It’s been a frustrating couple of days, concerning my computer and internet connection, which I kept losing. It’s a long and tedious story, neither interesting nor original, I’m sure, as we all have our frustrations, if not about technology, about something else that doesn’t work properly and requires endless diagnostics and time to straighten away. It’s been going on intermittently for some months, but at this very moment, post today’s visit to the Apple store to confirm that the problem is not my computer, and my most recent call to our internet provider and subsequent adjustments “on the other end,” all the bars in the little fan at the top of the computer are full. So here’s hoping.
There’s also been a comment from my daughter-in-law Dayna’s blog tumbling around in my mind, for which I’m grateful.
“I often forget I am living the dreams that I have been working towards all of my life,” she wrote. She and our son wanted a life with children, and not just one or two. They have a lovely, lively household of five children, and pursue various interests like photography and athletics besides. But, she continued, in terms of how easily one forgets, “Sleep deprivation takes away all perspective.”
I was privileged to live the dream of family too, and now I’m living the dream of being able to work at my own writing, at home. I lived the writing dream to some extent during the years the children were home, of course, but the two dreams had to mix and meld and so the writing was partial in terms of time and space and everything else.
But I guess the point is, to remember that when we’re actually living in our dreams, they’re far from fairy tales. Or the happy endings of fairy tales, I should say. They still pose challenges and problems, require adjustments, and come with their share of frustrations. When I’m up against technological difficulties, it feels a wall. Then I can almost begin to imagine it would have been better to live my dream in some other era, medieval times, for example, when I could simply dip a feather into ink and scratch away on vellum or something. Then again, I suppose feather pens wore down and needed sharpening or replacing, and a slip of the knife might ruin it all together. And who knows, maybe the birds whose feathers supplied the pens periodically flew the coop. And come to think of it further, it would probably be me churning butter in the kitchen or chasing the birds and the man of the house who was stroking the vellum.
So I’m living the dream, twenty-first century instead, and this is how it dreams: some days productive, and some days a bust. Thanks, D., for the reminder. (Connection holding…)