am leading a group of sixty or so people across a grassy plain. I don't recognise any one of them, but seem to know them nonetheless, like one knows neighbours or people living in the same part of town. It's spring and there's a mighty wind blowing and everybody is in a festive mood. We are carrying a sort of maypole, a tall, slender tree-trunk adorned with little flags of different colours, to the crest of a low hill. There we proceed to plant the pole, some people pushing and holding up the trunk, others pulling on ropes tied around its tips. I am in the latter group, and we are chanting as the pole goes up. When it does, there is great cheer and I wake with a sense of purpose and accomplishment.
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