Daydream Believer

“I’ll see it when I believe it,” she thought to herself. Yet another day of endless searching. “Where did I put that journal?! I guess I can just try to remember, but the way it was worded was so perfect! Ahhh, ok 15 more minutes of searching, then I have to just let it go and move on to something else.”

This was no abnormal occurrence. It had become a routine part of trying to keep up with daily life around “the little homestead that could.” The trailer was small, had always been too small and it seemed they had been running in circles trying to find the thing they needed to do the job at hand since they moved in. All the potential, none of the foundation. The ever forming disarray of tools and supplies and clothes and this and that stuff with nowhere to go besides in the trailer with the family of four. There was always so much to do just to make ends meet. It had taken everything they had to get the farm. It was a beautiful piece of land, what dreams are made of. However, all the structures were run down buildings, full of rodents and mold. It was going to take a lot of work to revitalize the spot, but they were game. Or at least they thought so.

Everything was a metaphor these days it seemed. The chaos around her seemed to reflect her internal state. Her mind swirled with frustrated and anxious thoughts. If only she could find that little black book! The reality of building her dreams came with a lot more strife and challenge than she ever expected. Each day started with hope and ended with exhaustion as the list of to-dos grew higher than they could keep up with. The first couple years were different, more inspired and promising. They still shared so much love and a beautiful vision, but now, the feeling of being constantly behind was starting to win over their optimistic hearts. One step forward, two steps back. Was she cut out for this life? Growing vegetables and healing the landscape, much as it was something she believed in, was not getting their heads above water and man did it take a lot of work. They were likened to the wolves, feast and famine, and it was draining. Not only that, she was starting to get the inkling that her purpose entailed more.

She hadn’t always wanted to be a writer, but she had always been good with words. She was the type of friend that always seemed to know the right thing to say to help someone through a hard time. She was like an endless fountain for others, but when it came to herself her brain just gave her a wave of self-doubting jabs. Helping people was what she loved to do, but was she good enough? How can a 30 year old possibly have enough life experience to share wisdom of value to the world? How do you go from a nobody that writes an occasional heartening facebook post to someone with a platform whose stories can inspire and reach the masses?

She really hadn’t been writing that much since she moved here and couldn’t remember the last place she had seen it. There was always something more pressing to focus on and journaling felt like a luxury. For a second, she got lost in a nostalgic day dream of being young and uninhibited, meditating and journaling and sharing philosophical theories with friends. She snapped out if it, “This contest could be the key to our nest egg,” she thought, “I just need to find that journal.” The little black book had been with her for years and contained all the musings and seeds of wisdom from her journey. She knew that a passage within it contained the key to her success and empowerment as a writer. If she could just find it and finish that story she could potentially win the $20,000.00 and finally have something to show for her latent dream. She could prove to herself that it was worth it to dedicate time to her art. In her heart, she knew writing was her path towards a better and more fulfilling life. If she could just get to the place of supporting herself with it she could finally get ahead and propel her family and homestead into success.

She stopped searching and just paused for a moment. In a world that views the great arts as a pastime rather than a productive means of survival, she craved some sign from the universe that she wasn’t crazy to chase her dreams. That this longing inside her was more than a fantasy painted by her mind’s eye. She was tired of being a starving artist that was so preoccupied with trying to get by that she never even spent time making art. Suddenly, it struck her, “The memory box!” She quickly ran over to the old box of keepsakes buried in the closet, opened the lid, and there it was. It was glowing almost as much as she was. She picked up the journal, and flipped open to a random page:

"Please help me to gracefully detach and remove that which doesn’t serve and is no longer necessary in my life to make room for new and more aligned surroundings. I can see the potential and ask for guidance and help in removing obstacles so I can create the life I dream of. Please help me align my body, mind, and spirit to my highest potential. Please give me strength and resources to release old patterns and the inspiration and energy to create the new more fulfilling and aligned reality."

She released a big breath. It was as if her past self had channeled this message for her to read in this perfect moment. She looked around and could see all the evidence of a version of herself that had lost motivation and was bogged down by the weight of disempowerment. It broke her heart, but only for a moment. As quickly as she felt the wave of sadness, she swiftly felt her spirit flow back into her body. “I can do this,” she thought. And like a light switch turned on, she was filled with the clarity and energy to rise back up. She saw how all the experiences of the past several years of not being able to earn enough had translated into her mind and self talk that she wasn’t enough. It was time to give herself the same love and support she always gave others. She was no longer going to stand in her own way.

She got up and went over to her laptop with her little black book of treasures, and the words began to pour out of her. Her story transforming into poetry to offer inspiration to the other wayward artists of the world. She had found her muse and with it she had found her voice. It was time to focus on all the reasons why instead of why not. She could work on turning her passion for writing into a career and stay grounded in daily survival, they didn’t have to be mutually exclusive. She was still scared but she had a new spark of hope, the kind of hope you can only get after feeling lost without.

“I’ll see it when I believe it,” she thought to herself, and clicked Submit.