... I was reading my third volume by Jung, Psychology and Alchemy. I read in between telephone calls at work and my coworkers thought I was crazy to "plow through" such heavy reading in the few minutes between each call. But Jung gave me a brief respite and kept me from exploding at passengers. Before starting my 3:30 PM shift I was still trying to find work as an actress, along with thousands of other young hopefuls in the city. It seemed hopeless. After a discouraging interview one afternoon, I let myself into my basement apartment, dropped my purse on the floor, and sagged against the Joor. The sun was shining warmly outdoors but it was as dark as a tomb inside my room. (l kept my windows shuttered for privacy against peeping toms.) My eyes were still glare-blinded and my room seemed blacker than ever. The darkness was so tangible I felt I could gather it into my arms. "Spirits," I whispered, "I'm afraid. What shall I do about these jobs?" "Stay with us," I 'heard' them answer, and I knew they meant I should continue to hold on to those loosely woven hours of phone calls and stories and Jung. Abrasive though those hours were, they did afford me constant access to my unconscious. They were one long cry for help. "I'm afraid," I repeated. I was tired. It seemed so hopeless. "Yes, so are we. For we are held in your hands and if you lose control, we are lost. But we rise in strength around you bringing smells of flowers to protect you. We yet have that power."

I smiled at their naïveté. "Smells of flowers." It seemed so little. Flowers, showers of roses--yet who knows what they may bring. I had heard by then that inexpensive psychiatric clinics existed in New York and I considered going to one.... I secretly longed for reassurance, longed to turn over responsibility for my growth to anyone who wanted it. But my dreams began debunking one authority figure after another in a ruthless attempt to convince me to "go it alone." It insisted that I not seek outside help, which could have aborted the whole fragile process at that point. I often remembered a whole series of dreams on any given night and yet many more escaped me. I was angry and worried I might be missing important messages. I complained: The damn dreams are infuriating. I hold them like smoke cupped in my hands on the threshold of sleep but the first waking breath scatters them to the four corners of my room. Yet, night after night, reassuring fragments continued to emerge. In the most humorous of them I was the official companion to a grand duchess. She was: ...very kindhearted, simple, and trusting. She had placed her faith in a bunch of dapper shysters who were plotting against her. I was begging her to hear the testimony of an elf. To humor me, she assented.