Libraries and Dreams

I recently read The Life of Chuck by Stephen King and have since been ruminating on the idea that we all contain an entire world. Upon the death of any individual, it disappears. When life and the choices we make are framed like this, it makes it so much easier to think about how we build our own experience. What does your world contain? How have you framed the difficulties you face? Are you a consummate victim or is adversity framed with a bit of silver lining, some learning, and gratitude for the moments of grace inherent even in the difficulty. 

I think about the chasms between us - we are each living a dream and our dreams only temporarily bump one another. Even in shared experience, the vantage point with which we see things can never be exactly the same. My lens is very particular to my framing as much as it is for those around me. So, I suppose, we really do walk alone.

But sometimes another dream can bump into yours and it shifts your vantage point; things are seen with more clarity, colors are more vivid, and the struggles feel a bit lighter for the minor adjustment of another's company. And so it is, I suppose, in the collision of our dream-waking that our souls have the opportunity to grow and we have the opportunity to re-frame even the burdens we feel. I think good art is like this, too, in the way that it can chip away at things we perceive to be permanent.

I have spent a lot of my thirties without enough time to engage in pursuits that reflect on my own humanity. Over the summer, I realized that, though they are an easy place to pull time from, the act of creation is essential to my humanity. Without the presence of art, writing, and good storytelling, I am not in touch with the very parts of myself that grant me the most vibrancy. Without time in the creative world, I am boring, numb, and detached.

Without being here, the world I have constructed loses richness, depth, and purpose. And so, even though it is easy to avoid, I must find time and space for these words and this rumination and this connection with my dreaming. I am not an automaton, but a living, breathing bit of organic material stretching my arms toward the sun. I am here for this brief, beautiful moment to grow this dream as big, layered, and nuanced as possible before I fade into the beyond.

When I die and the library that has been my life crumbles piece by piece into nothingness, I hope it is a well-constructed, passionate, and beautiful place. I hope it will tell a story of unconditional love, obstinate hope, and wild laughter. I hope there are memories of kissing by the lakeside, climbing mountains, and the sticky embrace of little fingers. I hope there is a relentlessness to my pursuit of the ever-changing nature of truth and a humility at all the stories I got wrong. I hope my library, as it collapses, hums a beautiful Max Richter song and whispers Mary Oliver into the slow darkness.

I hope in the austere nakedness of death, the dream that has been this life releases a small sigh of contentment and acceptance as it is released into the beyond.