A Rainy Day Memory

I used to love rainy days as a kid. When the sky became covered in those ominous gray clouds and thunder rumbled from the heavens, I'd hear my heart pounding in my chest. The sound the sky made grumbled in my bones. It reminded me of manic drumbeats or even the crashing of buildings in a world above the sky. I didn't want to spend those times being afraid, so my little sister and I used to pretend that we were adventurers out in the storm and that we needed protection. We would make our own cheap little forts by tying our bedsheets to the end of the bed posts. We would ask dad to buy us some snacks (and he always did) and we would gather them into the fort as if preparing ourselves for hibernation. We took our favorite toys and they became our trusty sidekicks, mapping out new terrain as we waited out the dangerous lightning storm that was threatening to ruin our entire expedition. 

We were scared. But it was the fear that could only be conjured during make-believe. The real world couldn't hurt us. We knew we were safe. It was exhilarating watching the rain tear from the sky with fascination and awe. Our windows, covered in raindrops, resembled stained glass. We were in our own world, stars in our personal movie. The patter of the storm became our symphony. The thunder became our plot thickening sound effects. The crackle of lightning was our stage light. We were the performers in a story only we would appreciate. As I got older, I would replay those happy moments and marvel at how simple and beautiful they were. 

Sometimes, a member of our travel party would get lost in the wilderness. Huddled together under our sheet, we would stare off into the wide expanse which was our carpet and silently search for the courage within ourselves to brave our imaginary world and search for our missing friends. We knew that we were needed. We knew we were their only hope. And this realization spurred us into action. Slowly, we stepped out of our protection, and into the great unknown. 

It never occurred to us that this would be a precursor to the strength we'd develop in later years, as we faced struggle after struggle while tapping into that hidden reserve of bravery within us and pushing on. It never occurred to us to ponder the juxtaposition that we were children prone to dreams of exploration while confined to the  small rooms in our cozy home. We saw the world as much bigger than ourselves, much bigger than reality could ever close in on us. We were not bothered by the lack of space or tools. We gathered our snacks and our will and we crawled through the blue shaggy "jungle", relying on the fact that we were together and that even though the storm was raging, we were sure our of success. 

Along the way, always we would run out of food. We seemed to relish those dark moments as we stared wide-eyed and mock afraid into each other's faces and shared a single nod. Food or no food, we were pressing on. Lightning blazed from above and we would cling to each other, momentarily shocked and then giggling out of surprise. We'd use a flashlight (if working batteries were actually in the flashlight then we had hit the jackpot) and sweep it across the "jungle" floor. There. Right there in the shadows. We'd spot a fluffy arm or a chubby face with cheerful eyes staring off into the distance. Probably pondering its demise. 

We'd hold in a great big breath and then charge in, fighting what needed to be fought, ducking under the branches our minds had set up for us, jumping over streams filled with lava or crocodiles or mud. We'd roll and crawl and cling to the short shrub lining hills we had imagined until finally, finally we reached our goal. And there our journey would end. The walk back to base camp would be quick and painless. We'd climb back into our makeshift tent with our missing party safely within reach. We'd ask for more snacks (an unsuccessful attempt) and we'd transform ourselves from adventurers back to young girls hiding under a sheet tied to the bedposts, saving our adventures for another rainy day. 

Affirmation: You are the Dreamweaver.

I am a dreamer. I've always been this way. I remember in elementary school my teacher would write on my report card, "a bright student but spends a lot of time daydreaming". This was not a compliment. I found myself feeling embarrassed that she had noticed me in one of my reveries. They were intensely private things, not something you should be observing and I felt slightly violated that she not only saw me, but had the nerve to tell my parents about it.

They were not happy.

So I learned to keep my daydreaming under wraps. I'd focus on my book or on my pencil, faking a look of concentration too deep to be interrupted. Meanwhile my mind was miles and miles ahead of me, projecting a version of me that was cooler than the reality. This version of me saved the world and everyone wanted to be my friend. I'd snap back into focus when the teacher called my name, or if I felt her walking near. She never caught on. I understood that this was the way it had to be.

I learned to hide my dreams from others. They became secret things that only I knew about. I guarded them fiercely. I did this because they were insanely important to me. I did this because I was incredibly fragile. All it took was one word of displeasure and suddenly shame and guilt would flood through me. I didn't want to feel that way towards things that made me feel so good about myself. They were the only things I had.

I'd reserve the really big dreams for night. I'd fantasize about being this incredible heroine, unaware of my own power until I was put into a situation that forced me to act. Once the situation arose I'd bravely stand up and the people who I would save would look at me, some in confusion, others in awe as I faced whatever monster I had dreamed up that night. The monster would never be aware of my power. The monster would always laugh at insignificant me as I walked towards it, the wind blowing my clothes and hair (wind was central to my daydreams. What better way for a child to convey power?). It would always say, You child? You have come to face me? and I would respond with this power so blinding that it would catch the monster unaware. The people would suddenly understand that I was not some stupid little thing. I was important. I was worth something. And I'd end these dreams and slip into a sleep that only peaceful imaginings can bring.

It's taken me years to realize that all I wanted at those moments in my life was to feel like I mattered. My fantasies gave me something reality did not. It gave me a way to show that I had something to offer the world, that I was important. The monsters were not monsters at all, they were the embodiment off all the things in my life that made me feel small, made me feel insignificant and unimportant. I wanted to prove them wrong. And I did. In my daydreams, I always did.

Now as an adult I remember those fantasies and smile. I'd like to think that I'm equipped with a better understanding of who I am and the strength I possess. I've come to realize that as a child I was able to weave feelings of importance into my daily life, even if they were only met out in my imagination. Those daydreams were enough to fuel me for another day. They were the batteries in which I charged myself from, allowing me to withstand the bullies and the loneliness and the feelings of not quite fitting in. I was a weaver of positive dreams. I was able to make another me, another world where I was not the outcast. It's a power I still hold on to today. It helped me to survive.

To those of you who are perpetual dreamers who feel as if they will amount to nothing, or get you nowhere, I want to tell you this: there is great power in the dreams we cast. Don't take them for granted. Don't underestimate them. They came from you, a manifestation of your desires. Create them, build them. Guard them and let them grow. They are yours, and they are worthy. You are worthy.