As you know, I'm planning on retiring in the new year from a work that was fascinating to me although often incredibly difficult and painful.

This year, I am slowly saying goodbye to the people and to the location of the work - both interiorly and exteriorly - when appropriate.

Last night I had a dream that I remember - which isn't usual for me.  In it, I was at my farewell party (which I have told my secretary I do not want) in the first place I began this work - an old house with barnwood for livingroom walls, beige wallpaper to hide the plaster cracks and holes everywhere, deep dark brown carpeting sporting cigarette burns and spilled coffee stains, and dark wood moulding separating the rooms and the strong scent and feel of tobacco and nicotine in the air and on the walls.

Every room contained folks that I met in the early years.  They were all crying as they hugged me and remembering aloud some of what had transpired during their relationship with me.  I didn't cry, but I felt a fondness for them that was deep.  Most all of them had mental illnesses, were alcoholics or drug addicts and many lived in hovels or on the streets.  They had all been my trainers in the early years.  They had been merciful with me often, too.  I made so many mistakes.  They didn't like the rules.  They didn't like me enforcing boundaries.  They didn't like suffering consequences.  They often tried to blackmail me as in "If you don't let "D" back into the program before 30 days is up, I'll tell everybody that you have sex with all the guys," or "If you tell "R" that you caught me drinking, I'll blow up your house, your car with you and your kids in it."  They also would step in if somebody with wet brain or a hatred of women even appeared to be menacing to me - even though they - just two weeks before had threatened me because they didn't like something that needed to happen for the good of all.

I awakened from this dream knowing that this chapter of my life is truly going to close and all that has given meaning to my life for the past 30 years is going to end.  I'm in process of writing my goodbye letter to all that was and is right now through living it.  And I'm so grateful to the men, women and teens who so many years ago helped me grow with their own odd assortments of mental illnesses, addictions and lifestyles.  They were my teachers and encouragers - many died in their 40s and early 50s - and I learned things I couldn't have learned any other way in their company.  My son has been my teacher, too, and I'm grateful to him as well.