Last night, I had this dream. I was in a suburban neighborhood somewhere, and I was down on my knees with a green, felt tip pen writing ideas – nothing specific – down on the sidewalk. The sidewalk was a giant circle, like a labyrinth without the turns, and I had circled the path several times with words. In my dream, I knew I wrote a little down every day. A woman walked up as I was kneeling and asked what I was doing. I stood up and told her I was writing. She seemed to appreciate that.
I don’t often have dreams like this, ones that are so clearly depicted and so simple. Usually, my dreams are full of people I know (who don’t look anything like themselves) in complex group scenes where nothing is very straight-forward. So when a dream with this clarity comes my way, I pay attention.
It seems to me that this dream speaks to much of what I’ve been thinking lately – that it is in the daily little acts of words and life that living actually happens. Sometimes I put so much pressure on myself to “WRITE SOMETHING” or “DO SOMETHING” that I forget that simply breathing, blogging, taking note (both in words and in my mind) are SOME THINGS. Sometimes there is no greater agenda than to live today, as best I can.
In my dream, I looked at all these phrases, these little stories, these sentences, words, and letters painted onto concrete, and I knew they might wash away with the rain. But still, when I saw them, I was proud; they were beautiful. That was enough.