Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
This poem speaks more directly to me than any other about the importance of identifying, pursuing and never letting go of dreams.
My dream for many, many years now has been to make a difference to the lives of the most vulnerable people in our society, especially those who have serious health issues or are nearing the end of life.
This is a dream I have been able to fulfill to a considerable extent at different periods and in different ways over the years. But there is still a lot more to do and the dream lives on just as strongly as ever.
How do you feel about YOUR dreams and would you be happy to share what it is you really want to achieve in this life?
This is for all who dream, including myself! Lots of questions and questioning and a strong reminder that life is finite.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore –
And then run?
Does it stick like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over –
Like a syrupy sweet?
May it just sags
like a heavy load.
St. Valentine’s Day, for me, is all about hearts. This short poem by the great Langston Hughes is one that evokes thoughts of all the sensitivities that surround love, heartache, heartbreak and, of course, those heart-to-hearts that are the most fundamental connections in what can be a bruising world.
As a kid, having ‘flu had its attractive sides. The main memory I have is sharing ‘flu and a bedroom with my ‘big’ brother who was about eight. Mother was big into apples and decided to leave a bowl for us to graze on in our bedroom which was about a mile from the kitchen of the massive bank house, that was home then ~ 63 stairs from top to bottom.
We were pretty much on the mend and I offered to get out of bed and get us an apple each. Delighted with my new found energy, I threw an apple across the room to ‘big’ bro. He caught it very deftly and, of course, you know what happened next ~ an apple fight. Apples were flying across the room at a million miles an hour and it wasn’t until they were all behind the beds and wardrobe, that I noticed the holes in the wallpaper. Our room has been re-decorated shortly before and there was a thick foam backing behind the fancy floral wallpaper. I still have no clue what it was there for. Anyway, the stalks of the apples that I had flung with such abandon had left a jigsaw of punch-marks on the wall behind the beds. It was horrific, even to my six-year-old eyes and it all became more and more horrific as our parents arrived up the 63 stairs and saw the mess!
We were both deemed fit to go back to school a lot sooner than we wanted!
Well today, I lay in bed battling a relapse of the ‘flu and realising that wives and mothers don’t get a chance to fling apples. They’re expected to be producing something for supper ~ not just holes in the wallpaper!
The big consolation, though, came with reading this agrammatical poem from Langston Hughes, who is a big favourite of mine. In so many ways the messy grammar reminds me of the look of the wallpaper when we had worn ourselves out that day, way back when.