"...but that doesn't mean our dreams are going to come true." They certainly have a better chance of coming true if we actually strive for those dreams. I have spent most of my life not striving for my dreams. Which is not entirely fair to myself. I dreamed of having children and I have four. I dreamed of a handsome, caring, intelligent husband, and I have him, too. I had smaller dreams, to be good at something. When I was good at them, sometimes I went off on tangents with little forethought.
I was good at languages and Chinese was being offered. I took it and was good at it, so kept on studying. Then I went in lived in China because I wanted to use the language I had learned. But I never was a sinophile, never had a dream to go to China, was never enthralled with the country. Some would be impressed. "Wow, I've never lived anywhere but Pennsylvania," they'll say, "and you lived in China!" I'm not saying it wasn't cool. I certainly got something out of the experience. What I am saying is I don't have much experience really wanting something and then really going after it. Usually I do the opposite. Want something so bad that I run away. Oh yeah, that'll work!
In therapy they ask you what you liked as a child. How you played. I wrote poems. All the time. Sent them to grandparents for holidays. I drew pictures. Lots of them. I wrote and illustrated stories. I never wondered if I was good, I knew I was. More importantly I thought I was.
Why is that more important? There are plenty of people mediocre at what they do living their dreams. I mean seriously, have you ever seen a butt-ugly building? Some aspiring architect followed his or her dream all the way through school and getting accredited to design that building. Some planner agreed to build it. They thought they were good and accomplished what they were hoping to. Does it really matter that I don't like it?
I have a friend who is excellent at many skills, but has said to me proudly, with her chin raised high, "The thing I do best is sewing!" I am incredulous. I'm a lousy sewer, but I know what makes a good sewer. My mom, for one. This woman in question leaves loose ends, unraveling seams, is without question not a detail person. But does it matter? Sewing makes her feel happy.
So, the therapist, the career specialist will ferret out my dreams and urge me to be a writer, an artist, a poet. Then the recession hits me in the face. Taps me on the shoulder. "Um, Meg? Like, you know, you could have checked all this out when you were home with the kids in school, your husband earning six figures. Like maybe that would have been a better time to explore your artistic dreams? Could you now please crumple them in a ball and throw them in that energy-efficient fireplace insert, they would make better fuel."
When met with this challenge--explore your inner self or continue to take turns down unfullfilling paths with uncertain monetary gain I end up doing neither, frozen like that proverbial deer in the headlights. My husband does the opposite. He drives into frenetic energy doing everything he can staying up until midnight writing reports, scrounging to earn us extra income. Forgetting his keys, his wallet, getting speeding tickets. Neither of us seem to be making any headway. Clearly he is right? Isn't he?
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