The writer's retreat is going wonderfully. I'm with my tribe--mentors, teachers, other writers--and our candlelit dinner is a feast in a lush garden. But my ear hurts. Just a minute, says one of the writers. She's also a doctor, and she goes to get her black bag. As she peers into my ear, I laugh and tell everyone it doesn't really hurt that bad. Be quiet, she says as if my words are in the way of what she's trying to see. Not good news, she says. You have two veins in there that are completely unattached. You could die at any moment. Great, I think, when I fly home and my ears pop, it will kill me.
When I wake my head is stuffy from the cold I'm fighting, but I don't feel like I'm dying.
My therapist told me the other day that Jung identified 250 dream symbols. I don't know if the ear is one of them. But it seems to me there's some kind of connection between the ear and the heart--or listening and feeling--that I might want to ponder. Or somethin'.