When did the dreams of my youth die?

Big thoughts.

Insignificant thoughts.

Ponderings that don't matter.

Reflections that mean everything.

When did the dreams of my youth die? Was their fire left untended? An exuberance that collided with reality? Or folly born of a naive view of the world and ourselves? As I approach sixty years on this earth, some of it actually living, these questions haunt me.

I’m a Christian, and as hold to the hope of life everlasting where my time here would have been just a flicker. I hold to that faith as a drowning man grasps a floating timber, waiting for his rescue. I wonder, what I could have done with my life. Are my self-perceived failures what people do, or have I fallen short and missed the mark? Unanswerable questions all, but begging explanation and resolution nonetheless.

I have dreams even today that merit a younger, healthier man’s life. Yet I still go forward towards measures of success, however they may be defined. I have not maintained fitness and a reasonable weight but now work to lose weight and increase my physical ability. Why didn’t I do the things that are now more difficult when I was younger? I work to pay off debts accrued through laziness and circumstance while continuing to not put anything away for retirement. The dream was once to be a millionaire, semi-retired at forty. Others have done this, but not me. Is it due to a failure of character? Perhaps a mental or psychological problem. Maybe failure in my upbringing, or simply a roll of the dice. The answer to this I do not know.

I often sit at the beach, watching the locals and vacationers, young and old, rich and poor, gods and goddesses, and those overweight, out of shape souls who are my kindred spirits. What would it be like to have the affections and enjoy the mysteries of a twenty or thirty-something beauty? I also realize that I never would have had them even if I wasn’t in debt and rotund. So starts an internal conversation of woulda, coulda, and shoulda’s that wonders how life might have been different.

What if I went to law school as I planned when I was eighteen and newly married? What if my parents didn’t always encourage short cuts? What if I worked for that builder during the summer of my sixteenth year and became a contractor? What if my parents weren’t scared of me getting heatstroke? What if I never accumulated debt? What if I invested in real estate for all these years? What if became an accountant and put money away year after year? What if my dad didn’t always have the next business idea to finally make it rich? What if I spent less time with family, and actually learned the computer skills I needed? What if I didn’t always, always, always feel that I was lucky to have the job and hope they wouldn’t figure out I was a fake? What if I didn’t always feel that I was a fake?

So I resolve again, to eat healthier and be more active. I resolve again, to finally have a budget and stick to it. I resign myself to a marriage that simply is, but I will write more so that I am actually a writer. I resign myself to the fact that I will have to continue to work, hoping that social security is still there when time says that I have to retire.

I do know that I’ve been a successful dad. I always worried about that but knew that once my kids were grown, I would see if I did it right. Both kids, are now their own people, living the lives that they have dreamed, avoiding debt, and staying healthy. Perhaps my failings were a sacrifice that helped them become who they are. Or maybe that’s a hopeful justification, after all, there are kids that have grown up to be a success whose parents were also put together.

I return again to the dreams of youth, that have now become plans for a life winding down. A salvage program to reclaim the years that remain. I know that at least for today, I am a writer. I have done something right.