Sunday, September 30, 2012

romancing the wringer washer

The other day I took off my rose-colored glasses and ... I don't want to talk about it.

I was at the wood pile, preparing to stack a couple more loads of logs in the shed, when the glasses came off. It was an inspiration, much like an inspiration I once had about "living your dream." The glasses crushed underfoot and I realized: If life is good and sweet only because of the rosy lens you see it through, then life isn't really good and sweet, is it? And if life isn't really good and sweet, why go around pretending that it is?

I once changed my life, thought it was time to pursue some romantic notions I had about living differently, living the kind of life I read about in books, out in the woods, starry nights, snug cabins, grazing deer, inquisitive racoons, peace and quiet, and hard, simple work that made a body feel good. Swinging an axe and planting seeds. Reaping the harvest.

Things didn't really turn out that way, so I tried again, and it was about this time I thought: What happens if a person invests everything in a dream and it, like, doesn't change anything? Doesn't make you gloriously happy and content, full of bliss? What, then, do you do? What if there is nothing left to dream about?

The thing is, if you are living your dream and it's not working out, you have no dream to escape to. You are trapped in what you thought was it, and it, it turns out, is nothing. Or maybe even worse than nothing.

I don't want to talk about it. But I must.

It is a scary notion that: It doesn't matter. That whether you live your dream or not, it does not matter.

But is it any scarier than realizing that the only way life is good is if you see it that way?

{Now, aren't you glad you stopped by? Through the end of the year I anticipate writing on Sundays only. And some day I may actually tell you about that wringer washer.}

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