In a dream, a man with a yellow, pock-marked face chased me.  Each time I looked back to see if he was still there, I realized he was gaining on me.  I was within his reach.  He was screaming profanities at me. I realized I needed to call for help, but felt my throat closing.  Finally, with intention and effort, I opened my mouth and shouted as loudly as I could. "NO, NO, NO."  I awakened with a jolt, still yelling. It was only a dream, awful though it was. I felt afraid and unsettled.  It took awhile for my heartbeat to slow.  I have a panacea for bad dreams, though.  I learned this solution from the late and beloved John Paul Jackson, a man who taught on the biblical interpretation of dreams.  Over the years, I've taken several of his courses to better help me understand my own dreams.  Mr Jackson taught the concept of the "flip."  What is the opposite of the darkness contained in the dream?  For example, the flip might sound something like this after a disturbing dream:

Life instead of death.

Strength instead of weakness.

Peace instead of anxiety.

Favor instead of fear.

Beauty instead of ugliness.

Refreshment instead of oppression.

Power instead of helplessness.

Courage instead of worry.

Enthusiasm instead of negativity.

Grace instead of bondage.

He didn't send someone else to help them.  He did it himself, in person.~Isaiah 63:8 (The Message)

I walked out of the office, happy it was Friday and surprised by the warmth of the day.  When I'd driven to work in the morning darkness, the air had been cold.  I could see my breath in the car, stars glittered overhead.  Now, I lifted my face to the sun, relishing the light.  I was off to make copies of the rough draft of my latest manuscript to send out to readers who had graciously said they'd provide feedback. 

Standing at the copier, I could hear the brush and whiz of paper as the machine stacked the pages.  I thought, "I should feel better about this accomplishment."  But I didn't. "Why did you bother to write this book, Priscilla?  It is merely a 'vanity' project.  Who wants to read about your experiences?  And besides, it is just not that good."  Then the other voice:  "Have you forgotten?  Have you forgotten all the times you have walked from the gate?  When a portal has unlocked, and instead of staying at the entry, you've walked onward, delighting in the exploration of that territory?  You've moved on and found other unlocked gates."

It is very important not to become hard...have one skin too few in comparison to other people, so you feel the slightest wind.~Shusha Guppy

She kept looking at me--glancing over unsmiling, eyes bright, fevered.  Her thinning blonde hair messy, unkempt.  A walker stood near her as she sat on the edge of a chair in the doctor's office.  She appeared to be in her seventies.  I sat several feet away from her, smiled and made eye contact.  Finally she said to me, "I have fluid on my lungs.  I'm waiting for my daughter to take me to another doctor to have the liquid drawn off."  The waiting room wasn't crowded, but everyone there could hear the woman and me, too, when I said, "I'm sorry to hear you're going through a rough time."  That comment seemed to unleash her story.  "I'm getting chemo now.  I just finished two treatments, and I have four more.  But I just have no appetite, so the doctor prescribed weed (I think she was referring to marinol).  Better to be high, I guess, than too skinny."  She chuckled when she said that, then went silent, her head down.  I looked out of the corner of my eye and observed some people smiling.  Others fidgeted.  When one is sitting in an oncologist's waiting room, the elephant in the center is cancer.  Nobody breathes that word, though.  Afraid to even utter it.  Yet the woman continued.  "I have ovarian cancer.  It's awful."  I transcended my embarrassment, my self-consciousness and replied, "I know.  Cancer is horrible.  I had six chemo treatments.  I made it through, one by one."  "You did?"  She smiled then.  "And you're okay?"  "Yes, I'm here today for my first check up, to see if I'm still clear."  People looked up from their magazines, their phones and laptops, now wondering where this public conversation would go.  "You look good," the woman said.  And indeed, I was feeling energetic again, my hair growing back, my weight stabilized (I'd gained weight).  "What's your first name?" I asked the woman.  "Patsy," she said.  "And yours?"  "Priscilla," I answered.  "Oh, that's a pretty name."  At that moment, Patsy's daughter peeked her head inside the waiting room door and said, "Mom it's time to go."  Patsy struggled to get up, grabbed her walker and slowly made her way across the room.  "God bless you," I said as she left.  She called back, "Pray for me."  I said, "I will," my voice loud, confident.  Everyone heard me.

So often in a creative career, the magic that is required is quite simply the courage to go on.~Julia Cameron

She scampered into my office unannounced.  River, my colleague's new dog, that she had adopted from the SPCA.  "She doesn't like tile in the hallway, so we ducked into your office, because it's carpeted."  River wore a bright red harness that highlighted her black coat.  She didn't know what to make of me, a stranger.  We made eye contact, but she didn't rush to greet me.  First, she sniffed around the perimeter of my office, edging closer and closer to my desk.  She glanced at my colleague as if to say, "Is it safe to investigate this new person?"  I reached out to her, waiting. No sudden movements.  River sniffed my hand. I felt the cold wetness of her nose.  She backed away, still not certain of me--ambivalent--then walked back over to my colleague who sat in a nearby chair.  River's body quivered.  She couldn't sit still.  My colleague and I spoke of our holidays and I congratulated her on adopting River, as her older dog had passed away.  Then, in a burst of courage, River came over to me and placed her paws on my knees.  I laid my hands on River's head, feeling the softness of her ears, then ran my fingers down her smooth coat.  She licked my cheek.

To support themselves, the first Christian monks spent their days weaving palm branches into baskets and ropes they could sell.  And as they worked, they prayed.  The steady rhythm of the work helped the monks memorize the psalms and the Gospels, which was a necessity in the fourth-century desert, as books were expensive and rare.  But the monks regarded this work and prayer as their way to God, hoping that over time the "straw" of mundane tasks could become the "gold" of ceaseless prayer. (From A Marriage, Monks, and A Writer's Life Acedia and Me by Kathleen Norris)

I sit here at one of my favorite spots this New Year's Eve--the page.  I look down to see what I'm hearing on Pandora.  The title of the song is Time.  How fitting, as I reflect on the past year.  I think, too, of a beloved metaphor.  Doors.  One of my favorite couples, trusted friends, gave me a jigsaw puzzle for Christmas.  The image includes multiple doors.  How did they know I'd been wanting to work a puzzle over the holidays?  I'd been looking in stores, but couldn't find a picture I'd want to piece together.  But there in the package was the image I'd been searching out, door after door, some bright orange or turquoise, others weathered, paint peeling, some with knockers and intricate iron work.  A few open.