If only I could be in two places at once. Maybe I can. The land welcomes me. I imagine that the cabin has been waiting for this moment. I’m there, with my backpack, wearing gloves and two sweaters, and I’m ready to see what happens. I’ve arrived by boat. Since our twelve-foot day sailer is out of the water for the winter, someone has brought me to our beach. I picture myself jumping ashore and waving goodbye to the twenty-something-year-old whom I’ll see again in two days. These imaginal moments are so real that I remind myself of where I am, in a downtown Seattle office, lying on a couch, not arriving at one of the outer islands in the San Juans. I’m not alone. Can he read my thoughts? Psychoanalysis is not about telepathy. I speak. It helps to hear the images in my own words. I listen to myself in this fourth floor office. Time in this room, with three bookshelves, reminds me of how I experience it at the cabin. It’s not that time slows down. I become acutely aware of each moment, as if reality reveals its own time to me. Time helps me to speak. Martin, seated behind the couch, waits for me to utter words or be silent. The cabin, the water, and the trees also wait for me. I am alone on this couch. My inner world becomes reality. Then it’s time for me to sit up. Images of arriving at the cabin remain.