The old dreams

Maybe it's the sunshine. Maybe it's the call I got this morning from a reader. Maybe it's just because I finally got a good night's sleep.

Whatever the case, it feels good just to be alive this Wednesday morning.

Oh, I'm not going to lie. I'm still bummed about losing Skip. I'm still disappointed in a few things.

But I remembered something that Helen Keller said once. She said that we focus so much on the door that closes that we don't take the time to walk through the door that opens as a result. There's so much truth to that.

I guess I've had my share of broken dreams. But, I've also had more than my share of sweet surprises. If I were to quit feeling sorry for myself and put them all on a scale, I promise you it would tip toward the good -- and it wouldn't even be close.

A fictional character, looking back over his life, once said this about broken dreams:

"The old dreams were good dreams. They didn't work out, but I'm glad I had 'em."

It was the best part of an otherwise forgettable novel, and I couldn't agree more. Sometimes you get caught up in the moment, so focused on the hurt, that even getting up in the morning doesn't make much sense.

Then you remember why doing so is usually so much fun.

I don't guess some of my most cherished dreams will come true, either. But, it's OK. I'm glad I had 'em, too. I can promise you that life would have been quite dull without them.

And, what the hell. I'll still be here, meeting deadlines, telling stories, having fun, reading good prose, hearing good music on Sunday nights (thanks, Robin!), thinking 'bout women and fishin' and loving life.

So, here's to the old dreams, the good dreams, even if they didn't quite work out. And here's to dreaming plenty more.

The dream

What you learn, after awhile, is that life is a juggling act.

Duplicity abounds. For the romantic, it's often difficult to adjust to what you see in front of you versus what you feel in your heart.

The cynic has it easier. Nothing is good; everyone's a jerk or a cheater or a crook.

I'm learning to accept the disappointments. Tomorrow I'll look into the eyes of a sweet little 2-year-old boy and fight the sadness that comes with the realization that I don't have a child of my own.

Tomorrow, the memory will catch up with me again, and I'll acknowledge that it isn't like I once thought. I'll shrug. I've been here before. Then I'll wonder just how much more of this I can take.

Tonight, just before drifting off to dream, I'll see her pretty smile. I'll wonder again if crazy dreams ever really come true, and hope for the thousandth time that it will.

Somewhere around 3 a.m., I'll awaken, and wish that old flame could still burn, bright as a bond fire, just once more. And as fast as it rises in my throat, the feeling will disappear, lying dormant again, just out of reach.

Just before slumber overtakes me I'll pray again that the pain leaves my kidneys forever. And hope that, with it too goes the other kind of pain, the one that hurts worse.

I want the smartass comments, and the pettiness, and the unrealistic expectations to disappear too.

I'm tired. I just want to sleep.

But in the morning Connor will knock on my bedroom door and I'll remember why I still keep the old, good dreams alive. Somewhere in the afternoon, I'll hear a sentimental tune, and in the bliss of the moment believe I can touch the sky.

This, too, shall pass. It always does. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Or so they say.

Sometimes, when it all gets to be too much, I shut my eyes, pretend she's here, or just make believe that the crazy dream will come true, and the years of waiting, and all the awkward moments and the broken promises and the lies and the heartache, will have been worth it, just to see her face.

One day I'll awaken and this time it won't be a dream. It will be her beside me and not some beautiful apparition brought about by the slumbering mind that disappears with the first streaks of light upon the horizon. I'll hold her hand and kiss her gently. She'll smile her smile and let me gaze into her eyes awhile, saying not a word.

I can't lose the sentiment. No matter how things go, how severe the pain or how far the pieces of my heart are scattered, I can't let it go.

The potter's clay rests in her eyes; the mending in the touch of her hand.

Tonight will be but a fading wisp of smoke, extinguished from the cigarette of a nightmare, forgotten amid the dawn of a new day.