I use to dream of standing in a river, a liquid breeze caressing my bare legs, the sound of the river rolling by as it dampened the sound of a nearby highway. Eyes focused upon the end of my line much like a wading heron would, waiting for some hint that fish were here before the rod tip would quiver and bend. Roll it upstream. Watch it drift by. Roll it upstream. Watch it drift by replayed over and over again as a Tai Chi master. There is a gentleness to the stroke. There is meaning in the movements.

These were my twilight nights, where I could drift in and out of the riffle the night before I would go fishing. It was never about the fish that would take your line all the way down into the backing. It was about the sound of the river, the cold water calming irritated nerves in my feet. It was about rhythm. It was about a purpose in being there in the stream again where life made sense no matter what the rest of the week thought.

Once I dreamed of a job, sitting again at a desk where I felt I had meaning. I dreamed of being needed to do something that only I could do. I dreamed of decision makers who had the gift of seeing beyond the gray hair and the lack of college degrees who recognized that invisible degrees of experience sometimes come with wrinkles and a heart that has a history of moving mountains. 

Much like the night before fishing I waited for a confusing amount of time for my sun to rise again. Seemingly not quite asleep but not present either I waited. The clicking of the keyboard, a fulfilled purpose again with the focus on the detain. Being wanted, being needed to do something for others much like the sound of the river can absorb the distractions of a world bent on racing by toward their own predetermined destinations. Going so fast to get to where?

The dream of the river became a reality many times since. The dream of a job, a new born dream, has recently been translated into being. Just like the river, I found myself dreaming the night before of what it would sound like, feel like. I could feel purpose again, I remembered what it was like to dream and live and dream again.

There are things that I feel deeply about and they are not fishing. . .  they are just dreams.

6 thoughts on “Dreams

  1. This is absolutely beautiful! The first few lines took me back to my hometown. Fly-fishermen love to fish in our river. Some of my favorite memories include watching them stand so calmly in the center of chaotic waters. They seem so powerful, and peaceful. Thank you.


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