I ought to be driving to Lodi right now.  I intended to be among the first to sign the list for lab work.  Instead, I have read news, eaten breakfast, scrolled through social media, and gazed out of the window at the speckles of rain.

Last night, I dreamed that I got a phone call from someone whom I used to know.  The disembodied voice in the hazy gloom of my sleeping brain told me that I needed to call a person who did me harm, for purposes of extending forgiveness.  The caller insisted that my forgiveness stood between the wrong-doer and happiness.  I woke before my subconscious responded to the entreaty.

I stumbled around the house in an unsettled state.  I thought about the concept of expressing that I hold no malice.  In my dream, I got the sense that actual forgiveness did not matter; that I only had to tender words of absolution.  My thoughts trailed from there to a state of wondering about my feelings.  Have I forgiven? If so, could I say that out loud? We easily scribble “sorry.. . thank you. . . welcome” at the bottom of Hallmark cards.  But what emotions underlie the expressions? Does deft articulation substitute for sincerity?

I scrambled eggs, drank re-warmed coffee, and watched yesterday’s Anderson360.  Now I have to dress and head east.  I haven’t gotten a blood draw since November.  For all I know, these troubled reveries stem from nothing more than a lack of oxygen.  Just in case, I’m taking precautions.  I’m packing bottled water, an extra jacket, and a phone charger.  You never know.  On the other hand, if last night’s dream signals that my own soul yearns for peace, I’m saying this now:  I forgive you.

It’s the first day of the sixty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.