I’m not sure how old we are when we start dreaming about what we want to be, what we want to do with our life. I do remember experiencing various stages of wanting to be a teacher, a singer, a dancer, an olympic rider, a rancher, a writer, and an actress. I also remember going to college and being in classes that absolutely blew my mind in terms of never having been exposed to the information before and finding it fascinating.
There was an excitement and a sense of anticipation in all of these dreams. I still have dreams of what I want to be, of who I want to be. It doesn’t end just because you get older. I think there is still time to chase these dreams, time to live in anticipation of good things to come, time to realize and find joy in these new dreams. Of course, in the next breath I wonder what in the world am I thinking. I should be set in my life at this point; I should be dependable and routined and well down my path.
In some ways, I am living my dreams-yet I know there is still more to come and I don’t want to bury or kill the dreams of that scrawny little girl with the huge eyes, the one who read voraciously and wanted all the beauty, love, and determination of those characters, the one who was sure she could be anything she wanted to be, the one who found her faith could bring her through the most troubled times.
What is the biggest reason I have right now for not pursuing some of my dreams? I’m convinced that I don’t have time; I don’t have the financial resources; I don’t know how or where to start. I have that terrible self-editor inside who pooh-pooh’s all the best ideas, that one is a dream killer. I thought this morning as I ran under a magnificent shooting star, that maybe I could catch a ride on that west wind and let it carry me right into that little girl’s dreams.