Dreaming my dreams

Oh, the dreams I have. Except I don’t really, not that I can put my hand on and say, “Here, this is my dream.” I used to have such dreams, dreams it would take a whole afternoon to dream, dreams that a young man could spin into a story, or a song, or a life.
Can a person be too busy to have dreams? And do the dreams from the past whither away, crumbling to dust in the unvisited attic of the heart? Or are the dreams still there, undreamt for now but waiting to be picked up and dreamed into life once again?
I am not sure what my problem is. Is it that I have forgotten how to dream altogether? Or more likely, it seems to me, is that my life has changed drastically in the past five years, and that while I realise that my old habits of dreaming no longer work in my current state, I have not yet been able (or have not yet bothered) to find a new way of dreaming, a mode that will fit into my life as it is now and allow my dreams to soar freely once again.

What dreams do I have, for me, for my life, for my future? I want to be a writer, I want to write, filling long shelves full of pages, every page filled with words, my words, words that I really mean. I dream of having a hour or more each day when, having fulfilled my responsibilities, I can with a free heart sit down in a space that is comfortable and my own, and in an atmosphere of quiet or music of my choosing commit words to paper as fast and as freely as my ink will flow from my pen.

I dream of living on a rural homestead, not far from the small city where I ply my trade on weekdays. There is a quiet road in front of our home, where I need not fear to take my son on his first bicycle rides. There is a large garden, where my wife raises an array of flowers and herbs, and we cultivate a crop of vegetables that will grace our table fresh throughout the summer and fall, and preserved through the winter and into the first days of spring. The hills behind our house roll up and away, mantled in hardwood groves where we can walk, pointing out reverently to our children the flora and fauna that fill our world. There is a wide back yard where we can run and play catch on a summer’s evening, while my wife can surround the house with green trellised arbours and flower-trimmed paths and cool quiet places that so delight her.

I dream of a house big enough for a family to live in harmoniously, and for loved ones to gather in and fill to bursting with love and joy. Long quiet halls open onto high-ceilinged rooms full of natural color and soft light filtered through green leaves. Tall windows let in the sun, but no direct beams fall on any books or other precious “fadables” in the rooms.

I dream of finding a path that I can set my feet upon. I dream of a job that is no mere job — some task done to garner sufficient pecuniary compensation to maintain a household economy — but a work. I dream of doing something that I take pride in, that I am inspired by, something that I feel called to in a way that cannot help but lift my heart it a joyous shout each and every day.

So yes, I do dream, deep in my heart of hearts. Now I must needs turn my passion and energies to making some of my dreams come true.

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