I’ve spent the last two weeks working on my next book. I don’t have a title yet, but it’s non-fiction, memoir-ish in the sense that it’s about me and a dream I had nearly two decades ago, during which a dragonfly appeared to me. This wouldn’t seem strange or worthy of a book were it not for the fact that within an hour of dreaming of a dragonfly, I encountered a dozen dazzling blue damselflies hovering in the grass next to a small stream. That was the first ‘encounter’ with dragonflies I could recall having. It was not the last. Since then, I’ve had hundreds of encounters, many of them significant. This from my introduction:
Since then, I’ve tried making sense of how that original dream might have impacted my experience. Besides biology, my inquiry has been a journey through psychology, anthropology, paleontology, Indigenous wisdom, and Chinese philosophy. I realize now, that for me, “making sense” was once a requirement to believe, a justification.
Something happened. Isn’t that enough?
I don’t have a publisher yet, and won’t until after I send the manuscript out. Right now, I think I’ve reached the end of my book, which as any of you who’ve written no, does not mean it’s finished. Stay tuned.