With everything in my head–a couple of thorny spots in the current passage, an unresolved plot need, no weeknight time to get up a proper head of steam…and, frankly, one of those thankfully-infrequent sessions of “What the eff do you think you’re playing at?”–leave it to my dreams to do what they always do: tell the truth.

Last night’s dream was about trying to get to a hotel whose name I had on a small scrap of paper. The paper was the only way I could identify my destination; I lived in terror of misplacing it–without it, my only alternative would have been to get on the plane and go back home. The city was unfamiliar (though it was the size and busy-ness of NY), the streets unknown to me. I couldn’t get a cab; most of them seemed to be off-duty. The hotel was too far away to reach on foot.

At last, filled with an urgency to get where I was going (for reasons unclear to me), I got on the subway. The destination, I was told, was an intersection of streets a few blocks northwest of the end of the line. The train ride was long; the residential neighborhood an unlikely place for a hotel. I started walking in the direction I’d been given…then realized I might be walking in the wrong direction. I woke before I could sort things out and get to my destination.

So goes life. These mental hiccups will work themselves out. I have no doubt of it. But in the meantime, I’ll be smart to pay attention to what my sleeping brain is reporting back to me about my waking life. There is truth in dreams.