In 1994 I had the same dream three times: Carl Jung has prepared a Thanksgiving meal. He provides the turkey and is waiting for me to bring my dish. A large turkey with glistening golden brown skin forms the centerpiece of a dark wood oval table surrounded by many round-backed chairs, and the wooden paneled room is dimly lit. In July, 2013, upon beginning what will be my last book of a trilogy on shame, I have another dream: I am surrounded by bright white light standing at a small square wooden table preparing to make my dish. On the table are fresh, brightly colored red and green peppers, onions, a few simple woodened handled cooking tools and a flame. I am peeling a zucchini and placing the strips in a silver pan. Jung stands before me and I hear him say (even now), in his distinctive voice with its strong Swiss accent: “It is very important to follow my instructions.”