Unreasonable, Impractical Me

 

As a daydreamy sort of child, I often made the mistake of sharing the fantasies in my head.  "Oh, Terri," someone would say, "be reasonable!"   I didn't stop daydreaming.  I did stop sharing my dreams.

As a young adult, living an all too ordinary life and still daydreaming of many things, I once voiced my thoughts out loud to a friend.  "Oh, Terri," she said, "You're always such a romantic.  You're not at all practical."

And another time, when a series of tough things happened, I'd spoken out loud all the blessing I saw.  When I was finished with my recitation, I looked at the person I was with and saw a look of utter disgust on that face.  "That's just like you altogether!  The world falls apart and you have to be the optimist telling me why it's not so bad!  You have no concept of reality at all, do you?"

Reasonable. Practical. Realist. Those qualities were considered the wise ones to own.  Not a daydreamer or a romantic.  

So, I became reasonable.  I lay aside the daydreams, and the idealism.  I worked hard at being all the right things: responsible, cautious, practical, logical, strong, stoic, able. I was all those things.  

While others had the luxury of laying down in their troubles, crying into their pillow and raging at what life had dealt them, I packed up my troubles and got on with it.  When others shirked responsibility, I picked it up and carried it with my own lot.  When others wanted nothing more than to be petted and cared for, I did the petting and caring.  When others dreamed, I encouraged them, but in the back of my throat was a lump made up of all the dry dusty bits leftover from my own dreams, the scratchy bits of lost romance and the brittle bracken of optimism.  

I worked hard at doing the right thing, at being the better person, picking up the pieces I didn't break.  I tried to please everyone and pleased no one.

And when bad things happened, I kept my head down and didn't look for the silver linings on those heavy clouds.  I knew better. I had to be the realist, not the optimist.

Inside I was a quivering jelly of anxiety mixed with anger and deep depression.  I nearly killed myself being what I wasn't.  Hanging too many dreams up in the 'never, not even someday' closet hurt.  If others had the right to dream, why oh, why hadn't I?

One day I woke up and realized that not one of those old dreams fit.  Like so many ball dresses packed away for too long, moths, rust and time had done a world of damage.  And once that closet of dreams was emptied out, I found that there was nothing to put into it.  I had no more dreams.  I was too tired, too worn, too weary and sorrow of sorrows, too old.  

I'm here to declare that I've had enough of being what I am not.  

I want to be unreasonable.  I want to be the romantic daydreamer.  I want to consider the impractical things.  I want to walk barefoot in the rain.  I want to stop in the midst of doing dishes and go write down the poem budding in my brain.  I want to pick up a book and read until my eyes need a rest.  I want to lie down responsibilities and take off one day or two (in a row!) and just do the things I most want to do even if meals don't get made or dishes done or if someone else has an expectation that my time is theirs to spend at will.   

I want to soar and fly, to swim and dance and walk about as though I were made of the breath of the God who made me, instead of mere dirt and mud that somehow struggled to life.

I want to live the romantic life, the pretty life, the lovely life.  The practical life is useful, like stained dishcloths, but don't the pretty, new, impractical, snowy white ones make doing dishes more of a pleasure?  Morning coffee in a pretty mug, or a China cup, not the old mug with scratched paint and stained interior that's 'good enough' tastes better to me.   A vase of flowers on the edge of the kitchen sink makes things brighter...I know this is true because I've begun making it a habit to keep a bouquet there.

I want to walk outdoors at night and gaze at the miracle of the stars.  I want to wake in the morning and listen to the singing of the birds instead of starting chores right away.  And to stop at any time and simply stand in the sun and absorb its glorious warmth.  

I want to play the lead in my own life and not the lesser supporting roles.

And most of all, I want to dream again.  Dream of what I still might do.  It's not too late.  I'm not too old.  I know, because I keep getting these glimpses of things I might do.  Like jumping in the car and driving all across the state or the States.  Or spending a month at the beach and never leaving the condo area.  Or putting in a pool and swimming every day.  Or running away to that little house I used to dream of, the one tucked in the hills, where there's room for only me, and books and has a bathtub that sits under the stars...

I may never live those dreams, but at least I have them to call my own.  And just claiming them as mine means that they might come true...I'm optimistic you see!

I've got just this one life, and the damned thing is dwindling away rather quickly.  I want to live it.  I've wasted enough of it being all I was told to be by everyone else.  I want to be me.  Independent, romantic, impractical, lovely me.