I Have A Dream

Martin Luther King, Jr. and I. We have a dream.

I know MLK day has come and gone. I was busy. And I know that MLK's dream was far-sighted, deep, selfless, life-changing, humanitarian, historical. Mine is self-centered, narrow, and all about me. We're not so much alike, MLK and me. And our dreams--this one in particular--have nothing in common.

I have a dream about a house. And the house is nothing fancy or huge or out-of-the-ordinary. It's fairly small and not-so-special. But it's somewhere by the ocean, where the sea can be viewed from the front living room window. The house is always clean. It has lots of windows and is bright and airy-feeling. There is lots of white and off-white. The walls have colors. There aren't any piles of anything to be found. Everything has a place and is organized. There isn't an abundance of furniture but what there is is comfortable and inviting. The living room--the front room, I like to call it---is never used as a sports field or a gymnasium. Nothing ever gets broken and no furniture gets shoved to the side of the room to make room for the latest game or athletic activity.

In this front room, like I said, you can see the ocean from the large window, and you can spend hours just sitting there watching it. When you feel moved to, you can lace up your shoes or go barefoot if you prefer and walk across the street and then down some age-old stairs, down to the sand. It's that close.

There is nothing unfinished in the house. Everything is painted, every baseboard is on. Every floor is finished--every room completely done.

There are lots of books and magazines. There are fresh flowers in each room. The bathrooms, two of them, are squeaky clean and sparkling with fresh towels. The kitchen is open and airy, not very big but very organized. A round table, a gleaming smooth wood floor, clean and clear countertops---no sign of a dirty dish. There is no empty wrapper which didn't quite make it to the garbage can on the table or the counters.

There is no unfolded laundry or unfolded towels.

There aren't any unmade beds.

There is music softly playing from the front room, something wordless but not sad or melancholy. The piano in the corner is waiting with music displayed.

I sit in this room and feel myself breathe....I feel myself unwind. My mind clears. My body relaxes. This is MY house. I dream of this house. In my mind, it exists in all its detail as though it were real. As you can tell, no one really lives very hard in this house; either that or it magically self-cleans. But I did say, did I not, that this is a dream house.

And so, after spending time at said house, when I have had enough of this peace and quiet, when I am tired of watching the endless movement of the water, when I have had enough of me, I scamper home to this disorganized, sometimes messy, unfinished, loud, voice-filled wonderful home of OURS.

I wouldn't trade it for my dream house in a million years.

(If I could, though, I would have both. That's why it's called a dream, yes? I guess you could also insert "fantasy". Either one works).