Flying

Dreams must move from our hearts to our heads before taking shapes as recognizable as scarlet red kites outlined against a cobalt blue sky. Watching and running and chasing after dreams, we watch them plummet in jeopardy as the strings clutched tightly in strong hands knot and the lines tangle. Fragile and delicate, dreams must be nurtured along life’s pathways until daily miracles lift them into the heavens. Unexpected gusts will cause them to spin out of control. They will be buffeted in tumultuous air, pummeled by storms, and float gracefully within gentle breezes.

Such are the flights of dreams. We cannot factor all of the conditions. We cannot account for precise times or the best places for launch. We cannot choose the precise journey they take. I’m not certain we even choose our dreams. They choose us coming first as whispered voices in a sleepless night. Beckoning and calling until insistently they demand our attention; our time; our lives.

We remain tethered to them as we learn to fly and gather strength to cut the weights tying these dreams to the earth. We cull the cast of characters trying to direct the lines. We learn to let go.

Dreams will soar into an undefined future until they are specks against a solid horizon. Ultimately they will land in a remarkable place after a remarkable journey. They will shine without doubt. They will soar without fear. But first, we have to unclench our trembling hands and fly instead in their grasp.