I just skimmed five months of my old journals from 1981. Wow, I'd forgotten--I was always sick then!

Looking back, I blame it on work. Clearly I hated my job, and my boss. My journal's full of semi-nightmares: dreamed I was persecuted, hunted, rejected, attacked.

Yet now and then come the shamanic dreams I love. They stand out like islands, like Cascade volcanoes floating above the jagged jumble of everyday life, still there, as they've been there all along from childhood, regardless of my environment, health, or emotional state. If I wrote them in a different notebook, you'd swear they were the dreams of another person.

Are they? Are these the dreams of the part of me that backed away from the grim prison of my childhood and simply never embodied? It's no child, this personality, it has very wide horizons, taking in news from other minds, from the future, from the whole world.

But it treats my troubles as if they're local weather down around the great mountain's knees. Something of no lasting concern to the one looking out from the austere, explosive crown.

And I think I know now who it is that perches atop the peak. These dreams, the Great Dreams, are the dreams of my guardian dragon, before she showed me her face.

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