The first dream I can remember: unfortunately it’s a bad one. They always started in an inky void and falling through a glowing yellow halo. This was when I was five years old. I was alone in my parent’s station wagon and had to drive home from downtown Cleveland. We may have gone to the Art Museum or heard the Cleveland Orchestra. What ever it was, I couldn’t drive and I was scared. As I tried to drive across the Detroit-Superior Bridge, I ran up on a truss and the car flipped over and fell into the slate grey river below. Don’t know why I remember it. But if I’ve remembered it this long, maybe there’s something I’m supposed to learn from it. Lately, I’ve been thinking dreams are something I can worship.