Strong Medicine Dreams

The Craft Shop in Arden.

I turn seventy-five next week. That means I’ve spent close to twenty-five years (one third of my life) asleep. For many, if not most, of those twenty-five years I have been fully immersed in the swirling world of dreams. Having grown up in a dream-demeaning culture, however, it wasn’t until I was twenty-four years old and living with a woman for the first time that I became aware of that world.

The opening happened in Arden, a small experimental village founded by my great-grandfather at the turn of the twentieth century. Joyce and I had known each other as children there. But my family had moved away when I was in grade school and we hadn’t seen each other again until we both returned to Arden as young adults.

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