It's Saturday morning and I've just woken up from a much needed sleep in. I hop in the shower, brush my teeth, and throw on some clothes. I put some Winnipeg rye in the toaster, make an espresso, and take a moment to have a quiet breakfast at the table while I watch my cat chase bugs outside. It's sunny out, and there's a refreshing breeze in the air that whips the willow tree that's just over the fence, across the street from where I park my red car — everything I love about living on the Westcoast when the spring shows up and it makes me feel alive.
Then, I hear it beckoning: Come. Sit. Listen.
These words are spoken by the ocean that's a 10 second walk from my house, and it's the ocean I've dreamt of living by since I was young. I'm not sure why I've always wanted to lived by the water, but nevertheless, it's a desire that's always been there. Maybe it has to do with living as close as possible to the edge of the land, or maybe it's the fresher, moisture filled air. Maybe it's both, or something else entirely. Who knows? But what I do know for sure is that it has always been a dream, and as of last July, this dream was realized.
Yet, just as soon as the dream arrived, it was also moderately rejected. When it became my backyard, it became easier to forget rather than long for; easier to stop my ears to its beckoning voice than to open my ears and hear the sway and rush of its rolling waves, its screeching seagulls floating overhead, searching for french fries and waffle cone remnants dropped by straggling and excited children, and blustering winds that blow off all manner of hats and knock back beach umbrellas. Because as soon as it's near, it's easy to ignore: the lustre of the shimmering gem of a dream begins to fade just as it comes into view, and the fog of life and all its chaos starts to cloud our view.
We get busy, and it's so close that we can go whenever we want to. So we don't go at all.
Just because something is close doesn't mean that you value it.
Just because something is near doesn't mean you use it.
Even an old dream.
It's been said that when a man buys a book, he's not so much buying the book so that he can read it, but buying the time that he thinks it will take to read that book.
And whether it's a book, or an ocean, or a dream that you've always had that's now 10 seconds away from you, don't neglect it. It's there for a reason, and you should listen to it's call.
So... I walk out to the ocean with a thermos in hand and a Steinbeck novel nestled underneath my arm. I sit at the ocean, I look out, I close my eyes, and listen.
The dream comes into view again. And then it is realized.