The Lost Art of Dreaming

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I think of my childhood. I had dreams then. It was easy to believe in them. It was the only reality I knew. Untainted by all the impossibilities of life and untarnished by the disappointments that were bound to come. Free of burdens my mind could not yet carry. A heart untouched by evil or deceit. And a magical time of innocence. A momentous time of presence. Has believing in your childhood dreams become a lost art? A skill forsaken in the midst of new realities, but one that hounds you, seeks you out, chases you like a looming deadline? Push forward to find the pockets of inspiration that cross your path from time to time!

For all that has happened in my life, I now accept and absorb all of what life has served me into my soul, and pray that when you squeeze me out, I will not hold inside me bitterness, rage and resentment, but instead will drip with gratitude, lessons learnt, wisdom gained. How many of us have experienced tragedy? How many of us have experienced pain? I know I am not alone. When asked, "Will you become better, or will you become bitter?", I admit I became a see-saw of both. 

Now I seek not to step outside myself, but to be myself, not to rush ahead but to be present and root myself. I cling to the earth beneath me, explore the ground and trust in the fruits to be harvested. I drink the fresh living waters and the abundant life that the water holds. I absorb all its goodness and know that pain and suffering births something beautiful each time, like a child who is always a blessing, no matter the circumstances in which it was conceived. 














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