I Don’t Do Dreams | Part 1 of 2

Fall in the 1990s.  I’m in my 50s.  A friend gives me a covered tea-cup.  It’s lovely.  When I get home I read the inscription on the cup and begin weeping.  This isn’t about me.  It’s about someone else.  I can’t even imagine my way into this approach to life. Read the rest of this entry »