Dreams May Be Sweet, But They're Not Dessert

“Tell me another dream,” I’ve been saying to my husband as matter of recent routine on our semi-regular evening walks around the neighborhood.

He’s come to expect the question, as he’s astute and, as I’ve mentioned, the query has become predictable.

Now, my husband isn’t big into walking, and it’s not too hard to imagine that big-picture life assessment might be taxing at the end of a long day. Nonetheless, he seems to not-so-secretly enjoy the regular scrutiny. It was, loosely, his idea.

One evening on a mid-summer beach walk—a longer-duration after dinner excursion that often invites contemplation—my husband told me he was reading about the importance of writing down dreams, an idea of which he seemed enamored. Considering the state of his blog, which hasn’t been updated in almost a year—I filed the actual writing down in the “not likely” category and decided to give him a hand by helping him articulate his thoughts.

So I ask, now, about his dreams on every walk. I ask because it’s important. I ask because I know how easy it is for dreams to simply get lost in the everyday shuffle, and I just can’t let that happen. After all, dreams aren’t the desserts of life—improbably sweet concoctions on which we usually pass for reasons of good judgment and practicality. Dreams are the meat-and-potatoes (or veggie burger and salad, if you prefer) substance of our time here on the planet. They nourish us to the very core, give us the energy to slog through the mundane—they are our lifeblood. And they are absolutely anything but optional.

Too often, we act as though valuing our dreams means stuffing them in metaphoric deep storage—bringing them out, every so often, to admire in their untouched splendor. But our passions aren’t collector’s items, treasured all the more in an unblemished state. Which is a good thing, as most of my relics resemble Grey Teddy—my threadbare, love-worn, childhood companion who I’m told was originally of golden hue. But I have no memories of Golden Teddy. The bear I’ve always known sports a distinguished coat of weathered grey, which is just fine with me. I am determined, then, for my dreams to become the Grey Teddy of my existence: hardy, rough-and-tumble specimens marked with character earned through hard hours, rough play, and the occasional scar from a helmet-less wild ride.

But transforming a dream from artifact to adventure is a serious, time-consuming undertaking (see ‘hard hours” above), which invites consideration of the humanitarian value of our personal goals—is it selfish to invest ourselves in our dreams? As a Christian, I find this question of utmost importance, as my beliefs tend toward viewing wasted life as tragic, and, really, spiritual conviction aside, does anyone want to discover that they spent their life chasing the wrong things? After all, not every dream comes true. Perhaps most don’t—at least not in the way we expect.

I’m tempted to adopt the enjoy-the-journey philosophy which maintains that the actual achievement of goals is immaterial as long as there’s joy in the pursuit, but I’m not so sure if I can truly embrace that thinking. Oh, I know there’s truth in that approach, but somehow the up-front admission of possible failure ruins it for me. I prefer the mindset of Doc Brown of Back to the Future fame, as epitomized in his 1955 reaction to meeting 1985 Marty McFly fresh off the time machine: “Knowing that I invented something that works gives me something to shoot for!” In many ways, I’d love to have even a still frame of myself cracking into a fresh box of hardbound copies of my future bestseller hot off the press from my publisher (that moment, as Julia Child observes upon doing the same in Julie and Julia, in which “anything is possible”), or dropping anchor on a houseboat off the coast of Nova Scotia or, ironically, Cape Disappointment. Those snapshots, would, indeed, give me something for which to aim and provide validation of my current efforts.

In real life, none of us get to glimpse the results of our efforts during our murky days of striving, but what if we acted as though we had? How would the knowledge that our dreams were destined for success change the way we live now? My guess is that we’d work harder and play longer. We’d experiment without reservation. We’d push through the tough spots. We’d embrace optimism and avoid discouragement. In short, we’d actually live the way we should anyway.

My plan is to live like I’ve seen the snapshot. To chase after my dreams with expectation. To believe that God gave the interests, hopes, and aspirations I have for reasons that are both a gift and a responsibility. To trust that unless I’m specifically issued some new passions, my job is to invest in the ones I currently have, and leave the results to Him.

And my husband? So far we’ve got some land, a made from scratch house, and a few experiments in self-sustainability, aka “getting off the grid.” There’s a few quasi-political thoughts in there, and possibly a career change. How all that meshes with me writing from a houseboat is a little blurry in the still frame, but that’s OK.

And what about you, Reader? Tell me one of your dreams-blurry or not, it’s a picture I’d love to see.

Reimagining

Reimagining…isn’t that a great word?

It’s a word full of hope, and promise, and redemption. It’s a word that assures us that just because we imagined something one way, doesn’t mean the dream can’t be retooled if things don’t go as planned.

It’s a word that comes up a lot in Ordinary Radicals by Shane Claiborne—they only book currently on my corner shelf--and I’ve adopted it. I love it. In his book, Shane talks about reimagining lots of things—abandoned houses that become living space for the homeless; careers after realizing that life is about more than amassing as much as you can for yourself, and entire philosophies about how to spend our time while were here on the planet.

I’ve been away all week, at one of my favorite places in the mountains and I’m as sure as I can be as I look into my pre-departure crystal ball ( I wrote this week’s posts ahead of time) that I’ll be doing some reimagining of my own.

As I shared earlier this week, I have a really good chance of getting a job that I would love. As I’ve mentioned several times on this blog, and dozens more, live, to friends and family, all I really wanted to do after completing my masters degree was to go back to what I was doing before—because I was really happy teaching art part time and freelancing on my off days. Of course, with an advanced degree, I’d love higher pay and better gigs, but in general, I like my work and I really don’t want to do anything else.

But there’s this other part of me that has been seeking change. The part of me that feels stuck in a rut, the part that wants to be, see, and do everything.

For a long time, I thought change would come in the form of a move. All winter I told people that we were moving this summer. Because I really thought we were. But the move never materialized. Then I pretty much expected that change would come in the form of a different kind of job, because I didn’t think I’d be fortunate enough to find a situation anything like I had before, so I adopted an adventure mindset about where I might find work.

So I’m also wondering if it IS a fortunate thing to wind up back where I started when there are so many roads left unexplored. I’m wondering what the next steps will be for my writing, as my career has been punctuated by so many dead ends.

When I was in Africa in 2000, I was fascinated to see children playing with beautiful model cars—that they constructed from trash. The image has always stayed with me as a reminder that even refuse can be fashioned into something functional, innovative, interesting, and enjoyable.

So while I’m out on the lake in my kayak, retracing familiar woodland paths, and relaxing around the campfire, I’ll also be I’m reimagining the possibilities of coming full circle, of blank canvasses and new beginnings. I‘ll be reimagining spaces and places in an environment where I always seem to have the best visibility.

I hope you have some things to re-imagine, too, and that you have a place that’s quiet and beautiful in which to dream. I’d love reading about it if you’d like to share. Meet me here on Monday and we’ll chat.

No Beach Balls

On a recent sunny Friday I gathered up some reading material— riveting articles such as “The Eight Components of Sheltered Instruction,” and “Language Acquisition: The Pidginization Hypothesis”—and headed beachward.

It goes without saying, I’m sure, that I found my beach reads so engrossing that I did not immediately absorb the shoreline ambiance. I was focused on fossilized language development, psychological distance, and sundry other hypotheses that diverted attention from my sandy environs.

After awhile, though, I sensed that all was not well on the beachfront. Something seemed decidedly off on the periphery of my secluded haven of shells, shore, and sea. Instinctively, I turned to my right and dropped my literature as a fond dream instantly went the way of low tide. I blinked, but the scene didn’t shift—it was true. Readers, I am sad to report that my Future Studio of Art and Society has been reduced to nothing save a cement slab.

For years running, I’ve been certain that somehow, someday, I was destined to purchase the charming little weather beaten house on the rocky seaside hill. It had only been a matter of when, but in my mind alone, the plan was certain.

By day, the little saltbox habitat would house unbridled artistic revelry. In the mornings, I’d pen lively works in my oceanfront writing studio. After lingering lunches of teas, fruit, and finger sandwiches, I would dabble in the visual arts. Doubtless, I’d have a kiln.

By night, I’d throw terrific, Gastby-esque parties, where friends, guests, and artists would mingle amongst my mosaics, sculptures, and hand-crafted décor sipping spirits and nibbling cheeses before heading shore side for a bonfire that would burn to embers at sunrise.

It was all so good. I loved it so. You would have, too. Under different circumstances, I might be posting little save-the-date-style blurbs, encouraging you to keep an eye on your mailboxes for an embossed envelope. But alas, we are left to gather here in this simple online forum. At this point, I can only hope that the written glimpse into the inner workings of my Past-Tense Future Studio of Art and Society has been at least as absorbing as the literature with which I arrived seaside.