Dreaming These Days

I love this bird. It hangs on the wall in my art studio. Reminding me to keep looking forward.

I’ve always believed with all my heart that if you can dream it — really dream it — you can do it. You have to let yourself feel your dreams in your body. Imagine with all your might how you will feel when those dreams come true.

So it makes sense that I love vision boards. I love imagining how I want life to look and feel, then working toward that life.

Dreams have moved me forward all my life.

The other day someone said quietly, “You know what you need Robbin. You need a new vision board.”

I have not done one in many years so I started thinking about it in my mind. What do I want my late sixties — and my (gulp) precious seventies — to look like? More importantly, what do I want them to feel like?

So I decided to write before collecting images.

I want the freedom to just be. What does that mean exactly? I want to rest when I want to rest and play when it’s time for that. Eat when I want to eat. Create with wild abandon.
I want smart friends who inspire me to think.
I want a quiet, peaceful home filled with simple things that make me feel good — beautiful coffee cups, magical places to read, corners that invite reflection.

I want adventure. Big, heart-stopping adventure. I want to try new things often and with abandon.

I want to invest in my own growth — classes, learning, stretching my mind.

I want a calm, peaceful, trusting relationship with a loving partner who understands me. And I want to understand him.

I want a bigger car. I am a wee bit tired of climbing out of my low one, and I want to get my grands (and groceries) in and out with ease.

I want to express my creativity through art, gardening, writing, even the clothes I wear.

I want to maintain a strong body. Trust me — it is a hard job at this age to keep hard-earned muscle. My health sits at the very top of this list.

I want a life led with kindness and compassion — for others and for myself.

And I want other kinds of freedom. Freedom to travel, to explore, to make decisions without heaviness.

I used to be driven to achieve. Now I am driven to rest, to relax, to find joy in tiny ordinary things. My vision is much different than those of the past.

I want to surround myself with people I can count on as I get older. I’m lucky — I have many friends I have known for a very long time. I want to tend those friendships carefully, to show up for them when they need me, to create a circle that feels like family forever. I want to stay close to the people I love. To support them and their wild dreams.

But here’s the rub? Or maybe just a tug…

When I look at this list, it feels so ordinary. So attainable. I’m used to dreams being large — wild, glittering things far out on the horizon.

Now what I am wishing for sounds almost… boring, if I’m honest.

There’s a song by Lucinda Williams I used to play in the car every morning — Passionate Kisses. It was all about wanting simple things: a comfortable bed, food, time to think… and yes, passionate kisses.

Shouldn’t I have all of this?

The other day the man I adore said something that had a huge impact on me. He didn’t say it in a troubled way, just a matter of fact way. He said, “I just can’t seem to let go of striving.”

I understand that completely. I really do.

Letting go of striving is so very hard. For most of my life it was the engine that pulled me forward — toward achievement, toward security, toward some imagined better version of life just over the horizon. No one really prepares you for “the letting go of striving” in your later years.

For me, letting go of striving didn’t stop all at once. It happened slowly, one small ordinary moment at a time.

A dear friend of mine writes songs these days. And he is really good at it. He shared one with me he wrote for his wife. The refrain was simple:

“I love my little ordinary life.”

Isn’t that just wonderful?

I don’t have deep, restless yearnings anymore.

Striving has mostly left my body. The feeling that something better must be just beyond reach has softened into gratitude for what is already here.

It is a strange feeling, if I am truthful.

Not emptiness.
Not resignation.
Something quieter.

I think it is a profound understanding in a way.

Safety matters to me now.
Dependability. Like a toddler, I tend to like knowing what is next these days.
Certainty. If you can have even a wee bit of that, it is calming for sure.
Tenderness. Oh, the power and sweetnesss of tenderness.

And yes… passionate kisses. I still want those too.

Maybe this is what dreaming looks like in later life — not a hunger for more, but a deep desire to protect what matters.

Not greener pastures, but solid ground.
Not applause, but peace.
Not becoming someone new, but finally coming home to who I already am.

If this is a smaller dream, it is also a wiser one.

And perhaps — just perhaps — it is the dream I was working toward all along.