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Living, Loving & Learning
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Workshops meet Wednesday night
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A Dream by Steve Sears
I am so excited to announce two upcoming workshops with a common thread. Dreams. Next Wednesday night, Vincent Dopulos (Visit him at http://www.counselingloss.com/) will be presenting a workshop on the Meaning of our Dreams. His background is Drama Therapy so we will be "acting" our dreams out. The following week on Oct. 28th, Steve Sears (visit him at http://www.sgswrite.com/) will be presenting a writing workshop. Over the years, Steve has expressed lovely sentiments regarding my newsletters ~ his words warm my soul.
I love to inspire others. I love to make others feel better. And, most of all I enjoy spreading the word of hope and love. So, I thought I would share Steve's writing with you.
I am often befuddled by importance. By that, I mean I’m confused by what I consider is important over truly what is important. And therein lies two stories.
About 13 years ago, I had my first poems published in a literary journal. Although I had some sports stories I had written for our town paper published when a high school senior back in 1980, I considered these poems my first publications as a “professional” writer. I was so thrilled, I sent a letter to the local paper, seeking a little publicity.
I was invited to their offices at 6:30 in the morning (correct, you read that right) by the Editor-in-Chief (EIC), an older, heavy set gentleman whose popularity in town, due to his editorial column, weighed on both sides of the popularunpopular scale. He was a bit surly, a little pompous, but an excellent writer. He taught me something as I sat with him.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself,” he said.
“Well,” I responded, thinking he was referring to the published poems, “these are really my first publications, and that’s pretty important.”
He looked at me. “Are you married? Do you have children?”
The question surprised me. “Yeah; I’ve been married for almost ten years and have one daughter.”
“Keep this in mind,” he said. “Family is important. Have lots of children if you can. And, with regard to your poems being published, that is important, but the actual writing is more important.”
While the following may not be agreeable to scribes who forge a living as writers, I can attest to the editor’s wisdom. Shortly thereafter, after the EIC died of a heart attack, I began contributing op-eds to that very weekly – sans payment. Although I get paid for all of my assignments now, rather handsomely for some, I have come to realize that the most important thing, the part that makes all of this fun for me, is the daily term at the keyboard or, if writing in longhand, hours with pen and paper. Nothing, for me, replaces it. I call it putting my priorities in the right place.
Now, as it relates to the EIC’s “family is important” statement, for the second story.
I’m a big believer in dreams. Not wanting to get into a bunch fanatical mumbo jumbo as far as explanation, let’s just say that, when you dream and remember the basics of what occurred in the dream, that’s your subconscious trying to send you a message. I’ve never read anything about dreams, why we have them, what they mean, that’s just my take.
Anyway, I and my daughter Stefanie are in this dream, and we’re in a war zone. My daughter, (who’s about 18, her current age, in the dream), and many other daughters, are asleep on the second floor of a big white house. I venture into the house briefly to check her. As I enter her room, her face is angelic, and she’s sound asleep.
I kiss her on the cheek and I ask, “Are you okay, kiddo?’
“Good Dad,” she mumbles. “Is everything okay?”
I pat her head. “Everything’s fine,” I reassure her, and kiss her again, knowing darn well it might not be.
As I return outside, the sky is gray and overcast, and becomes ever more dismal by the site of war planes. Now, I know nothing about war zones, nor the peril if in one, but I’m the lone person out in this field surrounded by trees as planes start dropping bombs, many near me, some near the white house. I take shelter under a tree, hoping to heck if one missile heads towards me it obliterates the tree instead.
Each missile misses its mark.
After a few minutes, the smoke clears, and I and the house have escaped unscathed, but a realization has hit me.
My daughter was in that house, separated from me, where a single bomb could’ve killed her and the other daughters inside.
It’s here, before continuing, that I feel it’s important to reflect on possessions. There is no more important possession in my life than my daughter, and for others, if parents, our children. To ignore or blot out a human being you created, your own flesh and blood, as it’s something you bought that is now clutter, is dead wrong.
I hadn’t, truly, done that in the dream, but I had left her in harm’s way, with no way of protecting her. Thankfully, I now had a chance to right a wrong, maybe with little time to spare.
I returned to the white house, entered and climbed the stairs, but now a gruff, black haired man, rifle in hand, stood guarding the door to the hallway where mine and other daughters slept.
“I’ve come for a possession,” I said. “Can I go in and get it?”
The man was stern. “No, you can’t get your possession. We’re in a war here. You can’t take any possessions with you," he answered brusquely as another man joined me in line. He then burst in front of me.
“What if your possession is your daughter?” he asked desperately.
The guard raised his eyebrows, and moved quickly. “A daughter? Of course, if your daughter is the possession, you can go in and get her!” He let the man in, shut the door, and turned back to me with his once again stern look.
“My possession is a daughter, too,” I said.
Without a word, he opened the door and stood aside. In I went and found my daughter, just as I’d left her, sleeping soundly, not awakened by the blasting of the bombs.
“Stef, Stef,” I said, shaking her, “come with Daddy.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Why, Dad, I’m tired.”
“Because I love you – I want you with me.”
She got up, grabbed her gym bag of stuff, and we headed outside: she, I -- her Dad and protector -- and her gym bag. I looked up into the sky; we both did, awaiting more planes as we stood closely, side by side.
And then I woke up.
I got up and thought for a few long minutes about the dream and, although this may sound foolish to some, wanted to kick myself. It took another person, another man, to first mention that it was his daughter that he wanted to get. I didn’t; he did. I don’t need to tell you how that made me feel. Yes, it was just a dream, but I still felt I had failed my best friend, my daughter.
Then, I pondered why I had had the dream. I figured maybe, just maybe, I had spent so much time concentrating on a novel I’ve been writing, and a few recent assignments, that I had neglected to address concerns of my daughter, show attention and, maybe, love to her.
Stefanie, six weeks from high school graduation, needed a gown-like dress for both the Baccalaureate Mass and Dinner, and for the Graduation ceremony the following morning. She had asked me to go with her, but I told her I didn’t have the time. She also needed to cement her spot at nearby Montclair State University for the next four years, all set to major in English and take journalism, just like her Dad. Every time we planned on making the trip to the school to pay the tuition deposit, I kept putting it off, instead giving her a hard time because she had failed to check the college website for accepted freshman, realizing she was behind on her checklist of things to do.
I, finally, one morning, made that time. I rose early, continued an article about skin care I’d been working on, then set the rest of the day aside for my daughter. Stefanie and I went to the college, paid the tuition deposit, purchased her a school hood sweater, and enjoyed lunch at the on-campus Red Hawk Diner. Afterwards, we went to visit the English Department, and enjoyed a brief conversation with the department head. While on campus, there were mixtures of bright sunshine and, on two brief occasions, driving snow minus accumulation. Stefanie even permitted me, while we walked the campus, to put my arm around her. When I asked if I was embarrassing her, she said while giggling, “I don’t know anybody here yet.”
I looked down at her and said, “That’s okay. I’ll solve that. I’ll just scream out loud, ‘Stefanie Sears, incoming freshman, here,’ and point to you.” She laughed at that one. We both did.
We were both happy.
My wife and sister-in-law were out with my daughter thereafter, hoping to find the right dress and purchase it. I contributed to the trip by telling Stefanie to, as she leaned against the kitchen counter, “remain calm and, who knows, perhaps one (a dress) will jump right off the rack at you.” She smiled and agreed. Guess what? Dress bought.
Stefanie graduated two weeks ago, our home is now a serene place, and no war planes are in sight. Happiness abounds. Nothing equals it.
Except times spent together with my daughter.
To Register ~ Go to Events Page
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