From Letters From A Son: Dreams

From a young age, we were told we can be anything we want. We were told we could be an astronaut. We could be a fireman. We could be a doctor or a lawyer. We were told we can be anything.
All we had to do is apply ourselves.

We were told we can do anything.
We can make our dreams come true.
All we have to do is try.

I remember back when we were kids during early summer. We ran around to catch fireflies and placed them in a jar. 
We did this to create lanterns so we can play outside after dark.
What I remember most was our belief on the ability that we could do so.

There used to be this thing we were allowed to do. There used to be this incredible word we were allowed to use.
The word is called wonder.

Somewhere along the line, age happens. Or more accurately, experience happens.
Letdowns happen.
We find out that not everything goes as planned. We forget what it means to play. We forget what it means to wonder and dream. More importantly, somewhere along the line, we forgot our dreams are the pathway towards our destiny.

As we grow, we somehow forget what we were told when we were kids.
You can be anything you want to be.
I can still feel the warmth of encouragement when I first heard those words.

I recall an interview with Bobby Moresco. He talked about his days before fame and before writing and movie making became his career. Moresco said something I never forgot.

“You can always do what you love to do. It doesn’t mean anyone is gonna pay you for it. But no one can stop you.”

I have this dream, which you already know about. I’m sure everybody knows. Besides, we all have a dream. We all have hopes. We all wonder. We all have that dream inside, which is the one thing we really want to be.

Somewhere along the line, experience pulled a trick on us. Somewhere in time, we became discouraged. We lost our focus. We lost out motivation. We lost the chill we felt under our skin the first time we heard someone say, “You can be anything you want to be. All you have to do is try.”

I can see how I spent so much time in a rush to grow up that I forgot to enjoy my moments of being a kid.

There’s a piece of me now that wants to swing on the swing sets. Maybe we can play manhunt or hide and go seek. Maybe we can play a game of kickball, like we used to at recess. Remember?

I think we spent so much time trying to find the secret ingredient of life that we never realized it was within us all along.
We forgot to enjoy the moment.
We forgot to look around.
Then age happened.
Then work happened.
Somewhere along the line, I became like my Old Man after a long day’s work, cranky and mad, cursing at the television because the news was on and the state of my country is in disarray.
I found myself distracted. I found myself focused on the wrong things.
I forgot my dreams.
I forgot to wonder (or how to pretend) and somewhere along the line, I settled on a blueprint, which, somehow, I don’t believe was made for me.

Somewhere in my mind is a little hopeful storage room that is filled with old toys just hoping and aching for me to play with them again.
I have this mental storage room. I call it my heart. This is where I keep the “Little me” wishes and dreams. This is where I store all the files I keep about the things I want to build and the places I want to create.
I am a child in this room. I am like a child anxious to show you my bedroom and where I keep my things.
(So I can share with you about how I dream.)

I have this dream, same as we all do. And it sits in this room I have, unopened and wrapped like a new toy in a box, anxious to breathe, and just waiting to be free.

Somewhere along the line, we fall for the trick and we follow the wrong blueprint. We base our life on the plans we were taught. We base our blueprints on the socially programmed ideas we thought we were “Supposed” to have.
We forget to think outside of the box. We forget to dream. More importantly, we forget about our own blueprint, which we need to build the foundation to create the life we’ve always dreamed of.

I wonder:
Why are we so afraid to try?
What happened?
Why do we become so discouraged?
Better yet, why do we let this keep us from being who we really want to be?

I closed my eyes this morning. before beginning this message. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to catch a glimpse of this place I want to build. I lived here once, long ago, and basically, in another lifetime.
I saw me here, standing on a hill and facing the downward slope. Out in front of me, tree-lined mountains wove together in the distance. There was a barn off to the left with a huge pasture behind it. There were homes to the right. These are the dorms I want to build.
In the center is the main house. This is where we all get together. This is where we learn. This is where we eat. This is where we help one another. More accurately, this is where we nurture our dreams so that they never find themselves forgotten in some mental storage room, sealed up, without any air to breathe.

This is a place of healing. This is a place where people can be well. This is a place where kids can learn without being bullied. This is where the sick can find comfort. This is where addiction is a thing of the past and the only drink here is a cold glass of lemon iced-tea that we have around sunset when the fireflies come out.

I want this place to be what it means to me. I want this dream the same as I want air to breathe. This is my farm. I have a name for it. I have a plan. I have hope.

Lately, the news has been tough. I hear reports of bad things all the time. Work gets heavy. Bills pile up. Money isn’t what I wish it could be and life is always life on life’s terms.
I receive emails from other coaches and master coaches to get me to attend their classes. I receive solicitations on how to grow my business.
But I never reply.
No, my business is my business. And I know I will build it. I know because when I was a kid, you told me I can do anything I want to do. I just have to put my mind to it!

And I know this is so. I know it because you said so.
And everyone knows that Moms know best.

Dear Mom,

Remember the time I captured all those caterpillars in a jar and kept them in my room so I can have a pet butterfly?
Well, it didn’t work . . .

But I remember two days after you passed. I was walking up 42nd Street and a butterfly landed on my shoulder. I never really saw butterflies in New York City before; least of all one that would fly up and land on my shoulder.

It’s spring now.
Hope to see the butterflies soon.
They remind me to dream.
They remind me of the farm.
And they remind me of you . . .

Sleep well, Mom

Your son

B —


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