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Splat! Splat! Splint! Outside my window, water droplets animate lilac leaves lifted in supplication like raised palms before their god. Too early have scorching suns aged the longed-for-greening of shrubs and trees in our neighborhood. Jets of sprinklers spew water over distressed lawns, and flowerbeds peak with riotous colors.

Splat! Splat! The moistening continues, albeit more slowly. Hesitant breezes spoof droplets, careening into larger ones emptying into gutters like bobsleds on iced tracks. A juvenile squirrel skitters up the stippled trunk of the sweet gum and disappears in thick foliage.

Then, the watering stops, the oatmeal sky brightens, and breezes muffle their meanderings. Only solitary droplets remain upon the leaves. Sidewalks dry.

No drencher this morning, no spring-step mists, no soaker-hose-rain to massage clods of dirt—just Splat! Splat!—the ground only tattooed with dark swirls.

Such dryness nudges my psyche, bereft of dreams for several days. Deprived of my compass, I list about seeking this or that, in hopes one will reveal its élan and reconnect me with significant moorings.

So my dryness continues … until the next dream.




“Hi Liz! So glad we’re meeting this morning. Do come in.” So welcomed Ellen Sheire standing in her doorway, her brown eyes shimmering with light, her amber bangles and earrings complementing her shirtwaist dress. It was March 1988, a humid morning that would launch decades of dream analysis with my new helper, a Jungian-trained analyst. I had nowhere else to go, racked, as I was, by terrifying dreams imaging physical and psychic disorders.

Denial screened the enormity of this undertaking: the complete gut job of my psyche, given its mishmash of others’ values ill-suited to my individuation. With no sense of who I was, with no voice, I was slowly dying.

What was obvious to Ellen those first weeks of dream analysis was my disease of alcoholism. However, denial thwarted entering12-Step recovery and the brownstone across the street until 1991. There, I learned about letting go and letting God, a process that continues into the present.

Interesting that Ellen never sought to fix me, rather midwifed me toward the God-given riches buried within my unconscious. Her tactics were simple: recommended Jungian authors who amplified the elucidation of my dreams each week; travel with Jungian study groups to Sacred sites of the Feminine in western Europe; active imagination with spirit guide Michael for, ten years; memoir writing, once retired; and monthly meetings of the local C. J. Jung Society. Thirty-three loose-leaf binders evidenced the fruitfulness of our relationship.

A woman of selfless joy, Ellen Sheire drew me to her study those Friday mornings from which I emerged with renewed hope, even laughter, to continue this arduous work. My gratitude is boundless.

From this vantage point, I’m deeply content to return this gift of life, with her finger prints, to Creator-God, whenever, however…



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

I’m shopping at a boutique. An older friend of Mary Ann asks me to drop by a cherry- red velour long sleeve dress with a self-tie belt, along with a burnt-chocolate cropped jacket that she’d picked out for her. The outfit appeals to me and I regret not having selected it for myself. I drive over to Mary Ann’s house and find her dispirited, uninterested in the outfit. She hands it back to me.

The dream lays bare dynamics hidden within the recesses of my shadow tucked in my unconscious. The boutique resembles ones I used to frequent, decades ago, their high energy pumping desire, their clothing remarkable for crisp fabrics, vibrant colors, and flattering styles.

I brighten with interest noting the cherry-red velour long sleeve dress with a self-tie belt, along with the burnt-chocolate cropped jacket. The ensemble, though representative of the 1980s, still reflects my tastes as well as my past addiction for still another outfit. Twice each year, I had to thin out my closets for more space.

 An older friend suggests the thoughtful woman in my psyche, properly aligned with Higher Power and willing to fulfill her request. But Mary Ann is another story: chronically angry, controlling, rigid, self-absorbed, the dross of my character defects still to be removed, once recognized and turned over to Higher Power.

Even the outfit, specifically selected for Mary Ann, fails to evoke spirit as she turns her face to the wall. This tidbit recalls years of outfits for which my godmother gifted my birthdays, most of which I returned for credit.

Despite daily efforts to live more mindfully, I still have work to do before leaving here—My Dreamer always tells the truth.

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