In the spirit of the Boss, who will always have my heart, and inspiration from a fellow Bruce lover, I have been seeing the truth of this phrase replayed over and over in the past days.
Spring, for example, reminding me through this unseasonal rain that she'll be back after dying slowing in a blaze of radiant reds and yellows.
And what I've realized in this is the truth about dreams. Dreams often die with age, with seasons of life, with changing geographies and friendships, education and relationships....but they always come back.
The dream to open my own studio, for example, or to see Machu Piccu, or to learn to paint, and make homemade pasta; to learn spanish, to write and be published, to speak and be heard....they all come back slowly, growing steadily in the underground parts of my mind only to shoot up like the first tulip greens--unexpectedly still for all the waiting--fed by waters I didn't even realize were seeping into my spirit.
Even childhood dreams--the dancer, the painter, the mother, the gardener--everything I wanted to be and dreamed of being comes back from time to time, jogging a sensory-form of nostalgia from the feel of pointe ribbons, the smell of paint, a friend's beautiful baby, and the miracle of a landscape of little growing wonders.
reminding me that everything that dies someday comes back
but what to do with the presence of once-lost dreams?
what does one do with the ghosts that manifest, the baby stalks of memory returning--will they crowd and choke the present, blocking the sun, or be a lovely and fulfilling addition to the garden? Does Spring bring blessings among curse? Do the rains forgive fickle memories and breakdowns in willpower to nourish second chances?
everything someday comes back
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