As a teenager, I had a powerful dream in which I and my husband and children were forced to leave the home that I loved (one can glean details from the house in the photo above which, I was surprised to learn, is the gardener’s cottage on the grounds of an enormous manor house I toured in Wales many years later) due to an earth-shattering event (in this case, a literal earthquake that destroyed our home) to live out our days in a dark, damp, but not entirely comfortless (again—surprised!) cave. The fact that this dream ended up being representative of my actual life (I was scared to death it would be and hoping it was not. Again—surprised!!!) says a lot about me, especially in light of my one (and a half) circumstance(s) over which I am bitter.
Clearly, it says that I am vain.
It also says that I am a hopeless romantic idealist. This idealism has gotten me into much trouble over the years and has made the people around me mighty uncomfortable, as well.
It is probably tempting for the uncomfortable ones to evaluate me and determine that it is “all my fault” for thinking the way I do. It’s not an entirely false statement; I can’t help that I was born an idealist yet, in spite of everything, I choose to remain one: I suspect I wouldn’t have had the courage to believe in the best, most true things in life if it weren’t for my endless optimism. Nor would I have had the strength to forge ahead along my path when things seemed most bleak without plain, old, romantic idealism.
Never having been truly cynical, I doubt I can accurately determine the truth of my feelings but I am pretty darn sure I would rather be an idealist who gets her heart broken again and again (and again) than a bitter, old, cynic (surely a cynic would have quailed at the sight of my future and the challenges it held—still holds) or one who protects oneself from any and all pain whatsoever--and at any cost. I would rather see the very best in people for as long as it takes for them to prove me wrong than assume the worst of everyone from the get-go. I am so willing to give all people every corner of my heart--even now when it is cram-full of scars and little of it left whole. Even to those who, together with my unrealistic expectations, made each painful cut.
This is why: I feel very strongly that if I had not been so over-the-top optimistic, I would have been utterly undone by the challenges of my life. Instead, in my old age, I am settling into balanced realism. As painful as it is, I am grateful. Grateful--even when I think about how the house in my dream represented options, choices—heavenly and rare ideal ones—and how most of my adult life has offered, at best, a choice between two evils.
As I trudge through my cave, one that seems to become narrower and narrower with each passing year, I. Am. Grateful.
And yet . . . sometimes, when the light and the sounds and the scent on the breeze are just right, the memory of a girl is brought to mind--one who believed all things were possible--and I cry salty tears of sorrow for the shattering loss of her dreams. (And her eyebrows---one half each.)
Read about our stay in a real castle--in California!--HERE
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