Piece of a Dream

I had this dream that I used to keep high on this shelf. It was a visual display of every hope that I had resting upon this THIS that you and I were making up as we went along.

I can clearly remember the day this dreamscape began to form in my mind. Our paths crossed at a time and place so unexpected and in a way that was so delightful, I was convinced that it must be destiny.

So, I set up my canvas and began to choose my colors and consider my technique to determine what style this artistic creation would be. As days moved into weeks and into months, my vision became clearer and a magnificent montage of moments developed from the darkroom of my mind into a scene that was sometimes Monet-esque in its muted beauty, Grandma Moses-like in its simplicity, reminiscent of Norman Rockwell in its All-American-ness and perhaps even held abstract shades of Picasso's most intruiging creations.

It was a lovely happily ever after I dreamed up for you and I. A crazy combination of totally different styles of visual expression colored in by love, laughter and passion that somehow meshed into perfect picture of all that I knew we could be.

One day, I was cleaning up a few dusty places, re-organizing some areas and throwing out the things that I no longer needed. I pulled my dream down off its shelf and upon close inspection, I found that some of its colors had faded. The vivid reds, bright blues and striking yellows had somehow lost their lustiness over time. And seemingly from nowhere, pieces of my portrait were missing. Entire scenes erased with no explanation.

Hoping you could help me figure out what was wrong with this picture, I turned to you. Looking into your eyes, I instantly realized that although you stood only a few feet from me, we had grown so far apart that you may as well have been half a world away. The shock of that blinding moment of clarity caused me to lose my grip on the handmade frame. I was held rigid as it slipped from my grasp and crashed to the floor. My dream lay shattered in a million pieces.

Wordlessly, you turned and walked away, leaving me alone to clean up the mess that we had made together.

Heartbroken, I pushed the debris into a closet and closed the door. I knew that I needed to retreat into my special place, take time to regain my composure and figure out to move on.

Slowly, I found the path to renewal and began to heal and determined that from this, I would become stronger. I soon returned to the place of my brokenness armed with cleaning supplies and the knowledge that it was time to clear my closet of this skeleton.

I paused over some of the scenes. My Monet-esque scenes were even blurrier through the tears that were cleansing my spirit. I could see the influence of my own elder mother's advice in the practical poses of my Grandma Moses phase. My childlike hope for a storybook life was evident in the places that I created the scenarios of a Black Norman Rockwell. And in a strange way, the purported madness of Picasso was easily evident in the randomly patternless abstract shards that I found.

As I discarded the broken bits of who I wanted us to be, I noticed a particularly beautiful scene that I knew that I did not want part with.

So, I took this piece of that dream and put it back up on my shelf. From time to time, I pull it down, take it to my special place and sit in the sun remembering what was good about this dream.

Knowing that life continually presents me with new dreams to dream.