Dreams

I don't remember what dreams I held as a child. And later, I had aspirations, but I am not sure they were dreams. I spent much of my life in a juvenile pragmatism, looking forward to the next challenge, forgetting the last. I didn't romanticize many things, other than the books I collected, least of all any semblance of dreams or fulfilling notions of future contentment or bliss. I wasn't unhappy though, as I now realize I was drafting off of other people's dreams, the nobility of their struggles. This borrowed life is lived in the moment, as my bank account, retirement plan, and long-term goals reflect - and now, five decades into this latent lend-lease, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Stepping into to someone else's dream is delicate work, and delicate work is probably not my forte'. Sometimes you are invited in, other times begrudgingly given access, and often you just sort of push your way inside. Perhaps your vision is different: They see the goal, you see the path. Most mysteriously though, you often get involved in another's dream that they don't completely appreciate, or that you actually seem to care more about - this may be the hallmark of teaching.
I see folks dreaming daily, and I am amazed at the manifestations of those endeavors. Yesterday, I saw a man sitting a table in the hallway outside of my office. He was in his thirties,dressed fastidiously, and was carefully and decidedly maneuvering papers around for quite awhile. I knew this dream mechanism - the more he organized, the more he prepared, the better he felt about the coming appeal or proposal. The efficacy of his dream lay at his fingertips at that moment, he would never have anymore control over his destiny than he did over those papers. There was a comfort in his eyes I envied. I hope to see him again, a step closer on his path.
I remember a prostitute in Jamaica who dreamt of reading to get a better job to buy a mattress for her children; children in a refugee camp who dreamt of small shacks with dirt floors and thatched roofs owned not by governments, but by their parents; parents of children in refugee camps that dreamt that their children would survive long enough to leave the camps; first generation college students who dreamt of decent jobs that could feed their families and their brains; students who had suffered horrible childhoods who dreamt of jobs helping others; friends who dreamt of making elegant cakes, poignant stories, inspiring lectures, moving speeches, beautiful music, perfect photographs, happy children.
I have injected myself in some of these dreams, and by doing so, have traded my own for theirs. Probably not very noble, as I will never face the day to day drudgery that can eventually chip away at the corner of dreams gradually dissipating the passion that hydrates them. My dreams are born and reborn daily, and are always as vivid and fresh as the interaction I share with their owners. My strength too is refreshed regularly, and relieved from any nagging notions of selfishness and ego, knowing there is much less guilt in the neglect of my loved ones on behalf of adopted dreams rather than my own.
I told a friend the other day that my life's goal now was probably just making it to my own death, and I suppose he found it morbid or pessimistic. I didn't mean it that way and still don't. There is no light at the end of my tunnel, no grand dream to be realized and cherished at the conclusion of my journey. My eyes are not there, not future focused - rather wrapped warmly around the dreams that inculcate my days, the images and pursuits that fly around me constantly like embracing wraiths as I navigate my way through hundreds of diverse dreams in hundreds of diverse hearts. The end is neither here nor there, but every additional day is a blessing!
I am off now to the tutoring lab to factor a few trinomials, and a few modest and fruitful dreams.