my grasshopper friend in maine
Having a dream is kind of like having a very precarious perch from which to view the world. You can see all the possibilities from that place, but maybe not the way over to them (or the way back down to the ground for that matter!). I think one of the reasons I find myself struggling to define my own dreams sometimes is that I can’t always see the clear path of how to get to them from here. I shouldn’t let that stop me, but I’ve always felt more comfortable with a clear image in my head of how something is going to turn out. It’s not a good thing. And as a bi-product of living this way for most of my life, I have come to doubt what dreams are really the ones I want to have. I wrote to a very fabulous dreamer a while back about this very thing. She said something so lovely and comforting to me, I wanted to share it in case it can help anyone else out there wondering if what they “think” they want is “really” what they want…
“I think what I’m reading between the lines here is a certain kind of fear that if you want what you want you won’t become an interesting or compelling person–the kind of person you want to become. Let me assure you, that no one, absolutely no one, can be who you are meant to be in the world, and that if you are alive, fully alive, leaning into whatever dreams you can conjure up at the moment–even if on the surface they feel ordinary or silly or stupid to you–then you are well on your way. “
The other day my parent’s stopped by and with them they brought a lot of good stuff from my childhood/young adulthood. It amazed me how many photos I had taken as a kid, and how much journalling I had done. I don’t know why I was surprised; I was there! Then as I began sorting through everything and trying to find places for it all (thank you attic!) I spent some time reading through old journals and flipping the pages of my old albums. As I was reading I came across journals that I had written during and after college, when I was in New Zealand and during the transition to coming back home. I saw some of the same thought’s I’m having today written years ago and it made me stop and wonder: how much do we change, if at all over time? Why hadn’t I pursued the things I thought I would upon coming back home? What had steered me away from the dreams I had back then, so that only now, years later am I truly investing the time in them that they deserve? I don’t think I’ll ever come close to the answers to those questions, but it kind of upset me to feel like I had lost time, lost momentum on so many things. But then, I was reminded that the paths we are on serve us even if we can’t make sense of them. So while it might feel like I wasted time, I didn’t. I just took my time.
I can say without a doubt that one dream I have always had was to be an artist. And it was by far the one dream I was the most afraid to attempt. I always saw my work as lacking compared to the others around me, and half the time I let that stop me from even trying. In college I worked on becoming a writer, thinking that words would become my paint and canvas, but somewhere along the way I stopped writing anything other than my own thoughts. Right now, as I begin working with new materials, in making jewelry that I find beautiful, I am asking myself once again if I am good enough, if I should be called an artist. Who decides? I can write in my journal a thousand times that I am the only one who has that power to decide what or who I am, but if I fail to reveal anything I make to others out of fear of their judgement, then I think that speaks pretty loudly about my own opinion.
Dreams are scary things, because they reveal the real you, and being naked is never easy. I, though, am tired of hiding. I can’t say exactly what that means, or what I am going to do with this feeling, except to say I hit “publish” on this post, and it feels pretty darn good. Small steps, perhaps. But no one ever got anywhere standing still. I wish for you the courage to declare your dreams, and the peace that comes when you do.

The most beautiful set of mini prayer flags I ever saw; on the farm in Maine protecting the entrance to one of their many bountiful, beautiful gardens.
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