dreamsleeves*

coleen paratore just published a novel that contains a theme of wearing your dream on your sleeve.
wow.
what would that do for us as a society?

if we could see what each other's dreams are, would we be more helpful? kinder? more willing to consider ways we could impact their journeys? would we be more apt to go out of our way, lend support, become a part of others' lives?
and would we be awed, amazed, inspired?
invigorated, rejuvenated, enlightened?

might we recognize kindred spirits?

what if we read each other's arms everyday, and started believing in everyone?

what would it be like if we each found the courage to share our dreams? it would be like wearing your heart on your sleeve, exposing yourself, daring to be real in front of friends and strangers alike.
my sleeves would state, be a published, prosperous, prolific author, and follow my path without fear, and be the mom my children need me to be. and one other thing I'm not brave enough to put out here and now--would I be brave enough to wear it on my sleeve?

I'd like to think so.

especially if everyone else was doing the same thing.

lightbulb! a custom t-shirt company, dream-sleeves, who will do this for us. you walk in, tell them your dreams, they print it on the sleeves, and off you go. (tattoos aren't practical, because dreams transmogrify, change, are met and released, become different versions of themselves.) maybe we start with one or two days a month, "sleeve days," where everyone wears their t-shirts. then maybe we get brave and make it a weekly thing.

or maybe we just use sharpies and write on our skin, freshening the marker if we haven't yet reached our dream, letting it fade as we formulate the next one . . . that's it. I have "faith" written on my knuckles with sharpie, why not write my dream on my arm?

next time you see a cyclist out on the road with sharpie up and down her left arm, that will be me.

it would be great if you'd do the same, so I won't feel so all alone.

*dreamsleeves, by coleen paratore, scholastic press, ages 10-adult. Set in coleen's hometown of troy, NY, circa 1970, it is the fictional story of a resilient girl named aislinn (irish for “dream”) o’neill who

believes if you have a dream you should wear it on your sleeve for the world to see.

trees and forests

the trees are back!
they cropped up everywhere yesterday, shouting here I am! see me! I'm right here!
they dotted my path, they took root right in front of me.
they made themselves known.

the day before I had whined about not being able to see them.
what I really meant, if you haven't already figured it out, is that I couldn't determine what my next right step was.
I could see the whole great big forest, the best of what's out there waiting for me, the contentment, the results, the kudos, the validation, the launching of children and projects and new creative endeavors.
but I couldn't see the next right step.

so, yesterday, those darn trees cropped up everywhere:
daughter 1 to the doctor, to piano, and on another doctor's schedule for next week.
daughter 2 to a hair appointment, to volleyball tryouts, and to the concert downtown last night.
appointments made for me.
communication with a vendor in india, trying to rectify a boo-boo.
an inspiration for a new item I can sell that will make use of already-owned inventory.
another appointment made, a lunch date requested, another lunch date made.

I know I'm supposed to focus on my human being-ness, but for some reason the human doing-ness feels better.
I tackled each project that planted itself in front of me yesterday, and by moving through each one of those "next right steps" I found myself further along the road, moving toward that great big green forest.

I like seeing trees.
and forests.
and maybe that's the way it's supposed to be: that we learn to see the beauty of each individual tree, and, as well, the glorious collection that forms the forest.

asphalt artists, documented

I had a mission this morning.
it was recovery ride day, and I lay in bed last night thinking about the morning ride, chanting to myself, don't forget the camera.
I didn't forget the camera.
I had to rearrange my bike bag, though, putting my spare tube and cartridges in my little bento box up front, so that my not-so-petite camera could have the back bag to itself.
my mission: to document something I'd seen last week while I was riding.
or something I thought I'd seen while riding.
because this is what happens to me: I'll be riding along, looking around, here and there, taking it all in, and sometimes making up stories about what I saw. I'll have gone past something before it really registers, and next thing I know I'm questioning the veracity of my eye-mind connection. was that really a giant bug, or just a wrinkled candy wrapper? was that a bunny's tail, or just a torn piece of a plastic bag caught on a weed?
or last week's query:
were those letters written in the road with asphalt crack-repair goop or was that just my imagination?
today, I returned to that spot on 39th south to see if I had made it all up, or if I had really seen a word written in a thin black ribbon of shiny black repair goop.

my eyes did not lie, and my brain truly did comprehend the truth as I flew by this spot, and here, today, is proof that some people are absolutely artists with asphalt.
or at least with asphalt repair.