It seems easier to allow the expiration of a precious dream than to explore all available measures to keep it alive. After all, you've made every effort, taken each recommended step, even concocted a few snazzy moves of your own, all to no apparent avail. So, what's left? The carcass of a dream? No. With all due respect to the venerable poet Mr. Hughes, dreams don't die; but without them, we do.
Dreams are thought forms awaiting our action in order to blossom, in need of our life support to bear good fruit; they are babies craving nothing more than our utterly undivided attention. Dreams wither in the absence of our complete devotion -- but they don't disappear. True dreams will haunt and tease us until we realize them. Until we do the next thing we haven't done. And the next. And, yes...the next. Our dreams ask us to be relentless; and they require that we love ourselves enough to follow them through to completion. Even though we don't exactly know what form the finished product will take.
Too often we short-shrift our aspirations, deeming them impractical (by whose standards?), pronoucing them impossible (ah there, Don Quixote!), giving up when the challenges pile too high and topple -- often on us. Inevitably causing cuts and bruises...which heal quickly with the antiseptic of new information and the balm of patience. And we stack the volumes again; this time, a little differently. Shorter stacks. Big ones on the bottom, creating a more solid foundation for the smaller ones on top. Against the wall, maybe, for support.
Unrealized dreams leave torn, spiderless cobwebs to festoon the haunted corners of our hearts. But, look: directly across from the damaged web is a fresh net being spun by another industrious spider, tenaciously weaving a new and intricate design, an irresistable dreamcatcher for our hopes and desires (admittedly, not a charming analogy for the arachnophobes among you).
No one dashes our dreams but ourselves. We set unreasonable time limits, we expect certain remuneration, we unfairly compare our dreams to the dreams of others. And we have to stop.
Because this is about the free flow of unlimited energy -- the sparkling Fantasia sweep of Mickey Mouse's magic wand. Dreams do not live in a file cabinet or a storage bin. They breathe as we do, they survive by our wits, their blood flow is through our veins.
I'll spare you the hundred more metaphors I could conjure; I know all you dreamers get the idea.
It is decidedly NOT easier to let go of that which inspires our minds, charges our hearts, and nourishes our souls. It is, in fact, inexpressibly intolerable. Let's not do it! Let's dream away! Let's do that which makes us feel most alive, open our arms wide to every possibility this life offers, fearlessly unfurl our fingers, like the wings of a bird, and let her fly.
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