I was both glad and sad to see the FedEx package on my porch yesterday. In it contained my laptop that I use to post letters like this one. I accidentally left it in Washington DC a couple of weeks ago (I might even admit that my "accidentally" was a Freudian Slip, for I dislike most things electronic). Nonetheless, it is back for me to tell you that I've thought of you twice within the last few hours.
The first time I was quite unconscious to the world and in deep sleep. I was struggling with a two-part dream where a) I needed to record a song with Ryan Long (but he wanted me to play guitar for him... I don't play the guitar!) and b) I competed in a one-on-one, three mile swimming competition in a small pool and lost. You were present with the fan base for my opponent and, when my opponent won, you jumped into the pool with 100 other guys to sing raucous Marine songs in deep voices! You then popped the cork to a champagne bottle and the celebration went to another level. All this time I was in the pool, but only as an observer.
I stayed awake for about an hour thinking on the meaning, then dozed into a much more fitful dream.
The second time I thought of you happened when I opened my door this early morning after dreaming of bombs and children and communion with others while in a Muslim country. (Now is the time in the letter to stop for a moment and take a deep breath. Trust me, I won't be taking any of these dreams to a therapist anytime soon! Suffice it to say that my soul is deeply engaged in the life our Lord has given me... one of dangers, toils and snares. And hope!)
I awoke to the young green of my little place in Fountain City! Morning light glanced across the new grass. The Yew hedge is a chorus of tiny, tiny lime sprouts. And our elderly sugar maple gladly bows under the weight of her new leaves, thousands of children keeping her company for another spring!
I thought of your love of the art of God's creation.
And my dreams became simple vapors.
Gone.
Because of the last few hours, I step into today more like a poet.
Yes. My memory of our friendship makes me want to have champagne for breakfast.
My love to Ellen.
