I think I mentioned this in a post months ago, when I was young, I dreamt of having a library. Books were always a refuge for me, and I would say that the books I read from when I was 13-18 were deeply formative and still my favorites. I still read often, but very few of them make a true lasting impact. My brain, tastes and even the way I live and dream now are a product of Anne of Green Gables, The Wind in the Willows, The Hobbit, Dracula, The Phantom of the Opera, The Secret Garden. So I thought that to have a room full of books would mean more formative experiences, and a life closer to the coziness in most of my favorites. I dreamt of the library, of moving to the United States, of being a fashion designer, of living in a small cozy nook of a house. I wanted to be successful enough to buy my mother a house. I REALLY wanted a wok after watching that one cringey infomercial from the 80s. I didn’t dream of marriage or children or people. I had friends, but the solace in my solitude was precious. And the friends I had felt like enough. I could only give so much attention to the outside world, and I felt the friends and family I had were my limit to be able to honor them with the attention they deserved, without feeling overwhelmed. I was over two decades from the time that it would click that I am autistic, but I used my intuition to protect myself.
I am 42 now (an age which I celebrated by reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy). A lot of my dreams came true. I moved to Florida at 18 to study Fashion Design. I didn’t work in the field but I did study it and have a degree for it. I have all the books I could dream of. I didn’t buy a house, but every place I have rented has a warm, cozy kitchen. Fresh bread often comes out of my oven, I have baskets full of onions, apples, potatoes and shelves with nice loose leaf tea. Adorable tea kettles, wooden spoons and piles of hand knitted dish cloths. I play soft music. Light incense and candles and play quiet, solo board games and give people handknitted socks for Christmas. I don’t often realize how many of my dreams I fought and strove to make come true. The goal post was moved, or worse, forgotten. After I became a mother, I channeled all my energy on motherhood and housework and forgot to dream for the future and remember the how I was strong enough to make my dreams come true. I never feel like I am enough. I feel I am loser that can’t get it together or fit in. But the other night I remembered how humble my dreams were, and how I forgot the joy of them. The joy of losing myself in a book and being able to borrow or buy the sequel. The joy of chopping vegetables and smelling garlic as it infuses my cooking oil with flavor. Of making yummy stir fries with my wok (I made that dream come true too).
I need to teach myself the power of my tiny dreams so I can learn to have them again. I have one precious little one I keep turning in my head. To stay in a sleeper train. I have no destination I want to go to really. I do want to travel a little one day but first I want to see the countryside pass by, as I knit, read, or simply not do anything, but gaze at the world pass by. I hope I can dream more things and find myself again so I could feel more hope and less… less this feeling of nothing having a point and me not having a point.
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.
– Eleanor Roosevelt