Tonight, I write this post for me. To remember the dreams I had as a young girl.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes I can see her. A skinny girl--with crooked teeth and knobby knees--sitting in the grass in the backyard, hunkered over a notepad. A pencil in her hand. An idea in her head. A desire in her heart to create.
Stories would unfold on those white sheets of paper. Stories of kings who lost their crowns, and two robins who loved popcorn. Stories of plane crashes and baseball games; stories of being lost at sea and finding love. No matter the story, when that young girl picked up her pencil and let the words flow like water, she knew one thing, with a surety, with gusto:
She wanted to be a writer.
I open my eyes and I see me as I am. A woman with a home, a husband, two small children, and dear friends. A woman with a blog and a wicked sweet tooth; a woman with a Diet Coke fetish. A woman who laughs as much as she cries, who wants good things from her simple life. But...the dream of the girl is still alive in the woman's heart, vibrant and electric and real. "Write. Write. Write," it whispers, "Find your story. You can do it. Write it down."
How do we make our own dreams come true? When wishing stars are masked by occasional storm clouds, when Fairy Godmothers seem too busy for house calls, when feelings of failure frequently settle on our shoulders? How on earth do we do it?
Perhaps...deep-down inside of myself, in that tender place in my heart...I already know the answer.
You set a goal. Make a plan. Work hard. Cling to hope. You refuse to give up when everyone and everything is telling you you should. You fight for what you want. You sweat blood and tears. You remember your dreams and believe in yourself. Know that you can do it.
Because you can, skinny girl. Grown woman. Believer in dreams.
You can, you can, you can...