The Art of Being a Dreamer

I have always been a dreamer. There are many advantages to this and just as many disadvantages. I'm never bored, never alone in my thoughts. Sit me in the darkest corner somewhere, devoid of sound, and I can spin stories in my head and hear the very voices and dialogue. For that very reason, I spent hours as a child trying to write down my stories, which was much harder than creating them in my head. The stories went faster than my childish fingers could write. But I gave it a try.

I think only one or two of those stories still exist. Though in digging through my cedar chest last week, I've yet to find them. I remember one so well, about my Nana getting sick with polio at the age of 16 and her faithful Collie dying of a broken heart because they wouldn't let the dog into the sick room to see her. That story has always seemed such a tragedy to me. How simple it would have been for Nana's parents, my great-grandparents, to have let the Collie into her room every now and then. Such was not the case and so my story took on the sad realities of truth.

I like to think that most of the stories I created were happy ones. About trips to the beach or mountains, the tales liberally laced with mermaids and wood-faeries. But there were always monsters to fight in my stories too. I learned early that stories were often about the forces of good vs. evil.  Alas, those lost stories only exist in my memory.

The disadvantages of being a dreamer and going to school are enormous. I was forever caught in mid-daydream with a teacher looming over me and one or more fellow students twittering nearby. The students thought it was funny for me to be "caught" unawares by our teacher. I was always embarrassed when, rudely jerked back to reality.  I would quickly search my brain for some inane response like, "Uh, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you." Of course, not only did I not hear said teacher, I didn't even see him or her approach my desk. In fact, my brain was usually millions of miles away, maybe on some Scottish Isle or somewhere in the South Seas walking on a sun-lit beach.

As I got older, say by the time I reached high school age, I'd learned to keep my daydreaming at bay during class. So I rarely got caught unawares and my grades went from Bs to As more often than not. But the second the bell rang my brain was out of there and wandering some distant locale.

In my college days I wanted so badly to become a writer. But I realize now that if you want to really write, college is not the place to do so. The professors there did nothing but discourage me. I never found a one that took me by the hand and thought I had something to offer the world of literature. In fact, I remember one portly English professor telling me, "You're only here to find a husband." Huh? Rest assured, that was the last thing on my mind. I wanted to be a writer, remember?

Through the years I've daydreamed often and written when I found the time and inspiration. As I've mentioned, I have boxes of my starts and stops. Some are finished and some will never be much more than momentary dreams.

My grandson, at age four, is already showing signs of being a dreamer. One day he and I spent over an hour in his playhouse watching the birds and butterflies and clouds passing by overhead. He'd often stop and gaze out with those dreamy eyes I know so well. Not long ago, he asked me if California is in outer space, because he said, "I want to live in outer space." The way his story goes, he thought "California" had a nice sound, so it must be in outer space, because he wanted to get as far away from his K3 teacher as possible. It turned out his teacher had gotten mad at him for kicking sand at another kid and so he decided it would be best to get as far away from that teacher as possible. Well, he tells me now that he no longer kicks sand at other kids and he has a new teacher in his K4 Class, so he's once again a happy, daydreaming kid.

I like the concept of this blogging. It's a good outlet for a dreamer. A chance to send some words now and then out into space for someone else to "hear." I say "hear" because the sound of words is as important as the words themselves. Robert Louis Stevenson said in one of his many essays about some words being poetic, that the very word itself created pictures in the mind. So with that in mind, I conclude there is an art to being a dreamer. It's creating a beautiful painting in your mind, watching it unfold, seeing each new streak of color added to the canvas.