If you don’t do it often. If you’re not honest with yourself about your true dreams, and what they could potentially bring to your life, you could be denying yourself the luxury of truly being happy.
And what does truly being happy actually mean?
What does it look like?
I think we spend a great deal of our lives trying to actually figure that out. Looking at our current disposition, our existence, the relationships in our lives, our work, our careers, our families, and measuring them up to see if they do fit in with what we would like to believe is our true happiness. Although, speaking for myself only, Juan, party of one, I’m starting to think that maybe the formula is what’s wrong in this picture, and not all of the other factors that we believe can or cannot affect our individual satisfaction with life.
Perhaps it’s like that old dicho: No se manda en el corazón.
That is to say that in life, as in matters of the heart, one does not ever truly have complete and utter control. We try. Oh, do we try, to make certain that we control our own destinies. That events in our life happen precisely how we want them to… and when we want them to. Only, as many of you probably know already, el hombre propone y Dios dispone. Things rarely work out the way we want them to.
I think I’m finally starting to realize that in my old age. And yes, by old age I mean my mid-thirties. The older I get, it’s getting easier to let things go. The idea of “bygones being bygones” makes more and more sense to me every day, and that is honestly a comforting feeling. Still, with that acceptance, another question arises.
What does my happiness really mean? What does it look like?
That’s kind of crazy, because most people would: a) either consider that a midlife crisis, or b) confirm that is a midlife crisis. And maybe it is. Who can be certain about these things?
What I do know, is the simple things are what always bring me the most inner peace.
Looking through old pictures, reminiscing on the years gone by, the people we once were, the moments we once lived, I can’t help but feel joy. Sitting at my mother’s table, talking about everything and nothing all at once, just makes me happy. Saturday mornings in bed. Long drives just talking. Feeling inspired and just writing for the sake of writing, even if it is just for myself, and not for posting or publishing anywhere. Dancing to my own beat to my favorite songs. Singing at the top of my lungs to a series of songs on the radio that seemingly are in tune with my particular mood. Laughing until it hurts. Feeling loved and appreciated. Those things make me happy.
And I want more of those things.
I want to dream. I want to dream about those things. And I want the world and God to grant me the privilege of experiencing more of those things in my dreams and in my day to day life.
No sé si me entienden.