Woke at 5 today, then fell briefly asleep again and woke remembering my dream. It was a lovely one, of reuniting in happiness and complicity with an old friend from long ago (we were divided by love of the same man, though we tried hard, like the right-on little feminists we were, not to let it divide us). In the way of dreams, it was both the past and the present - her kids, now in their thirties, were small, but we spoke poignantly of the days when they were young all those years ago. This is a truth of dreams, isn't it? Both past and present are in us here and now. I don't have, or least don't remember, happy dreams. For years and years, not a single one. No exaggeration. Always the same tedious variations on being reviled and excluded, interspersed with the ones of feeling scared and guilty because I'm very late for something. How weird, then, to wake on this Friday morning of a horribly tiring and stressful week with a heart warmed by feelings of reconciliation and completion.