. . . but I did not dream.
They say “house” dreams are about yourself, so the one I dreamed with the flooded basement probably was not a good sign. But what about the one where the staircase just went on forever with thousands of rooms on hundreds of floors, all furnished like a ritzy bed-and-breakfast? Hmm.
My other dreams, my wide-awake dreams where I plan how wonderful I will be next year, are another story. These dreams haunt me. I put them off, thinking I need some other thing to be just perfect before I can get started. You know the type: losing weight, writing a book, finishing crocheting that afghan, unpacking the last box from moving several years ago, etc. I know I should make some headway on at least some or at the very least one of these dreams, but the facts stand on the sidelines laughing at me. The facts are that I don’t do what I could and I don’t know why.
I used to keep ironing up to date. Really. I used to keep my flower beds weeded. I used to weigh less.
I think partly I was living before my children and insisted on setting a good example at all times. Now they are grown and mostly gone and no one is watching me.
Except the Lord. He sees. He knows.
What I used to do because I believed I must do it, I now must learn to do only because it is right. My mind allows me choices these days, and I am surprised at who I see living underneath all the exterior rules I had made for myself.
I distinctly remember thinking, when the last child was off to college, “Whew! Now I can rest and do whatever I please. Finally! I am my own puppy!”
I think I need to rethink.
I have slept. It’s time to wake up.