A year ago today, Sam and I celebrated my 30th Birthday in Mallorca, an island paradise off the coast of Spain. We hiked mile upon mile of rustic citrus covered hills, listened to the gentle splash of the crystal blue-green sea, breathed deep the salty air, felt the pebble specked sand between our toes as we pocketed brilliant azure glass by the handful, and filled our bellies full of whole, pure sun soaked tomatoes and clementines plucked less than a mile away. And each dreamy moment took my breath away. And I thought to myself, "what more is there to dream about?"
Last night, Sam took me out for my birthday dinner. I sat across from him at the table, trying to conjure up happiness and giddiness to be out celebrating, just the two of us. I watched ladies laughing carefree at a table next to ours, saw couples outside pass in all manner of ridiculous and hilarious Halloween attire, watched waiters pass with steaming piles of french delicacies. Everyone seemed excited about their lives, about what they're experiencing now and what they look forward to next. For me, everything felt muted; I felt so out of place, like I was watching their worlds behind frosted glass. And I looked at Sam with tears in my eyes and said, "Sam, I don't know how to dream anymore."
When every day is an unknown, it's hard to find much use for dreaming. We've lived in daily uncertainty for three months, and every time we've come close to establishing a new "normal," we've been thrown again. The nicu isn't kind or forgiving towards expectations. The Nicu has no on ramp--you just find yourself on it--and a desired destination when the path could dead end or reroute or close-for-construction feels helplessly frustrating and endless. What good is it to dream?
But as I've been mourning the losses of dreams I think I may be on to some new understanding: perhaps it's in our waking that we learn to dream rightly? "Take up your cross and follow me," Jesus says. (Luke 9:23, Matthew 16:24.) "Wake up, Gina." Some days, it's easier to sit with my cross than it is to wake and follow. Some days, all I want to do is rest in the suffering. But a wonder of the Gospel is that we are called to suffer, but also to fully live. Jesus doesn't ask us to just pick up the cross and stay put. Implicit in the following is the motion forward, and in the forward there is uncertainty, and in the uncertainty there is room for the dreaming. Maybe I can wake enough to dream again?
Last night, after I felt all the feels and probably made some neighboring diners a little uncomfortable, we revisited the beauty of our lives in Cambridge, savored the memories we've made there, and allowed ourselves to think again about what we are looking forward to most. Somehow, it felt a lot less like dreaming than it did like trusting.