This was the last place I expected to attend a psychological meeting. The pews were empty except for three of us who sat alongside each other near the front. A Jungian psychoanalyst, who died nineteen years ago, spoke at the lectern. These images would’ve made more sense in a dream. But I was awake and recording the experience, this experience, on paper. The analyst’s words were sounds of music, opera music, and sadness and hope filled me to the point where they seemed to become me. On either side of me in the pew, two psychologists listened as if patients were filling the air in their offices with words. What was I doing, seated in the pew, between two psychological greats? Was I both listening to the words coming from the lectern and composing these sentences in my head? Something else was also happening, if only words would help me describe it. The psychologist to my right, who lives and works in New York City, turned toward me and whispered: don’t worry, this is real, in your imagination. The psychologist to my left, who died around fifty-five years ago, wondered aloud how long the talk would last. One word at a time, a thought arrived: this was meaningful to me.