I sit here at my computer in my most recent classroom, thinking about the little girl I once was, and how she believed so strongly that she was a fabulous writer. To that little girl, stories were her own private little world, and she developed a passion for the written word. She became the girl who sat in the back of the classroom with a rather volumous book in her hands, hidden beneath the cover of her desk. Rather than listen to her teacher talk irrelevance, she would dream constantly in her seat. It often got her into trouble, yet nothing her teacher could tell her compared to the incredible worlds leaping off the page and pulling her in, demanding she become part of it. She would drown herself in these worlds, one after another. Her mother would ask her, "Tell me what the story was about." Because she could not say, the belief was that she was not getting any meaning from what she was reading. Yet, it was rather because she did not know how to verbalize what she had read, at least not in the few words her mother insisted upon. As she was reading the brilliant worlds that were not her own, she would dream about doing the same thing herself. This child would wonder at the possibilities that could be created from simply thinking about them. What was not possible when it came from the simple will to believe in it?
A child can dream and make those dreams possible. Can I? I have become so far removed from that girl, who at the age of 13 or so gave up what she once loved to do, even though it once provided her with so much unadulterated pleasure. It was entirely her own, requiring only time, and the simple tools of a pen and piece of paper. I wonder what happened. I wonder why I have never seriously tried to do it again. There have been a few half-hearted attempts to do it again. However, without faith in the purpose or meaning in it anymore, that girl grew into a woman who became afraid to dream as an adult. The mere thought of attempting such a task is daunting now and creates dread at the idea of sitting down to attempt writing again.
Recently, I began thinking on what matters to me and how I could improve my constantly evolving world. Sadly, I realize that there is very little I have attempted to pursue with passion beyond work and bills. However, now I find myself in a position where I would like and am able to expand my horizons. I once again have found hope in the future. Thus, the cautious woman I have become has begun thinking about what matters to me, and if I were in a position where I could do as I wished - what would I choose to do? A truly powerful question if one pauses to honestly consider the possibilities. For me, I realize that I would write to improve the lives of, and offer consolation to, others. Whether I was successful or not (though it would mean a great deal to know I am successful at this mountainous, and possibly frivolous, dream), I would choose to do something I have layed aside and kept dormant for many years. I realize it would indeed be a sad regret to me, should I (out of fear or insecurity), choose to spend the remainder of my life without at least trying as hard as I could to achieve a dream I once had, although a child: To become a published author.
The child I once was had so much to tell the world. The adult she has become, has so many stories to share. The child believed in the power of the written word and what it could achieve. She believed it was a gateway to other places, and the adult I am realizes it has a healing or enlightening power. The girl believed she could be the kernel of truth that might grow sideways as well as up that could excite others, and make them laugh or cry. A story was fun, even if sometimes sad. It took you away, and allowed you to dream without borders or boundaries. Maybe if I learn to dream again, I might be able to show others how to as well.
Wish me luck and help me open the door I closed so long ago. Share ideas, thoughts, and your own dreams. I'd love to create something with you in mind.
A child can dream and make those dreams possible. Can I? I have become so far removed from that girl, who at the age of 13 or so gave up what she once loved to do, even though it once provided her with so much unadulterated pleasure. It was entirely her own, requiring only time, and the simple tools of a pen and piece of paper. I wonder what happened. I wonder why I have never seriously tried to do it again. There have been a few half-hearted attempts to do it again. However, without faith in the purpose or meaning in it anymore, that girl grew into a woman who became afraid to dream as an adult. The mere thought of attempting such a task is daunting now and creates dread at the idea of sitting down to attempt writing again.
Recently, I began thinking on what matters to me and how I could improve my constantly evolving world. Sadly, I realize that there is very little I have attempted to pursue with passion beyond work and bills. However, now I find myself in a position where I would like and am able to expand my horizons. I once again have found hope in the future. Thus, the cautious woman I have become has begun thinking about what matters to me, and if I were in a position where I could do as I wished - what would I choose to do? A truly powerful question if one pauses to honestly consider the possibilities. For me, I realize that I would write to improve the lives of, and offer consolation to, others. Whether I was successful or not (though it would mean a great deal to know I am successful at this mountainous, and possibly frivolous, dream), I would choose to do something I have layed aside and kept dormant for many years. I realize it would indeed be a sad regret to me, should I (out of fear or insecurity), choose to spend the remainder of my life without at least trying as hard as I could to achieve a dream I once had, although a child: To become a published author.
The child I once was had so much to tell the world. The adult she has become, has so many stories to share. The child believed in the power of the written word and what it could achieve. She believed it was a gateway to other places, and the adult I am realizes it has a healing or enlightening power. The girl believed she could be the kernel of truth that might grow sideways as well as up that could excite others, and make them laugh or cry. A story was fun, even if sometimes sad. It took you away, and allowed you to dream without borders or boundaries. Maybe if I learn to dream again, I might be able to show others how to as well.
Wish me luck and help me open the door I closed so long ago. Share ideas, thoughts, and your own dreams. I'd love to create something with you in mind.
Good luck!
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