These memories have caused me to look at my life (obviously). In a weird way, it has made me realize I haven’t really lived much life. I haven’t done many things, travelled many places, met many people. Overall, my life is ordinary. That doesn’t equate to a bad thing, it is not chaos filled or wrought with drama. It is a happy little life with enough of everything and I am fortunate, very fortunate to have never had to really want for anything. While I’ve known hunger and lived on the edge of poverty, I have never been without a home or a place to go. I have always been able to count on my family for help, and when times have been hard, there have been people to catch me.

This memory is about dreams. The dreams I have had for myself over the many of my fifty years (almost) of life. The goals I wanted to obtain, no matter how silly, and whether I made them (or not), why, and what I’m looking for now, as I push into my future.

When I was very young, I wanted to be a lawyer. I was probably good at arguing and that may have been partly why. Wanting to help people and defend the defenseless seems to be my ‘jam.’ I am always on the side of the underdog, and I can be a ‘right fighter.’ This did not happen. I came to realize, or believe, I wasn’t very smart. Being a lawyer took smarts, ones I believed I did not possess. As I’ve moved into my forties, I’ve come to learn, nothing is further from the truth.

In my mid-teens, it was music. I lived, breathed, and dreamed music. Guitar, singing, sax. It was my world. I wrote music, recorded some, it was my world. My everything. My sister’s former boyfriend and I ‘did’ music a lot. They parted ways and I was certainly not as strong without him. I lost confidence. I ended up with inflamed vocal cords. Excuses. But it did me in. My ex-husband convinced me to sell my guitars in my very early twenties. We needed the money. My music dreams were dead.

Then I found writing. I’d always written stories, but by nineteen, I wanted it to be a career. My sister and I did a program at a local college for a week to discover your future career and research what you needed to succeed. Writer, we were told, was not feasible. No one ‘did’ writing. Forget about journalists or any career that may entail writing. The program heads weren’t wise enough to aid two lost girls into a career, just ‘nope.’

Finally, I found interior design. This sort of came about through my work in a sewing supply warehouse. I’d always been artistic and creative. Whether it be musical or through writing. I drew a bit and made various crafts. Meeting people through the warehouse, I decided to take some night classes. It fascinated me. Discovering a local technical school had a two-year technical program, I was off and running. Finally, a dream fulfilled.

Looking at all things I want to accomplish yet in life can be daunting. Some of them are frivolous (getting off the continent – goal complete), some of them are harder (take a university level mathematics course – pending upgrading of my math skills). Others I want to revisit – writing (I’m a writing machine these days) but I write for me. I write all kinds of different things. These blog entries, short stories, I have a novel almost complete, I’ve even dabbled with erotica. Again, I write because I have all these words in my head, almost like voices, which run through my brain in typewritten format. The only logical thing to do with them is expel them ‘on paper.’

I want to look back on my life and find contentment with the life I lived. There are still things I need to accomplish, so I’m not ready to say, “I’m done yet,” I do not know if I’ll ever hit that point. I always want to do more, see more, and take in more of all this glorious life has to offer. Especially if I can share it with those most dear to me.