Putting it off, regardless of what ‘it’ is for you, is a waste. A waste of a dream, a goal, a level of achievement.
How many dreams I had as a child.
I dreamed of being a gardener, feeding the world, growing the best exotic fruits and medicinal herbs, and of people beating down my dirt road to experience the best.
I dreamed of being an artist, of creating such beauty that nature couldn’t compete. Silly dream, that one, for a person who can’t draw a line that’s recognisable to anyone else as a line.
And then there was the dream of singer/musician. I tried to learn guitar, but the instructor made so many excuses for not doing the next appointment, that I finally figured out what he meant — but only after my brother put wadding in his ears while I practiced. Years later, the discovery of tone-deafness. That dream must remain a dream, I deem. Or have I mentioned that I’m planning on doing one of my stories as an audio file to see if I can do my own audio-narration? Please don’t hold your breath, but understand that I will do it, just to see …
Oh, mustn’t forget the foray into photography … not such a good idea for a person with hyperthyroidism shakes, which may not be noticeable in most instances, but when it comes to taking pictures … I’ll just leave that one alone, but never let it be said that I didn’t give it a red-hot go (courses and all, chemical stuff, and a good camera with a few exxie extras).
Underlying all of the dreams of my youthful reaching was one overarching passion, never lost, always there.
I dreamed of being an author, of creating worlds that readers believed and didn’t want to leave. No, wait, that wasn’t a dream. It was more than an ambition (an obsession, perhaps). As a child, I was a storyteller, so what did I want for my life that was based on being a storyteller? I wanted to be known, to have a name people recognised.
Dreams and goals and achievements.
Okay, I can garden to feed myself, mostly. Lots of failures and lots of lessons, and the medicinal herb farm (and a fleece (goat) farm) did okay, but didn’t satisfy the inner dream. It was good, but not fulfilling.
And I went to art classes (where I found out about my blue-green colour-blindness while doing the course), and even managed to draw an apple that was identified as an apple (it was in black and white). But, again, it didn’t fulfil that something that wanted to feel full of life achievement.
Storytelling. Now that mattered. All through my childhood, I told the tales (and sometimes, didn’t quite understand the difference between the world of tales and the real world), and as a foster-carer, I told stories of achievement against the odds, of those who struggled and fought for, and occasionally won, their sense of accomplishment against great odds. And now, I tell stories in books. Not the same as the childhood tales or the fostering of courage to youngsters, but still, they are my stories and I’m writing them.
Or, I started to write, publish, share them.
Did I wait too long to let the dream into my reality? Was it worth the wait to follow that path to fulfilment?
I’d have to say ‘yes’, but that’s because life gets in the way. Oh, I see. The excuses. That’s what happens. Busy-ness of day-to-day, obligations, and needs, of fulfilling the purpose of others. That came first, and I had to wait until it was the right time. Because we have to take care of others first, don’t we?
And then I have the time, learn that I don’t know nearly enough, and spend a decade learning, learning, relearning, and all the time writing to ensure the understanding is absorbed and put into the output.
The dream was coming together. I was feeling confident, cocky, assured. I could do this.
Until my body broke. At first, it was little things, and I could force my way through, keep pushing until the pain got so bad that pushing was more akin to flaying (or flensing, if you follow fantasy tales), done from within and by my own body.
All that time I spent getting ready to have the time to fulfil my dream, and when it happens, the body and mind are at odds about the capability.
There’s a lesson in this, I’m sure.
Maybe if I wait another year or two until I’m a bit healed, I’ll figure out the lesson …
What do you think? Will I ever understand that temporal limitations and liminal positioning are never aligned, and to take the step toward fulfilment means taking on the whole staircase of a thousand steps to reach the goal is this moment, only and forever, this one moment, and that is now.
So, I highly recommend that if you have a dream, a goal, a need to reach toward soulful life fulfilment, the time to start is now, and the place to start is here, lest you get to the point where it can happen, only to find the bridge is out and the chasm is deep and the other side with the greener grass is hidden by the mountains of what has passed us by …
Start the learning process now, take a bit of time for your own dreams, do a step at a time even while life happens.
Do it, build that dream into something tangible.
Okay, I’ll stop whining now, and head on off to the physio (these posts are pre-drafted and scheduled, so the physio is twice a week and I somehow don’t think it’s going to be on the day of the post, but I don’t know yet, so I’m making an assumption).