This morning I was feeling blue after waking from a melancholy dream in which J. and I were waiting for a train that was long delayed. J. wanted to leave the station and find a restaurant. I thought it was not a good idea but went along. We ate; I was more and more uneasy. When we got back to the station, the train had come and gone, the station deserted. O, those desolated train stations. I realized the bag I had left in charge of the porters was missing. They told me to look through a pile of luggage. I could not find my cream leather bag and thought of all the special clothes I had packed for a warm climate, clothes that were particular to me, intimate with me. When I got out of bed, an old medical problem kicked up.
I could speculate about why I had this dream of loss--loss of myself. It might have been because I had spent much too much time putting my little cabinet of wonders in order, dusting each thing, setting the cherub more securely in the cup full of pennies, opening the fan, throwing away old papers and finding a note from J. on which he had drawn a red heart. It brought back memories of a difficult time when I had acted badly. But what use is it to look for causes?
The pain in my leg eased up. I put on make-up, went out, and found a lizard sunning itself. "That's what I'll do," I said to myself, and walked facing the sun.
On the way home I saw this blue flower--I think it's plumbago--growing along side the cactus.
It's time for me to listen to myself no matter how soft my voice.
