What am I supposed to be doing?  Grooming, like I often neglect?  Writing, something other than this?  Researching side-effects to my drugs, in the hope that I might change something?  Doing a web search for a company to print the T-shirt I saw in a dream; bearing the phrase I hate my government on the front, and a bullseye on the back?  Hmm.  Making more coffee?  Nah.  Making breakfast?  Never. 

I went to Australia in another dream, came home naked and didn't have my house keys.  Had to run to my LeCar parked near the railroad tracks, and back again without being noticed.  I don't think anybody did.  Often, in fantasy, I visit places where I think I will never go.  Camping on Mount Washington, the Great Midwest, northern California, Europe, St. Petersburg, Japan, the Himalayas...  It is possible that I ride a bicycle to contain my wanderlust.  The sphere of my existence is a saliva-bubble on the lip of God—a tiny saliva bubble.  No further than this. 

What should I do?  Where should I go?  Who should I be? 

Worrying is a good one, it takes care of all three at once; Worry is the thing that I do, being a worried person is who I become, and to another place is where I go.  That place can be anywhere but here. 

I was once in charge of a group of about twenty people (yes, indeed!) who formed a 'team', mostly Roman Catholics, who entered a local prison for three days to present a very detailed and lengthy program of activities, personal talks and discussions.  The details of the schedule are insignificant, even superfluous, to the real purpose we had there.  We wanted to bring something positive to these inmates, we wanted to convey certainly a message of love, and we wanted to love them; to prove, to both them and us, that love was real. 

It was such a hefty burden, especially when viewed from anxiety.  But on some level I knew that going to the place of worry was an unnecessary escape.  I had used that method of escape often, and it had always been unnecessary.  And I knew something else.  Once I chose not to escape into worry I knew that nothing would go wrong. 

There were arrogant guards, not a few hoping that we'd get caught doing something wrong.  And the intent of inmates—three-quarters of whom had signed up simply out of boredom—was unknowable.  The people around me, some who had been in charge of similar events in the past, were worried.  They were afraid that I would drop the ball; I was not one to inspire confidence.  And I almost resumed worrying because they were worried.  Then that sense came back, the sense that absolutely nothing would go wrong, no matter what happened.  Everything was exactly how it should be. 

As I said, we wanted to prove, to both them and us, that love was real.  I don't know which group was more in need of evidence, but I think we succeeded.  It may be one of the reasons I backed away from the ongoing program. 

Truth and love are revolutionizing.  And revolution requires going from this familiar place to a new place.  I left that community with much the same anxiety as the anxiety which I felt when I fled from my own family.  In each case, I was not ready to grow-up.  I don't know if I ever will be. 

Revolution is not supposed to be pleasant, though it may eventually give rise to feelings of pleasantness.  One might enjoy a sense that justice and good is prevailing—or is not prevailing, depending on one's preference.  But revolution is supposed to be.  Apart from whatever agendas the participants may have, without regard to what the outcomes may be, irrespective of the value judgements of human minds, and especially unaffected by any efforts to make things stay the same, revolution happens.