body has special needs now, and my Dreamer has dressed me comfortably in a garment that enhances my wounded femininity.

The memory of Mother in the dream recalls her love for the color peach. As a young married woman and unable to afford a form-fitting crocheted dress, the fashion at that time, she bought a pattern book and made one on her own, in peach, with long sleeves and calf-length skirt. When home alone as a child, I used to open the cedar chest in her closet, pull out that dress, and put it on—it never fit.

And my brother Mark’s expertise that informed me of the garment’s added interest speaks to my undeveloped interest for the arts, thwarted by poor health. In the dream, I was glad for his company. He just showed up.

My gratitude for my Dreamer’s coaching continues encouraging me as I trek, alone, toward my eternal destiny. It is working out …

From a heavy sleep, I awoke at 7:30 A.M., with these stunning dreams:

It is Sunday afternoon, visiting time in the hospital. Many relatives fill Mother’s room where she lies in bed, awake and animated. I notice a smiling tiger looking at me from under her bed, its furry tail wagging, occasionally thumping on the floor.

I’m awake in my hospital bed as a clerk hands me a box wrapped in lavender tulle and silky ribbons. Inside is a deep-throated white orchid. There is no card.

These dreams contain sparks of hope from my Dreamer, a restoration sorely needed from yesterday’s severe grief.

Sunday afternoon refers to a period of receptivity, comparable with Creation’s Seventh Day, with opportunities for new learning. The image of hospital suggests a milieu of care and treatment for the new learning to occur. Mother, my extraverted shadow, although ill, welcomes her relatives seated and standing around her bed. No one seems to notice the smiling tiger, a spirit animal with multiple associations. This one is tame and serves as guardian into the unknown. I claim it as I continue moving through the symptoms of my terminal illness.

In the second dream God, disguised as a clerk, presents me with a gift/grace; its wrappings of regal lavenders speak of royalty, as in the Kingdom Jesus preached in the gospels. But the gift of the deep-throated orchid, a rich feminine symbol, heals some scars of the wounded feminine in my psyche, more of the beautification process before my transition—but more still to be done.

Once again, the dreams evidence God doing for me what I cannot do for myself. I’m humbled.

May, too, has its own snow, in the form of white seeded-fluff outside my study window; whispering breezes inch it along until lost in the grass or shrubs. Such transient beauty reminds me of long walks along the nearby creek where cottonwood trees flourish, the females yielding their seeds along the moist bank. Their heart-shaped leaves formed dense shade that often hushed me for the expected communion—It happened, amidst soft insects heralding life and tangled vines, immobile, from overhanging branches.

As spring’s cycle wanes the cottonwood seeding continues, littering the shredded seeds of oaks, maples, tulip trees mashed in gutters and sidewalks. From such destruction, greenness now wears a fresh fullness that will mature until stifled by harsh temperatures during the long months ahead.

Despite the stressed appearance of the natural world, new seeding, though buried, will again restore color to winter’s world. This remains our hope, and never has it been frustrated. 

So, too, with our bodies’ waning and death. Within it, we carry the seed of Eternal Life.

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