Golly.

Last night I had a dream that featured my balancing on a tall pole holding my 6-year old daughter, discovering that her leg was made of balsa wood, seeing that her leg had burned and needed repair, looking for someone to fix it, meeting Jimmy Carter in the hallway and shaking his hand, trying to stop a rolling car with my hands and finally jumping in it to hit the brakes, worrying about the child I’d left behind, trying to get back to her, riding a bike down a street that turned into the ocean, mucking my way through dead fish, trying to climb a steep, grass-covered wall, and realizing that she had probably gone off with someone else.

I never have dreams that I remember.  Never.

This was an adoption dream.  I’m sure of it. 

Maybe this signals a new period of not being repressed.  All hell could break loose now.