The End of Dreaming

There is an alternate hazard, I suppose, to that of creating endless lists comprised of future plans. And that would be the living of them until no further desires remain. The point where invasive realities and uncontrollable circumstances descend—a deep fog obscuring the bygone brilliance of halcyon days. Colorization in reverse: full spectrum vibrancy turned monochrome. The point where the choices don’t make sense any longer, and only confusion remains. What happens when all the dreams are gone away—whether realized or otherwise? When the things one lived for previously have disappeared into the past forever?

What’s left then? And how to make sense of it all. Can meaning be created? Forced? Found again? Hoped for or believed in? The obvious truth is that life goes on with or without overt implications of purpose. Some people care more about this than others.

To wonder what this world might be about may be the most senseless burden a person can voluntarily assume. Crushing, really.

Time, considered a constant in many practical conversations, seems anything but, and paramount somehow to any discussion of reality and the meaning we might impose upon it. It is this concept of time in which we work out our interpretations of attainment and fulfilment, or their antonyms. Time alters as we age. It changes with mood, with activity, when we are with different people and in various environments. Without a feeling of purpose in life, or a someone to mark the memories with, weeks and months melt into years and disappear without notice—while mornings, nights, and hours alone languish in indefinite suspension.

What is there to do then, at least in the meantime, but move from macro to micro. To focus on maintaining, to figure out improving. To hold fast to hope. To do the things, and work at appreciation in the moment. To be open to new experience and change. To eat less sugar and play some more guitar. To get some rest. To sleep, perchance to dream.

March in Alaska is appreciation in the moment. The light, the snow, the warming temps. Every single day importunes to be lived in. Recent things: hiking six miles up the McKay trail with MA, Jack, a sled, and enjoying a few speedy descents; killer day of skiing with Sean on the old Fairbanks to Circle route; long shadows and tea time on big solo Stiles Creek loop; the Fairbanks World Ice Art Championships; my little place in the birch trees and the more guitar part. (Might have to give the page a minute.) They say you have to perform to get better. With gratitude and apologies to Mr. Guy Clark.

Dublin Blues

3 thoughts on “The End of Dreaming

  1. Thanks for sharing the great photography and story.

    I lived North of Fairbanks in the woods for 20 years until my heart could no longer handle shoveling the snow from my cabin to the road, and your pictures are definitely pulling at my heart.

    Today sitting here I can only say
    savor every second your are there
    because you are in a land
    by the hand of God.


    • Hey Pete,
      Thanks for the positive note. You definitely would have been moving some snow this year. Huge dump in November, was dry for a couple months, and has been snowing for weeks now. Have been plowing and shoveling on repeat.
      I do my best with the appreciation. So many moments here that require a pause, a look around, and a deep sigh. It is hard to live in sometimes, almost too much beauty to handle, especially the layers of sky. Last night was amazing. Out skiing in the birch trees around twilight and broad bands of pinks and oranges across the horizon. Deep blues up above. I grew up in Texas and spent many winters in the Big Bend, which I feel almost the same way about as far as the beauty goes, but have no plans to return anytime soon. Appreciate you reaching out.


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