I remember clearly feeling happy about this little assignment, because the design was pretty, and I was happy to make it even prettier. But the paper was hard to color, and if the crayon was pressed too hard it tore. If the light wasn’t just right, the embossing disappeared. I think I probably used two or three of the napkins until I found just the right pressure so that the color would take but not damage.

Isn’t that the way with memories, though? We carry them, lightly embossed on our minds, our bodies. If we touch them too hard some of them can dissolve or tear. If we color them in, are we getting that right? Was the tree really that yellow against the blue sky that day? Was grandmother’s house really white on the outside and so very dark on the inside? Do we even have that shade in our color box? Is the implement we use to fill in the blanks too blunt or too sharp for our fragile recollections?

My Dad used to tell us his memories. Some of them were so detailed, so clearly defined, that I wonder now if he could possible have remembered with such clarity. But recently I do recall how he would say, when pressed, “Well, I do like to tell a good story.” Was he coloring them in?

What truth do we rely on when we think about our own memories? Are they embossed deeply enough that we can see and feel them with any accuracy? Or are they fleeting impressions that fade or tear if examined or pressed too hard?

The process of recall is on my mind. We will go to our Thanksgiving tables tomorrow and reminisce about the past. And each impression will be as real and as individual as each person sitting around that table. I will try to remember that and collect each impression without judgment or the urge to correct or redefine. Our memories are ours. They belong to us exactly as we recall them, as we feel them. They make us who we are, for better or for worse. But maybe with the different lights and colors others bring to them, they are a bit more colorful, a bit more rounded, given a bit more depth, and hopefully accepted with generosity and love.

May your Thanksgiving be full, and your giving thanks heartfelt.

When I was a kid in the 1940’s and 50’s, no matter how depressed things were in my house, and often that was the case, whenever I saw the bright Christmas decorations and the row upon row of holiday ornaments lined up at the dime store, my spirits lifted. I knew it wouldn’t be long before my mother would come out of her downward spiral and rally for Christmas. Sometimes those Christmases were more manic than fun, but at least they weren’t sad.

A tradition was born when we were newlyweds in 1970, and we were decorating our first Christmas tree as husband and wife. I made pea soup and cornbread, we crafted homemade ornaments, and watched The Bishop’s Wife starring Cary Grant and Loretta Young. I have continued to make pea soup during the holidays, and we could probably recite all of the dialogue from The Bishop’s Wife.

It rained last night and today is chilly and overcast, so perfect pea soup weather. I’m a little late with the soup, but since it is technically only the fifth day of Christmas for some, I think it still counts. Chopped onion, celery, carrots, ham, and a lovely little bay leaf fill the house with savory smells as they flavor the dried peas.

It makes me think of all the things we humans do to fill our need for tradition and connection. I am thankful that these small acts bind us closer whenever we repeat them or even just remember them. I think of Christmases past when we had Swedish Fruktsoppa, or fruit soup as we called it. It was the one thing my Swedish grandmother made that my Dad loved and looked forward to. But then he loved fruitcake, too, and that was something only he had a taste for. That tradition hasn’t carried on, but remembering it still fills a little corner of my heart.

Remembrance of Christmas past, and the honoring of some of those old traditions in Christmas present are ways we honor our ancestors. Maybe we even consider some of our decorations to be an altar, as does one of my dearest friends. Certainly for me, they are sacred. Even the pea soup. Happy Holidays!

under the drooping branch of wet poppy leaves?

Even after days of rain it still looked dry and dusty, the skin cracked like old leather.

I feel like that some days, split, spilled, cracked open.

The bright seeds inside still held a juicy promise for a brown squirrel with a watchful eye

and he, or she, took time to taste those tiny glowing morsels

and then in a flash disappeared

the fruit empty, picked clean.

Read more if you are interested, available on Kindle or paperback at Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGJTFFH

Dinner preparations are going on, and now I’m in charge. When I was a kid I tried to be on hand whenever that was happening. I liked to find pieces of cabbage hearts, celery bottoms, raw potato. I would salt them and amidst many warnings from my grandmothers or my mom, I would eat them. They would shake their heads and return to whatever task called them. One of my grandmothers was sure I was poisoning myself. I wasn’t, though. In fact, I think that habit did me a power of good. Yes, sometimes there was a bit of grit in the celery bottom, but why wouldn’t there be? It was the part that touched the earth. This was in the days before all the pesticides and chemicals were used. As far as I know. But somehow I’m still around at 81, anyway.

Today I’m making an Irish stew. No meat, just lots of vegetables. I can hear my grandmother saying “You can’t eat that potato skin!” Yes, yes, I can. I rarely peel my potatoes, even when making potato salad. I say if you are going to eat a potato, eat the whole potato. I didn’t put the cabbage core in the pot because that’s just for me and my salt shaker. Thin slices, nice and cold. Yum. Better than potato chips.

Scavenging now has become really popular. Even the city now wants our table scraps for composting. Finally, and about time too, and yes let’s all do this! Green bins are the new Robin Hoods, doing what they can to save the earth and us in the bargain.

I think there is something to be said for this approach to all of life. Take what you need, not what you think you want. Don’t let anybody tell you that this or that isn’t going to suit you. If you find it good and pleasing, that’s what you need. Nay sayers may have something to offer you, but it isn’t their nay saying that is going to be of use. You tell you what you want.

I scavenged some flowers from my rain-ravaged garden today. They are by no means perfect, bent and beaten as they have been, but they look pretty happy to me. Anyway, they are making me happier and healthier. Eleven storms in the last several weeks has beaten us this way and that, but we stood it because we know how desperate we are here in California for rain. More on the way next week, too. But for now let’s scavenge some sunshine and appreciate all the green. Oh, and Happy St. Patrick’s Day and don’t forget St. Gertrude!

You can get a copy of my novel here.

If you like it, let me know!

“The traffic felt like another personal attack. Another kind of boxing in, not giving her room, impeding her. It made her angry, and it made her sad. She’d felt trapped so long by her mother’s illnesses--mental and otherwise--even after she left home. The relationship she craved from both her parents kept eluding her. And now, just when she thought she might have a chance at building something with her dad, there was another needy woman in his life. Somebody else with a claim on his time, his focus, his emotional energy. Would Jenny ever get to be the focus? Even for an hour? A minute?”

Family dynamics have an impact long after those who were our parents are gone. Developing awareness about how those dynamics assist us or hurt us is a long, complicated process. Will they continue to shape our days in patterns of worry and sadness for things we could never have controlled? Or will we manage to break free enough to make new paths that include joy and freedom on our journey? It can take a lot of intentional effort and a lot of trial and error before we find a way that suits us better, that feels like our own.

Sometimes Jenny found herself locked in isolated patterns of negative emotional responses that weren’t quite suited to what was actually happening. And those responses made her turn even more inward, made her tighten her grip on the familiar rather than risk opening up to something new.

If you’d like to read more about her journey you can find her story here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BTGJTFFH

I hope you like it.

Do you suppose, that 2000 years ago, when sandaled feet, dusty and dirty with the labors and travel of the day, were bathed by family or friends, it felt any different than it does today?

Was the water less or more refreshing than we are used to?

Was the soap or oil used to help in the cleansing any less effective?

Were cuts or bruises on those feet from an unexpected encounter with thorns or rocks or sticks any less sore?

Were the cloths used to dry those tired feet less effective than what we have today?

After a long day of play or helping with daily tasks were children any less wiggly, or giggly, or whiny?

I suppose it was all very much the same then as now. We are, as they were, grateful for any small attention from those welcoming us home. Whether it is the ceremony of bringing slippers, pouring a glass of wine, rubbing the knots out of aching shoulders, we are nurtured on a deep level, as they most certainly would have been.

Maunday Thursday is a reminder that these small tasks of grace we do for others are sacred. They connect us deeply as family, as friends. And even if we find ourselves alone on this day, we can do something that reminds us we have been loved and cared for in ways we may never have noticed.

Let’s be more aware in the future. Let’s provide the smallest of gestures of care when we can. Let’s handle each other gently, doing the same for ourselves. I suppose that, in fact, small gestures of self-care make every other act of kindness possible.

“Her extremes cornered him...immobilized him, until he was forced into action to protect her. It would mean another hospital stay...another attempt at medication....The toll it took on [their daughter] Jenny had been huge. Neither one of them were available to her after she was about ten. She had to learn to fend for herself. ...There were so many sleepless nights, so many spoiled holidays, so many times when the house had been in chaos. No wonder [Jenny] left home when she was so young.”

More about Jenny’s story in THE CUCKOO.

Jack is on his way home from collecting firewood in the San Jacinto mountains when he sees a woman pushing a bike along a back country road. For a split second something about her reminds him of his dead wife. She looks vulnerable and so sad. That chance meeting pulls Jack into her dark past in ways neither of them could have predicted.

It’s not like I’m at war with it, or anything. I frequently order up dreams of one kind or another. But that doesn’t always pay off, either. Say I want a calm dream of meeting a friend in a quiet garden or by the sea. The response I get could very well be a dystopian dream or one of being expected to go on stage not knowing my lines.

I do know that these burps and misleading responses could very well be easily interpreted by any qualified Jungian. But frankly I’m getting a bit annoyed. I have tried, over the course of many years, and in many professional settings, to interpret what gets shown up on the screen of my mind’s eye. And when I break these things down for my conscious mind, they all seem way too simplistic and obvious. I expected that there would be more sophistication in my subconscious, more nuance, a bit of subtlety. But no, usually after consideration I see a child’s drawing of a horsey or a boat or a bowl of spaghetti. The cause and effect is no Wagnerian Opera, as I had thought it would be, but only a simple little ditty like “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”.

But sometimes we need to celebrate what we do have. And we do have so much. Without times to appreciate the freedom we have, we cannot find the strength to keep working toward the ultimate goal.

I sent a last minute invitation to my family on July 3rd, telling them I was going to have potato salad, baked beans, and hot dogs available if they wanted to visit on the 4th. And yes, ice cream. I felt in need of a normal holiday with family. Potato salad is easy to throw together, and ‘my’ baked beans consist of canned beans in the crockpot with some brown sugar, ketchup, and mustard. How easy is that? This year I just put all the hot dogs and sausages in the same baking pan and put them in the oven to heat. How easy is that? There were times in the past when we made our own ice cream. We churned and turned and added more ice, more salt, to keep up the freezing process in an old fashioned ice cream bucket. But this year, store bought ice cream was pretty tasty, and effortless. How easy is that?

We didn’t have fireworks, no need for any more loud explosions here. Plenty going on all around us. Everybody said yes to my last-minute invite. And we gathered together, ate, talked, wandered out to the very warm garden (some of us), and the cousins made plans for a visit to an amusement park on Friday, and people moved from group to group. There was a lot of laughter, and we didn’t talk politics, not yesterday.

Remember how awful lock down was, and how we all felt imprisoned for so long? I won’t forget that, not ever. And our freedom to just be together put a shine on everything. There were no actual sparklers, but in so many ways, we all did sparkle. We all did shine. How easy is that?

The scenery is spectacular. I have traveled to Europe and when we reached the Mediterranean regions in Italy or France, I often thought I was home again in California.

We live in the San Fernando Valley, and we must traverse the canyons, one way or another, to get to the sea. Today we made the journey to Malibu where the surf is often ‘up’ as they say. Today the ocean was calm, the waves gentle on the shore where we sat enjoying the view and the food.

On our way back home we saw something we often see here, too. A large plume of smoke indicated somewhere in the Santa Monica mountains there was a fire. These brush fires are common in the summer and fall, and always alarming because of the tragedies that may follow. Today it looked like whatever was happening was being contained, mostly, because the smoke was white which I am told indicates there was water dropped. But there was still a reddish brown undertone that meant it might not be fully controlled.

We are surrounded by the folds of these mountains and the beautiful foliage that covers them, especially this year due to lots of rain. Everything is lush. But recent heat is begining to dry out the brush. Rye grass is turning yellow, then brown. Danger is ahead. If the mesquite goes up it will be a hot fire, hard to control. Mesquite has an oil in it that means it burns hot, and long.

It’s wonderful how we live with danger and beauty, somehow aware of both. Today was glorious. Lunch with good friends by the sea, a drive through the canyon back to our home, and a reminder that the world we have now is both beautiful and perilous, which sharpens our appreciation all the more.

It was a good day at school. I am in the fifth grade and today I wore my new saddle shoes. They look good, and the blisters on my heels are a small price to pay for being part of the after-school handball game. I’m walking home now, but the rubber ball bouncing on the asphalt and then hitting the backboard still rings in my ears. My fist opens and closes remembering the satisfying smack against the ball’s surface.

Someone has lit a fire and the smell of pine burning obscures the acrid smell of the smog. There’s a cool breeze, and some of the trees show they are getting ready to drop leaves. Their colors are muted, not brilliant, but still in California they let us know fall is here.

Will there be meatloaf for dinner tonight? Maybe. My grandmother will be there by now. It’s Thursday night, and she usually comes for dinner on Thursday. Meatloaf probably for sure. And baked potatoes. Maybe Coleslaw. My stomach is growling. I’m always hungry. Thursdays we have big dinners, not just a meat patty and some bread. I love Thursdays.

I am skipping now, in spite of the blisters. I can see my grandmother’s car in our driveway. Sprinklers are turned on all up and down the street, to keep the wide lawns green just a little bit longer. I skip close to the spray, mouth open, to catch a drop or two of water.

Then it’s up the three steps to our front porch. I can smell the meatloaf and baking potatoes from the door. Yep. Grandma’s here.

Children have an instinct about nature if they are exposed to it early enough. They understand completely they are part of it, not separate from it. I want to remember that as an adult. I want to get close enough to the leaves of my maple tree so that I can breathe the miracle of clean air. I want to stand under the full moon and drink in her kind, reflected light.

As a child I thought my relationship with the natural world was unique, that I alone could appreciate it for the tiniest flower, the hidden splendor of a seashell, or the faint aroma of rain. My dad pointed out the secret life of a ladybug when I was about three, and I took that idea and made it my own. My mother did not share my astonishment at the life of a ladybug or anything else I brought her from nature. I remember finding what looked like the tiniest of rose buds in the grass of our front yard. She was busy at the sink, and my treasure could not have been less interesting if I had brought her a handful of dirt. In that one moment I realized that some people did not see things as I saw them. And that is, of course, true. Personal experience is unique. No one can see through my eyes what I see, or hear what I hear with my ears, feel exactly what I feel when I touch a leaf. We come into the world as a part of it, but unique to it. The moon shines on all of us, we see it wax and wane, but the pull we experience in our bodies, in the tides of our blood and tissue, is different for each one of us.

I wish you joy in all the nuances of this season of change. Remember you are unique in your experience of every delicious, challenging, comforting moment. Savor all of them.

Symbolic of a longing to get out and about again, the shoes guilt me every time I open my closet. It hasn’t helped that I am plagued by a troublesome Achilles tendon on one foot and two knees that have almost no cartilage to cushion them. Yes, I’m doing all the things one is supposed to do about that. But I find overcoming the pain to do the exercise and walking prescribed is so damn hard.

I have become oppositional-defiant within myself. My spirit is in constant conflict with my body. I think this is an age-old problem, and I mean that in every sense you can make of it. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak....” We all know that one.

I long for a tonic to take me out of this morass, energy to finish the laundry and plan the meals, strength to walk the steps, pedal the exercycle, make the bed every morning. Is it just that I am aging? This is not the me I expected to find in this time and place.

It’s easy to blame one’s own inabilities on external factors. But I really do think that we are living in an entirely different world. I see my grandkids hurrying to catch up because they missed so much during that interminable year of lock-down and Zoom schooling, and I see their parents almost frantic to support whatever it is the kids need to make that happen. Social connections have become twice as important. No opportunity should be missed because, what? We might have to be locked in isolation again at any time? We are hoarding connections as if it were possible to do so.

I know that if I stopped watching the news for hours every day, I would have more energy to finish my laundry, to organize my closets, to make plans that allow me to spend time writing. But I don’t stop. I watch every day, for far too long. I keep looking for a shred of hope, some light in the darkness of political chicanery, some evidence that there will be adults in the room with the ability to make wise decisions. And I will not find it there. I know that.

I have made my confession. And now I will drink a cup of chestnut tea, move the laundry from the washer to the dryer, and find a little peace. And breathe. I will remember to breathe.

Right now it feels to me like time is as fragile as the fall leaves I arrange in the little tin can labeled 365 that sits on my desk. The leaves were only tiny buds in June. Now If I handle them too roughly they crumble. I’ve had them here for a week and I love the way they are beginning to curl and the way the colors change as they make their inevitable journey to stardust. That’s where our journey ends too. Stardust.

Three hundred and sixty-five days in a year sounds like a lot of days. But this last year those calendar pages have turned too swiftly. Have we done all of the things we determined we would do in January? The news piles up more and more messages of wars and rumors of wars, more horrors of what people do to one another in the pursuit of what? More of what? Those that have nothing have nothing to bring to the fight and are crushed by those who have everything to the edge of the world, off the edge of the world. What can we do about any of it? Is it out of our hands, really? Donations to humanitarian causes surely will help. But is it ever enough? So much beyond any individual control, we look to each other for reassurance that there are still things in the world that are good, are kind, are helpful.

There are a lot of humanitarian networks that work to funnel water, food, medical supplies to those most in need. But so many big holes exist in those nets. Still, we do our tiny bit to keep those fragile networks in place, to strengthen them. Every contribution does matter, of course it does. I like to think that whatever we give makes the net a bit stronger, gives those who serve a bit more hope, a bit more energy, a bit more of those resources so desperately needed.

Gratitude matters. We remind ourselves of that once a year, at least. The other day I found myself sitting at my desk and feeling an overwhelming sense of calm and well-being. And I realized that the source of that feeling was the gratitude I felt towards everything I could see from where I was sitting. Even the sharpened pencil, even the mess of papers on one corner of my desk. Everything seemed special, everything seemed to be a blessing. It’s hard to hang on to that feeling, and I don’t expect to find it whenever I look for it. But this year I hope to take the memory of that one moment forward to our Thanksgiving celebration. I think all those little sparks of gratitude can make up some strong fibers to hold us together as families, as communities, and as a world that is working hard to find expressions of kindness everywhere. I am grateful for you, Dear Reader, and I hope you have a Thanksgiving that feeds not only your body, but your soul. May gratitude flood us all this year.

We missed Thanksgiving entirely, and so did our kids and their kids. Somehow we all got bowled down like ten pins, one by one, and the only one left standing was our daughter who had this awful virus last Thanksgiving. She has managed to stay clear, thank goodness, but isolation in a house with two sick-o’s is not much fun. But I digress.

My neighbor’s request was a little spark, a glimmer, of joy. She was learning how to propagate from cuttings, and I was so happy that even though I am imprisoned by my contagion, I could provide something to help her. And besides, who wouldn’t be happy to think that these lovely roses will bloom in another garden before long. I am sure she has just the touch needed to encourage new growth.

So from out of the dregs of this illness I am sending you this little story of hope for the future, gratitude for the grace notes of the present, and the most fervent wishes for your very good health through the holiday season!

But for the last two days I have found some renewed energy. No fewer aches and pains, but enough energy to cook a very belated Thanksgiving dinner for family. No matter that it was New Year’s Day. We had the Rose Parade running on a loop, and people helped themselves to turkey, sweet potato casserole, green beans, stuffing, a lovely salad contributed by my daughter, and pumpkin pie. Covid had taken us all out of the running over the usual November event, but I determined we would move the feast. We toasted the day and each other with a little champagne, and laughed a bit, and just enjoyed each other’s company. It was a casual feast, but it was fun, and pretty tasty. And I think my delight in the whole day was in large part due to the fact that I actually enjoyed doing most of the cooking myself. It’s been a very long time since I felt capable of that.

Today my delight is in the lemon tree in my backyard that has overproduced this year. Our gardeners were here today and pointed out that fact, and volunteered to balance it out. Of course I sent the harvest home with them, because they left more than enough for us on the tree. And lemons last a very long time on the tree, so we should be well supplied for months.

The sun is shining, the air is cool and crisp, and how delightful is that! I hope you have a wonderful beginning to your new year, and if you want to see what word the spinner gives to you, here is the link: Word of the Year Generator by Jen Fulwiler

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

We learned to use what we had in our pantries when we could not figure out ways to shop or organize deliveries. We figured out how to connect safely by using the internet and doing some online gathering. Artists provided free entertainment online so we could have some relief from the daily news of death and more death. We spent time organizing our living space, well some of us! We discovered old hobbies and looked for new ones. We were learning how to patch some of the holes.

But we still lacked the safety we were used to. The world outside felt dangerous. A drive to the pharmacy to pick up medication became an event. Trips for medical appointments were reduced to online or phone calls. Groceries were delivered and left on the porch until we could retrieve and decontaminate them in fear of a stray virus or germ. We were living in a world at war with something we could not even see. Our ground was shaky. The news was bad. Everyday, the news was bad.

We had lost our regular medical provider to retirement just before the pandemic. We found another doctor, more local, but in a brand new practice. We visited the office a couple of times for routine appointments, but never felt like systems were safely in place. The building itself was under reconstruction, and even finding a way in to the office became a puzzle. Then, when both of us came down with the disease we had been avoiding for three years, it was Thanksgiving and the doctors office shut down completely, even for phone calls, through the weekend. We were in freefall. Thankfully we were able to manage our symptoms, and after three weeks we finally both tested negative. But the experience had shaken us. We looked for a new provider. And through a round-about recommendation from an old friend, we found one.

How pleasant to be met with friendly, efficient front office staff. How amazing to find that the doctor had time to spend with each of us without rushing! There were onsite services that seemingly had vanished from other practices. Blood was drawn right there in the office, x-ray taken, and referrals for other tests made with clarity and concern for ease of access and close proximity. We left the office feeling heard, cared for, and impressed with the obvious professionalism and kindness that we had been used to many years ago. The whole experience had given us reassurance that there had been a major repair to one of our nets. And that, for seniors, is important. We are grateful. And we will continue to look for more ways to mend our nets.

I hope you find what you need, too. Let me know!

Does the same apply to our moods? Can we choose to be of a sunny disposition? Many say yes, just decide to be happy, that’s all it takes. Does it work that way for you? Sometimes there are triggers that bring us to places where we need to be sad, or mad, or even just sit with how confounded we are by people or world events. Up until now, I have had very little patience with this whole process.

As I age I remind myself that I spent my young life pushed and pulled by the moods of a manic-depressive mother and a chronically depressed father. Even the weather seemed to be controlled by their moods. Bright sunshiny moods were predictably followed by darkness and cold. But the timing as to when things would change was uncertain. Sometimes we loved the rain, sometimes we hated it. Sometimes we basked in sunny weather, sometimes we hid from it, drapes pulled against the glare. Children adapt, take their cue from those who care for them. It was a stormy childhood.

The effects of my beginnings seem to ripple very close to the surface these days. Perhaps I can see the connection between then and now, although I couldn’t explain it to you. And the triggers for the change in my outlook are very different from what they were in my childhood. Or are they? I really can’t say for sure about that, either.

Sometimes the aging process itself presents overwhelming challenges of health that can knock the wind out of me. I have not experienced much physical pain in my life, until now. Some days it seems like every bit of me hurts, and often I feel the pain comes from unshed tears, unacknowledged loss, unrecognized abuse. My body is now unable to contain all of those sharp pieces of the past, and it lets me know I must acknowledge what was, see it for what it was, allow it to be, express it somehow.

I am working hard to be grateful for the messages, because I know unless I can make peace with the pain, emotional and physical, I will be caught in a paralyzing web that will not allow unfettered freedom of feeling. And feeling is what I long for. Honest feelings, with no self-inflicted criticism or punishment. There can be no more holding back the tears, no more tempering the laughter, no more fear about there being too much or too many feelings to control. That’s not my job now. And indeed it never was my job, although that is the job description I grew up with. I’ll write my own now. I should have learned this lesson earlier, but we operate with the knowledge we have when we have it.

It’s not too late. Is it?

When I was in therapy some years ago, my therapist loved to hear my dreams. She had a quiet way of nodding and smiling as I unfolded them as carefully as I could, which always made me feel as if I were a child showing her a rudimentary drawing. She didn’t demean them—not at all—I was the one who did that. But she always seemed amazed that they were so obvious, so pointed in their message. I think I was hoping for something like the dreams Gregory Peck revealed to Ingrid Bergman in the wonderful movie SPELLBOUND. Something that would unlock whatever was being repressed and so set me free of the things that brought me to therapy. Where was my big revelation? And is it only in the movies that this happens? Where was that “small wheel” that represented a revolver?

However, a few nights ago I had a wonderful, freeing dream. I’ve been struggling with the aches and pains of growing old, with hip pain, knee pain, and foot pain. Arthritis, yes, and the breaking down of protective collagen, the things that inevitably happen if you live long enough. In this recent dream I was in a campground in a forest, and I left the people I was with and started walking. I walked for a long time before I realized I had no pain, that I was walking as I used to walk. There was no fear of falling or running out of breath. I was taking long, deep breaths of the fresh forest air. It was like taking a drink of water when you have been very thirsty. I don’t remember ever having the experience of fragrance before in a dream, but I was breathing in all the scents that perfume a forest.

When I woke I felt refreshed, renewed. I had received a lovely gift. I didn’t care whether there was any deep meaning or special significance in it. I simply enjoyed it. I have savored it every day since then. I am grateful. Living long comes with some surprising rewards.

Sweet dreams, dear reader.