Clouds and Dreaming

Three nights ago, I dreamt about the back of my dad’s head.

He and his wife were sitting in the pew in front of me.

Before the service was over, he had disappeared, and she sat in the row behind us.

I ponder again the strangeness of dreams.

Having flying dreams and paralysis dreams and wonder if

all of it is a sort of premonition via sleep.

Can our souls see the future?

Is the dream state really the cross roads where our soul

tries to communicate with our consciousness?
I’ve dreamt of being shot, although in a dream it is hard to tell if you die or not.

I didn’t attend my funeral.

But until lately, I only dreamt of a funeral once at 17, having never been to one.

Before he finally passed I had dreamt about my father dying

at least three times. They were years apart,

but disconcerting nonetheless.

I have never awakened from one not feeling depressed

and like I’d cried for a week.
I have even dreamt of a few close friends passing.

Such dreams just make me wonder if they mean anything.

I guess it’s a little like trying to read clouds for picture messages.

I mean, is that silly?

Don’t tell anyone, but I do that too.

Vaca or Stayca?

Going on Vacation
or stay-cation this year?
By air, land or sea?
If you could go anywhere, and knew you would get home, money were no obstacle and barring any unforseen circumstances...
where would your heart lead you? Where would your itchy feet take you? What would your wandering eyes want to see?

Life of Dreams

Sometimes it’s better not to know. I read Jack Bunny’s blog regarding people who pursue their dreams in spite of others thinking they will fail. It’s possible to succeed even when those who think they know us don’t believe in us. Some people are driven by these sorts of remarks. Some people are crushed by them.
Dreams are fragile things. Sometimes a downdraft is all it takes to snuff it out. I once heard a man say that people that come before us with their dreams trust us with a spark. They’re looking for fuel. We have a bucket of gasoline in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. We can either help ignite the fire or put it out. I like to think I have a bucket of gasoline in one hand and a fan in the other. What’s the harm in setting a dream in motion, or even fanning the flame?
We’ve all met people who were seasoned dream hunters. The second we laid out a thought toward the future, someone would be there, elephant gun in hand, ready to shoot it down. Do you remember these people? The bigger the dream the more likely it is to be hunted. We learn very quickly who we can’t trust with our creative ideas. We become guarders of our dreams.
Do you remember the one who believed in you? How many of your dreams have come to pass? Who do you credit with feeding your dreams? If you knew you would not fail, what would you attempt to do?

Birthday Tribute

My Dad the Dreamer

Looking out second-story windows we saw city sunsets cut through with telephone wires and pierced by electric poles. Exhaust fumes hung heavy in the air, except in those first few moments after a rainstorm. My dad is a dreamer.
“We’ll have a house in the country one day with fresh air and a big wide open sky. Every night sunsets will be painted all the way across as far as we can see,” my dad said. In my eight-year-old mind, God’s watercolors washed across the heavens. How could my Dad see beyond now into the future? I saw swatches of firmament between tall brick buildings and neatly rowed two-story houses. I didn’t see our new house in the country.
The summer after I turned ten, Dad bought a piece of country land with a real dirt road along side. We stood atop our knoll, surrounded by five acres of goldenrod, milkweed and thistles. Facing west, we watched the sun dip behind the maple woods. When the colors began to rainbow across the clear expanse, he winked at me. That moment, a dream became real.
“The front window of our new house will face the sunset and we’ll watch them every night,” he said, unwrapping another dream for me. One day we’ll leave our three-bedroom walk-up and live in a four-bedroom ranch-style home with a family room.
Before I started the sixth grade, we moved into our new, not-quite-finished house. Aside from the appliances and a cold-water sink the kitchen hadn’t been constructed.
“All you kids will get to help me build the kitchen,” Dad said. “When it’s done we’ll have a big banana-split party and you can each invite a friend.” For two years he made mounds of oak sawdust. He mopped up small white puddles of hide glue after clamping precision-cut pieces of wood together, making all the cabinets, doors and drawers. We kids sanded miles of board feet and rubbed off the fine grit from reams of sandpaper, making sharp edges soft. When we finished our project, an eat-in bar stood between the kitchen and the dining room with honey-stained, solid-wood cabinets above and below on all four walls. I was fifteen.
Just as I dreamed, friends came over for a banana-split party. My dad scooped everybody’s choice of flavors into banana-lined bowls. We topped ice cream balls with caramel, strawberry syrup and chocolate sauce. All afternoon, my dad practically glowed with pride in that kitchen. Our friends saw the sunset through the front windows of our new house.
“I want to accomplish so many projects,” Dad said. “I’ll have to live to be to get them all finished.” Just like that, another dream planted itself in my head, where it lived until I turned forty-two.
Then, Dad had a heart attack. Because of complications, the doctors didn’t expect him to live through the night. I drove a hundred miles to stand by his ICU bed. I tried to think of something to hold his unconscious body to this side of Heaven.

“I always dreamed you’d live to be a-hundred-and-twenty. You still have fifty-one years left.” I said. He kept right on living. Four years later, my dad is still a dreamer. Because of him, I am too.