floating dreams

                          
Sometimes I have so many day dreams inside my head that never come to fruition, that it is as if my hands are filled with some mysterious water that I can never hold onto. I gush over so many things that I feel almost jostled by loving so much. In all my 36 years, I have not yet found a way to anchor my self expression.

Recently home from a spectacular trip to Merida, Mexico, I got to thinking about just how fast a beautiful moment can pass us by. How do we catch them and make them our own? Beautiful images, the feeling of a temporary breeze, drops of water on a plant, the next business idea, an indescribable color, a rusty wheel...all of these things and more keep my mind constantly moving...but they don't bring me to my ultimate calling. It sounds selfish maybe, to want a true calling...an actualized waking dream, when I already have a well formed life... but i still long for it. I want to wake up with the creative purpose and intentional motion that I was born to do. Is it silk screening and water coloring my prints? Should I open that little store I have been planning for more years than I can count? Am I a resourceful interior designer that people don't even know they want yet?
...Or do I just work at remaining still and embrace my rooted life of loving my family, friends, home and a forty hour work week?

I watch other artists successfully balance the ebb and flow of passionate ideas? But it is as if I am missing the gene that makes me focus on any one thing for more than a few months at a time. So I ask myself these questions as if  I am talking into a cup that goes down into the earth and whose bottom I never find. It's not that I feel sorry for myself for having so much undirected passion and joy all the time, but how do I nail it down into the waking dream? How does the heart of the matter become the everyday work? 

Perhaps the answer, as i have comforted myself all these years, lies in experiencing all the beauty I can find and then letting it run through my fingers to wherever it needs to go next. Maybe my floating dreams are the gift, never to be planted in the ground, but to flow. To just go where they need to go.