“Life is a journey, not a destination.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

After several decades of a recurring dream where I show up for a final exam never having attended a single class, a new recurring dream has set in. And this time — early yesterday morning — the new recurring dream startled me awake.

In the dream, I am on a bus traveling to see a beloved that I’ve known since college to show her a book. It is a large paperback (8×11) with a blue cover with white type. Neither the title nor the author is apparent. The first two times, before I arrive at this beloved’s house I realize that I have forgotten the book. I remain on the bus which turns around so I can go back and retrieve the book. The third time, I actually arrive at her house, but can’t find the book. I then discover that I have tucked it between my shirt and coat. I reach in to pull it out and . . . wake up, startled.

This time, this recurring dream was so unsettling that I googled what it might mean, though it seemed fairly obvious and I didn’t want to believe it. Google revealed that dreams about never arriving at your destination are often called, “journey interrupted” dreams and are the “most common psychological dreams.” This motif “usually represents frustration, anxiety about the future, or a feeling that your current life goals are out of reach.”

Basic interpretations include worries about unfinished goals, anxiety about outcomes and a process vs. destination focus. These are my worries.

Why this recurring dream now? Two recent stories (there are more) have fueled my recent anxiety.

The first story. I have decided that I want to share my “work” — my farmland photos — with the public which means preparing for a public show. Every artist I contacted on how to begin advised that the first step was setting up an Instagram account because it is a visual-first platform built around high-resolution photos, short-form reels, and stories. “It’s the easiest way for people to see your work.” Okay, how in the hell do I do that? I watch several video tutorials and began to download photos, but then got messages about “following” and “followers.” Huh? I contacted one of my artist friends on how to actually use Instagram and he responded, “We oldsters do the best we can, but I’ve also been on it for years. You just have to keep trying until you learn the platform.”

I’m an oldster?!

. . . which leads me to The second story: Over the weekend, Adrienne listened to a fascinating podcast by the editors of the New York Times Book Review, and one shared that her favorite book of the year so far is Nothing Random: Bennett Cerf and the Publishing House He Built by Gayle Feldman. I researched the book as well as the life of Bennett Cerf and discovered that he died in 1971 from natural causes at the age of . . . wait for it . . . 73. My age.

I texted my alarm about this to Adrienne who replied, “73 was old in those days.” I texted back: “He died in August 1971, three months after I graduated from high school. That’s not ‘those days.’ Or at least I hope not.” Adrienne then sent me a google link that indicated that the average age of death in the 1970s was 73.7. The current age of death is 79.0-79.5.

Will my bus arrive in time?

I once asked my mother, “What is the one piece of wisdom life has taught you?” Without hesitation, she replied, “Your dreams don’t come true.” This is a profoundly sad response, and I often fear that I inherited her perspective. I wanted to be married. I wanted a couple of kids. I wanted a Frank-Lloyd-Wright-inspired home in a cosmopolitan area. I wanted to be a multi-millionaire surrounded by art, artists and literati. I wanted more wall space.

But I have a good and relatively healthy and happy life. So why this deep, persistent yearning? What impact on my aspirations did my mother and father have? They never once visited any home that I made for myself. They never once sat in my living room, saw my art, books or gardens or used one of my forks. They never once saw how I became someone other than their daughter.

Perhaps the real point is not my fear of never arriving, but the reality that my parents literally never arrived.

I’m not a psychologist, but in the least, their choice to be absent broke my heart, and too often it feels like they also broke several limbs. Believing in yourself when you’ve been this broken is a herculean, exhausting and never-ending responsibility.

However, I know from experience the world breaks everyone and some of us (including me) become stronger in the broken places. According to Walt Whitman, I may be broken, but “I am large. I contain multitudes.” I know that I am not alone.

I also know that today is not my final destination.

All farmland images were captured on March 25, 2022 during a very foggy sunrise.