The joy of being me is erratic. One moment I am trustworthy and the next moment I am not.

I am speaking of the woman named Vicki who is in charge of her inner child. Last night I dreamt that Bob and I left our daughter to go on a trip. I knew she would wake and have no one to care for her. But I went anyway and while I was away, decided that I needed to come back. In the dream, my inner child was represented by my daughter. I went into her room and found her distraught, as I knew she would be. No one had fed her and there was feces on the floor. In the dream I was also pregnant and Bob had fallen out of love with me. I knew I needed to go to the hospital and finally did, only to find that it was a small cot in a restaurant kitchen. My inner child was screaming at me to “Pay attention.”

At night, the hauntings of the soul come to whisper in our ear, “Wake up. Love yourself before it is too late.” And so I awaken, glad that I have another chance to love and tend myself consciously.

I am clairsentient and know character instantly. I think that is one reason I have never felt at home in the world. I see too much. But the path is also about seeing our own “too muchness,” the parts of us that would abandon our inner child and not take care to see to our own inner rebirth.

I know, this is a strange note. For some of you it will strike a chord and others will want to assure me that if I were awake, I would know blah, blah, blah, you are the Self, blah, blah, blah. The days of listening to that voice are over, for they are coming from those who haven’t seen deeply enough into the hell of how it is when one sleeps. I am learning self-mercy slowly, one baby step at a time. Yes, I know that I am the Self, blah, blah, blah. But sometimes I need an arm around me; I need to remember how love feels and how it heals the broken places. No blah, blah, blah can be of help. It’s the music, folks, not the words.