I was dreaming. I was in a London bus: my father called to me from the valley. He was there, clear as daylight in every detail. I was busy, a job to do, I stayed in the bus. The bus was empty. So too was the flat I let myself into.

Why is it in dreams that we live in what is correct, not in the present? In my dream my father was alive. I could see him anytime. But of course in reality I have not seen him for twenty years. He has been dead for twenty years.

If I had been aware of this in my dream I would have rushed over, eager for his news. But in dreams or my dreams we are only allowed to speak to live people. Perhaps it is because our inner consciousness has no experience of death, so imagination cannot pass over.

The reading today is about Naomi who goes to live in Moab. My little boat is named Naomi. I did not give her this name. I always wonder why she got the name. Anyway, Naomi returns and so has my little craft so far every time.