“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.
18 responses to “Always the Journey”
Mothers, sadness, brokenness, aging … not sure why I’m feeling so sad but I am. Your photos are gorgeous though.
Thank you, Neola — March 25, 2022 was one of my Top Ten Sunrise Mornings. (Hmmm — an interesting idea — and honestly, it just came to me — is revealing my “Top Ten” a way to write about and show my farmland photos?)
Sadness seems to be one of your lifelong companions, Neola, as it is one of mine, and I’m sorry. Even quotes about the gifts of sadness make me sad because I feel like I’m not seeing something that’s obvious. “Light? What light? You mean that fleeting light I see every once in a while? Where does it go? What am I doing wrong to make it flee so fast?”
My previous comment notwithstanding, I do have the light of scores of beloveds in my life, and I am thankful for each and every one of them. As the poet, Anne Sexton — a life-long depressive — wrote:
“Big heart,
wide as a watermelon,
but wise as birth,
there is so much abundance
in the people I have.”
I know that some of dreams I revealed above are ridiculous — multi-millionaire? Frank-Lloyd-Wright-inspired home? — get real already, Sharon. I also know that I am not the only kid who grew up with absent parents, and I DID grow up. My parents fed and clothed me. My mother introduced me to beauty and my father to dad jokes. That’s quite a spectrum which explains the embarrassment of dichotomies I posted about on this platform a couple of weeks ago.
Still, I wish I didn’t have to use so much energy and focus to believe in myself, to put words on paper only then to just stop. Abandon my work. Become the absent parent to my own creation.
I remember when you were starting your blog; you were completely flummoxed by the technology. You were angry and felt like an “oldster” then. And now look at you! This doesn’t even go into my spam folder anymore – insert laugh!
Keep fumbling with the ‘gram and keep watching the tutorials. Don’t give up on share your beautiful work. Your artistry is a gift and we need more of this exquisite scenery in the world right now.
Kelly — this is what long-term beloveds are for: to remind you of how far you’ve come when you feel like you’re still in the trenches. Thank you.🙏💝
Now onward, Sharon!
One other thing, Kelly — Adrienne has, until recently, always done the heavy techno lifting for me. I owe whatever intuition or skill I have about technology to her.💕
You sound alive, like you’re on a journey, not yet to your destination. Just keep walking, or swimming, if you like the sound of that phrase better. I’m so thankful to have you as a fellow traveler, noticing things I miss, and affirming things I see and feel.
Trish — thank you for hearing and seeing what I too often don’t hear or see.
I’ll stick with walking toward new sunrises. (Gawd, how hokey a phrase is THAT?!) But seriously, you do remind me that if I can do anything, I can endure . . . like faith, hope, love and duct tape.🙏💝
RE: photos in this post . . .
— The small white dot you see in the first post image is the moon.
— The white dots in the fifth image is an oncoming bus, er, car.
— The white dot in the last image is the rising sun.
We are all just walking each other home. Rumi
One of my favorite quotes.
I am happy to be in your company and walking you home and vice versa.
Charlotte — one of my favorite quotes, too. 💝🙏
Adding the sage advice of our wise friend, Gwen Teekell here: “Whatever it is that you are thinking of doing, do it NOW. You just don’t have that kind of time.” If those words are true, and I believe they are, we should really focus on doing what nourishes us and brings us joy.
Beth — about a week ago, I was in a very intense conversation about the appropriate response to the vile and harmful actions of the current administration. One of the participants in the conversation (she was 78 years old; not sure that makes a difference) was vociferous in her belief that the current occupant of the White House needed “to be taken out,” “killed,” “blown up.” I tended to agree with her that some level of “bricks and bats” would be appropriate a la Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a Christian pastor and theologian who participated in a plot to assassinate Hitler. I wish I had used the Bonhoeffer example at the time. Instead, I resorted to scenes from two movies, “Manhattan,” and “Julia” which feature characters advocating violence against Nazis, and the impact the scenes had on me. Yeah, maybe sometimes we need bricks and bats. However, I completely underestimated how mentioning Woody Allen and Jane Fonda would trigger a third participant in the conversation.
The third participant was stunned by all of this talk of violence and brought up the important of being peacemakers. I tended to agree with her, too, but the 78-year-old could not be swayed. Then the third participant — who never acknowledged the points the 78-year-old and I were making — evoked the actions of John Lewis. I immediately shut down. Who can argue with the approach John Lewis would take? On the other end of the spectrum, it was like somebody bringing up the example of Hitler in a conversation about evil. How do you respond?
You don’t. You are disarmed. You are silenced.
This is the impact that reading Gwendolyn’s quote had on me. It is a quote I have memorized. It is empowering and inspiring and I am grateful for the ways it has fueled my creativity. As the photos in this post indicate, I AM doing what brings me joy. It’s the technological logistics along with the ever-present challenge to overcome the shadow of my parents that slow me down.
In a comment above, I wrote that I have become “the absent parent to my own creation.” When I wrote that this morning, I was taken aback by the insight. It was a sad, yet incredible insight that I discovered on my own in the process of writing this post, i.e. in the process of nourishing my soul.
Please forgive the pushback on your comment. I know it was not specifically directed at me, but you need to know that I wrote in my journal yesterday that if you commented on this post, you would bring up Gwendolyn’s perspective and I “needed to be prepared for it.”
I AM focusing on what nourishes me. I AM focusing on what brings me joy. And I am doing it NOW, recurring dreams be damned.
Thank you, Sharon. I know you are doing what is important to you and I’m sorry that my responses are so predictable. Don’t let the technology stop you. There are other ways to bring your work forward than Instagram and other people who can be paid to help with the technology aspect, too. You know I believe in you. I have always been a champion of your creativity and art.
Beth— if there is a word that describes your commitment and belief in me it is “always.” Also, in your case, it can be spelled, “All ways.”
I was hoping someone would suggest an alternative to Instagram! Thank you. And yes, I could certainly hire some high schooler to help me.😬
Thank you as also for your forbearance and love. You have made me a better artist. I know that you will be the first in line to buy my book about beauty in my life indoors (art collection) and outdoors (farmland photography). I once asked Adrienne why she thought I started noticing the beauty of the outdoors. She responded: “You ran out of wall space.” Actually, it could have been as simple as that.❤️💝❣️💕
Sharon, your life has been, indeed, a search for that destination of belonging and affirmation that you were denied. It’s been a deeply passionate search, as you see and feel and experience life at levels many of us will never reach. Hope you can find the right doorways, busses, whatever, to take you to that place where your artistic passion can be more fully expressed to enrich the lives of others of us who live much too close often to “the surface” while you plunge the depths.
Trust you will simply forget that you are 73. Hope you won’t let that be another hurdle, like so many of the earlier hurdles you have experienced in your life. We only have “today” to live out our longings, urges, passions. Don’t let it slip away fretting about your age! Also, hope you are aware of what a Young 73-year-old you are!
Love this beautiful and powerful piece. And love you.
Carol — have been out with a close friend, so I am just now seeing your comment.
I’ve read it now several times. Thank you for your affirmation . . . and patience over the decades. Your comment echoes Gwen’s wise perspective that Beth shared in an earlier comment. In my bathroom, I have a small framed quote sitting atop a glass shelf next to a small clock. It simply says, “Today is the day.” It’s been there for years and years and years. I’ve never tucked it away. I see it every time I walk into the bathroom. It may not be the most appropriate room, but it is my most necessary room. And a necessary room needs an appropriate necessary reminder. Love you, too.🙏❤️