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3 Chagall’s Blue Horse When the blue horse arrives in my dreams, I take it as a good omen and treat it like a prophet with four legs. It does not obey the regular rules of equines. So I never know what to expect. I’ve ridden deep into the past upon its back where my young grandfather was brushing my grandmother’s hair. I’ve met people of notoriety . . . Napoleon. Cleopatra. And Buddha, who fed the horse an odd little apple then squeezed playfully at its muzzle. Once this horse took me to the edge of the universe where I watched the dark womb squeeze another galaxy out. Sometimes the blue horse carries me to a pasture deep inside myself. He grazes there a while. Then lifts his head. And turns. As if trying to teach me something so obvious, no one ever thought to give it a name. ...

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