I wake each day to stretch across the threshold of sleep into the curtained morning light, searching for the wisps of dreams that have lately vanished with only the hint of a lingering scent, like a lover disappeared in the night. There are feeling tones that will sound through the day, triggered by a voice in the alley or a snippet of news on the radio. These cues keep the door ajar as I water the garden, sweep the walk, and close the house windows against the coming heat of August days in Denver. But the familiar substance of my dream world remains out of reach and out of sight.

Is this a conspiracy of my nefarious complexes to silence me in all areas of my life? First there was the writer's block that started months ago, causing my mind to numb at the very thought of writing an entry for the website or even sending an e-mail. Then I started skipping days in my journal except for the far and few between dream entries. And finally, the dreams themselves vanished for the first time in twenty years!

For just as many years I have been working with patients who have never remembered a dream. Instead we use the substance of their lives as the material for deciphering the meaning of their experience. And it seems that the message for me is to now do the same, by looking at the scenario of my summer days and nights to find the thread that leads out of this labyrinth of silence.