dare

I came across this card. I bought it. With no one in particular in mind to send it to. Oh, I have multiple people whom I could. But I decided to keep it for myself. The red and pink combination of colors which in previous times I would never have mixed. Yet now, today, they work and they are pretty. I think.

I kept it for myself, placing it inside a desk which has been moved to a spot in the house it really doesn’t belong but so be it. My life is currently filled with items placed where they don’t truly belong. I am in the process of relocating yet I have no place at this exact moment to relocate to. Well rephrasing, I do have a place. It’s just not time yet. I am in the midst of a move which has taken me a couple years to complete but I’m near the end. Therefore the disarray. My office at work as well. Summer leftovers to be filed away. Put on a shelf. Thrown out. On and on.  Clutter confines me and imposes on my mind and my entire being.

So much so that when I reflect on the card, the simplicity of the one word, I am overtaken by the emotion of it. Dream. Dream of what? A place to store my laundry detergent? A season without transition? A relationship I don’t botch due to my own insecurities? People talk about their dreams. Mention them. Expound upon them. All the good they want to see. And sometimes I feel a part. A person who helps someone achieve. I offer suggestions. I contribute. But rarely if ever do I ask myself to state my own. My own personal dream. And I’m not sure why.

If this card had been black and white I would not have purchased it. The colors drew me. And the flowers. And the word. And that tells me that I deem my dream as beautiful. My interpretation of beautiful. I can pinpoint the beauty in other peoples. Yet it’s so hard to state my own. So I ask myself if it matters. Does it matter that I do not state it? That I do not hold myself accountable to it? That I do not have a tangible blueprint. Or that I have not jumped on someone else’s bandwagon for the sole purpose of being a part. Should I? Because others do. Others have theirs or they find someone and become a barnacle. But I cannot. Because to copy or comply seems the same as surrender. And I’d rather not have my own as to share. Or would I?

The hardest thing is to hone in on the absolute. It can seem so frivolous. So unimportant when compared to the one who soars and exhales loudly. I want everything to be pretty. Everything. Not neat. Not tidy. Not even necessarily clean. But beautiful. I don’t care if there are a few weeds as long as there are flowers. But we absolutely must have the flowers. And I have to travel even if by foot and I have to hear music. Play music. Put my hands on the instrument and make music. Paint and cook and explain our phones can take pictures of all of it. That’s what I did this summer with the kids I worked with. Because in all honesty, it’s about all I knew to do. And again, that tells me something.

I once sat in my CEO’s office and told him I like to make things pretty and he understood. And I meant that in the literal but also in the figurative. Because that’s what matters to me. Not in some materialistic superfluous way. But because we all deserve that much. The world is handed to us, in so many ways, as lovely. The world operates solely without our interruption and displays a sunrise and sunset every single day. Yet I downplay it. My longing to create and improve and emulate. As if that didn’t matter. Perhaps because that’s what I’ve been told or showed or what I have come to assume, whether right or wrong. That the day to day grind is most important, trumping the so called extra fluff. But that’s just not true. The most important is the beautiful. What I perceive as beautiful is and should be my priority. My children. Other children. People I love. Music. Words placed together in a thoughtful way. Flowers and trees and the sky. Baked cookies and relationships. Butterflies and bees and a quilt an old lady made for me. A hiking trail I know well. Because when I put all of that together, in a meshed and messy sort of way, I realize my dream is all of it. And some days certain aspects are more clear and more important and some days the loveliness just isn’t as obvious but it’s all the same. A heap of what I can’t imagine living without.

“Dare to dream” is a cliche term. Perhaps a workshop title from the 1990s. Yet. I ask myself if I dare conjure up my very own personal dream. What I want to see come to fruition. And it’s difficult. Like I stated above. I often feel as though I assist others in achieving theirs. But mine? A different story. Again though, when I line up in my brain all my favorite things, I am encouraged that I at the very least have a starting point. A conglomeration of good things which when networked as possible concepts to manifest, seem like a workable plan. I know I have a dream, valid and true. Not just waiting for me to capture it, but enduring along as I am in the midst.

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