I may the only one around who is genuinely fascinated by everyone’s dreams; I consider them an open door into their secrets, as well as their connection to the spirit world. So I won’t be offended if you skip this account of one I had last night of Miss Grace and some rose bushes. It is drenched in supertext rather than subtext, which may be an occupational hazard of being an intuitive. (All signs in neon, thank ya veddy much.) I do suggest writing down your own dream tomorrow morning if you are still reading, though. Something or someone will show up if you are truly listening.
I dreamed last night that I was biking in a race by the sea. I had to take permakitten Grace since I was never returning to the starting point and it was going to be a very long trip–days long, like the Tour de France. She was in my arms, scared, and then she leapt out. Well, I had to find her. She is my charge and she is my outside heart. So I flew off the bike and dove into the thicket of wild beach roses into which she’d escaped. Inside the bushes, a bramble of pink perfume and velvet that I’d have loved under other circumstances, I came upon a number of cowering cats—rangy, with blue-green eyes and pale fur (like me, I guess). I heard a tiny squeak and then my little girl came flying into my arms, where she cleaved as I stepped back out, ignoring the thorns scratching my face and limbs.