(Me and Max, one of the finest dogs I've known)
A man with intense physical disabilities was speaking about his dreams at a conference. As a child, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would say, "I want to be a truck driver, delivering toys to children everywhere." His family thought it was adorable: a child confined to a wheelchair, having such a specific and unlikely life goal. As he taught the audience about life with disabilities, and how to help people grow, learn, and become more independent, he tied it in to his childhood dream. What does a truck driver do? They travel far and wide, delivering goodies to appreciative people. What is his current life experience? He travels far and wide, delivering helpful, interesting, and entertaining information to appreciative audiences.
That story popped in mind this morning, during a particularly distracted meditation. The mind volunteered this story from 20 years ago. And then the mind traipsed off to my own childhood dream of being a writer. I determined to write about the value of dreams, and turned my mind back to meditation.
I remember so clearly, a crisp new notebook I had acquired at the young age of 8. I treasured it, and decided I would write a book in it. That was my earliest memory of my dream of writing. My life experience unfolded in such a way that I didn’t write. Writing became the last thing I would or could do. I had loads of ideas, stories, inspiration. But when I would try, my feeble and disappointing efforts deflated me. I’d reproach myself with hurtful thoughts, and think, “Who do you think you are?” And that would be the end of that, until my next feeble and disappointing effort. By age 40, my dream was as good as dead. And I maintained a low-grade malaise that haunted my life: I was afraid to pursue my dream.
I became disgusted that with the situation, and the black cloud of self-loathing was unbearable. I decided to write every single idea and inspiration that came to mind. I recognized my fear--how could I not?--so it seemed like doing the feared thing was a logical move. I filled journals, computer entries, scraps of paper. I wrote every random, interesting idea that came to me. I started many different book projects, which remain uncompleted. But so what?
That's the point. So what, if I don’t write a book. So what, if I don’t become a famous, rich, celebrated writer? I laugh as I write this, because those aspirations have diminished as my enjoyment and satisfaction with the writing process have blossomed. Yoga teaches that results and outcomes are unimportant, anyway, and that makes sense to me. For one thing, when the personality writes with outcomes in mind, it triggers fear and judgement.
The dream is the guide to life. Wisdom (my word for the experience for God, Jesus, Krishna, Universe, etc) inspired me long ago to write. And now, when I sit at my keyboard--fingers tapping away, wheels turning in effortless functionality--time and place and even the Carrie personality disappear. I feel closer to Wisdom than ever. We work in partnership together, united in our play and creativity. When I’m done, I feel full, nourished, rejuvenated.
And when I click “post,” I practice courage. Every time. I especially practice courage when I include a picture of myself. There are few things more gratifying than practicing courage.
If it was up to my personality, I would judge, criticize, and edit endlessly. I wouldn’t post anything, because the personality is shy, fearful, and confused. The personality would have me rushing off to the next thing, ignoring my dream due to old, negative, sour ideas about myself and the world. And the personality would suffer accordingly.
I write for me. I post for me. Everything that gets written is for me. The very Wisdom that gave me the inspiration always comes through and drives the process. Wisdom gives me the courage to sit down and live my dream. I am a writer.
What is your dream? Who do you think you are?
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