Dusk had fallen. A large, vintage, light-colored car sat atop a hill on an ice-glazed driveway from my past.
The car began to roll and I turned to face an opaque sheet of ice-encrusted glass, through which only misshapen splotches of muted colors were visible.
As I fought to hold the steering wheel steady, I felt the rubber beneath me try, and fail, to find leverage on the slick slope.
The street I entered was lined, on either side, by an assortment of vehicles of similar age, but varying color. Someone was having a party.
I felt a moment of horror as I realized I had to travel, in reverse, between the icy rows. I wondered how I would do it, even as I did. As I maneuvered through my panic, an unobstructed yard, full of lush, green, perfectly manicured grass appeared through my back passenger-side window. All I had to do was get the car to that yard, and my journey would be over.
The rear wheels gained entry, jumping the concrete curb with a “thud-thud”. The car turned with the interruption, and came to a stop perpendicular to the house behind the grass, and finally, I exhaled.
While I am assured by those who should know, that I do indeed have them; I rarely remember my dreams. Even if I manage to retain some small portion of a night-time visit from my subconscious, it is usually gone by lunch. I have had two dreams in the last week which have, since slithering out of my darkest recesses, remained vivid, and firmly planted on my frontal lobe.
Though they usually evade my memory, dreams, as a whole, fascinate me. The fact that our brains continue to work, even as we drift into an altered state of consciousness during which we have little to no control, is a marvelous mystery. And, I do believe there is much to learn in what our simplest selves have to say.
I stand alone in my bedroom. Through the open door, I watch a woman moving about the den.
A confrontation ensues, just outside my bathroom, and it becomes obvious that the woman I’ve been observing is holding something I value. I attempt to take it from her, but she refuses to relinquish the prize. She mocks me with her patience. The only raised voice is mine, and, physically, she is much stronger than I.
As I wrestle with her, my image appears in the mirror over her shoulder. My face is twisted, angry, and ugly. And then I look at hers. But hers, too, is mine, calm, serene, and pitying.
The path I am traveling is treacherous, but with careful attention, will bring me to a better place. And, when I get there, I will have decided which “me” I want to be.
“Is it cloak n dagger
Could it be spring or fall
I walk without a cut
Through a stained glass wall
Weaker in my eyesight
The candle in my grip
And words that have no form
Are falling from my lips”
Martin Page & Bernie Taupin
Are We There Yet? 
