Before I Dream

Standing and staring, idly in wonder.

Tilted so awkwardly, my neck feels a crink. I stand with mild defiance as if to balance my head’s dizzy spell. I’ll not turn away or blink, for the late evening’s stars glisten so blissful and bright.

A comfortable chill had settled into the dark hours. Sweet dew dampened the grass and the trees’ leaves were quiet, for there was no windsong that called them to dance. Though summer now, we’d not seen the sun or felt its warmth in days. But when the nightclouds decided to break, they revealed a magnificently sparkling canvas of starlight.

A clear night so crisp and quiet, it beckoned memories of wonder.

Time would seem to stand quiet now, as quiet as the stars above. Mesmerizing beauty, a billion specks of light. Does time seem ever so insignificant as when gazing upon the stars?  For each second that passes is but a snapshot in time. So distant in space, how humbling to recall that a shining star may no longer exist. But its light lingers on.

Miles away. Miles ago. Gracefully they shimmer.

The stars beckon memories of wonder. My mind retreats from the moment and into the past: moments of old, not unlike this. And as I gaze upward, memories of times and places either near or distant flood back. Every time I look and stare, it’s as if my surroundings were always the same, for all I see is the blackness of night and the quiet stars above.

And just then, a moment never had. God speaks in a soaring star above.

Though my recollection is clear I asked if my eyes could deceive me so brazenly. It was as if by command, though the Will of not myself, but Another.

I’d never seen a shooting star and though I often dreamed to watch one, as dreams sometimes fade I told myself I no longer wished it. Instead, I thought that to be a shooting star means to never see one, for, in the world of a quiet leader, there are no mirrors. But one’s mortal Will is so infrequently the Will of the Almighty.

Straight and true, a glowing streak of light. She flies easterly, with nothing but a whisper. She flies as we below dream. She flies toward the sun, to dawn. For on the horizon lies the promise of a new tomorrow.

She flies just as true dreamers fly.

Dreamers fly aimless, if only with a vague sense of purpose. Dreamers fly by way of motivation unknown. Whether some driving force or inner calling or a greater compelling force, that unknown floats dreamers’ wings upward and onward, toward that distant horizon – a future or destiny that beckons them. And while the motivation may never be realized, the true dreamer flies onward.

Dreams are fuel alight, accelerating the dreamer toward an uncertain tomorrow. In defiance of what others claim to know — that their aspirations are certain to fade, that the dreamer will crash back to earth — the dreamer soars onward.

So soar onward, streaking starlight. Guide us dreamers below. Show the path dreamers take with little else than dreams to guide them.

Streaking starlight, she leaves a trail of glowing dust. Set’ling quietly to earth.

(Photo credit: Courtesy of Flickr user jah~)

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