Joe comes to me in dreams. We are speaking on the phone and I hear his voice again. Or we are in the living room, chatting. I wake with heaviness, smothered in grief.
I once had dreams of a different sort.
By this time, I thought I’d be a published author.
And even though I self-published a novel a few years ago and write this blog, and do have somewhat impressive credentials as a journalist, I never managed to get that work of fiction in print.
The truth is I’ll be 72 this summer and time passes like a raging river.
An even harsher truth: Do I have the energy to fulfill those dreams of youth, of writing a novel of worth, of substance?
I once believed anything was possible in life. That was my late father’s philosophy. He was an inspirational speaker, giving talks such as You Were Born for Greatness, Why Settle for Less? or the ABCs of Greatness. Dad’s belief was that no matter your stage or age in life, you could fulfill your dreams.
But somewhere between Joe’s death (unexpected) and dad’s death and dying (long and grueling), I lost that desire for greatness. And my dreams.
Now, I wonder. What is it I truly want?
Other younger writers have the drive and stamina to go forward. And they are. I see them. I read them.
And yes, to be brutally honest, I’m often envious. Of their raw, untarnished energy. Their talent. That they still have time to fulfill those dreams.
I’ve been writing since I was 21. I’ve worked hard at my craft. Damn hard. I’ve written drafts of novels. A few. Queried and pitched to agents like a mad woman, in my 40s, 50s and 60s. Rejections were rampant.
And now, here I am, still among the great unpublished.
So here’s the heart and message of this small musing.
I’m finding as I grow older that I’m letting go of those dreams of what I thought I wanted — to the reality of what is. For me, this continues to be a time of introspection, of looking at what really matters.
And what really matters is not so much a published book or seeing an essay printed in the New York Times or finding another partner and living happily ever after.
What’s important is simple. How well do I love others, myself, life? Am I thankful for the moments of grace? For the holy? The sunlight glinting off the tops of leaves in the setting sun. The fresh scent of earth after rainfall. The comforting voice of a friend encouraging and lifting me.
Yes, I wake to dreams of Joe and dreams long past — and no, life hasn’t turned out like I planned or wanted. It is only with the gift of aging and hindsight that I now see the bread crumbs the Divine always left for me to follow, even though I stumbled.
I now realize how that unseen force of love has pointed me in directions I hadn’t intended.
Those life detours have not all been happy, in fact, some painful. But they have made me who I am. And I wouldn’t trade those unrealized dreams for some other lesser version of myself.
For now, this is my prayer, one penned by the late writer Brian Doyle:
” … to pay fierce attention to the holy of everything, to notice the flourish and song of holy and the awful of bruised and broken holy, and to report on this to my brothers and sisters, which is, of course, everyone.”
Yes, may I do this in my writing, whether great or small, published or not.
Even moreso, may I do this in my life.
I feel Joe would approve. Even in my dreams.
My Dearest Writer friend Marielena, what a magnificent writer you are. And, much like your father,so inspirational. I always come away from your blog posts with a grateful sense of opportunity for my own personal growth and development. I come away from this one with the sense of acceptance that dreams evolve and change just as we do. Thank you for the reminder.
I appreciate and am moved by your writing and always look forward to seeing your posts.
With much gratitude,
Loretta
You are always so kind and supportive of my writing and I thank you from my heart, my dearest friend. I’m so blessed to call you friend. If any words I write touch one heart, I am humbled and grateful. Love to you!