What's the Point, Anyway?

(originally posted February, 2006)

Once upon a time, in a land much like our own, there lived a boy who had a dream. It was a good dream, and one he seldom shared. It doesn’t matter what that dream was, only that he had it, and he just knew that someday his dream would come true if he worked hard enough.

Hopefully, that describes children everywhere. Whether the dream be firefighter or astronaut, policeman or scientist, football star or President, it needs to be dreamt, and needs to be fostered. I think it’s rare, however, that dreams like this are actually attained. Priorities shift, knowledge gained, and desires refined. The influences upon and obstacles before our objectives and goals seem to multiply the closer we get to reaching them. What happens, then, when the realization sets in that, no matter how close and unfortunate it may be, the dream is not to be realized?

Just like the Earth, dreams evolve. They change and mutate and form new dreams which may not bear even the slightest resemblance to the original. They are what keep our feet in motion and our eyes looking ever forward. They are both our lock on the past, and our key to the future. They make us who we are, define who we were, and foresee who we have the potential to become.

There comes a time, however, when our dreams come under siege. Long term changes to short term. Our steps become smaller, and our vision narrower. Our sight settles on the immediate, that which can be obtained with little effort, and compromise becomes paramount. We begin to force change upon our dream before it is ready to evolve on its own. It’s a road I have traveled, and it is long, as are the days and nights spent upon it.

To live without a dream is to simply take up space. For centuries, philosophers, scientists and theologians have asked and argued about “The Meaning of Life”. Jung, Sagan, Aristotle, Sophocles, even good ol’ Dr. Phil. In fact, I am willing to wager that you, too, at one point or another, in the dark of night, after a particularly bad day, have said aloud to the shadows, “What’s the damn point?!” Did the shadows answer? No? Well, don’t be upset. They didn’t answer me, either. Not right away, anyway.

I was that little boy with the dream, you see. And then I was the young man who, for various reasons, forced change upon his dream. I walked that road of long nights and empty days. I can still see it, actually. It’s there, just over my shoulder at the bottom of the hill I currently climb. It stretches off into the distance behind me, and disappears ahead as it curves gently around my hill. There is no road where I stand, just the hill. I struggle through patches of thick underbrush from time to time, or veer off around a deadfall or a wide stream rushing impatiently with winter runoff, but by and large I move ever upward. I can’t see the top yet, but I can picture it in my head, and that’s what matters most. I’m just yards off the cracked and potholed blacktop, and already the nights are shorter. This is my dream. This is my Point.

And just like when I was a boy, it doesn’t matter what my dream is. It doesn’t matter what my Point is. Meanings, Points, Dreams… we each must have our own. I can’t tell you what it all means any more than Einstein, Franklin, or Oprah can. It’s a trick question. Not because there is no answer, but because there are so many answers. That is, perhaps, the very reason so many people travel that road. With so many answers, so much uncertainty and doubt, it is a difficult thing to abandon compromise and stability for risk and potential. If you are honest with yourself, however, and honest with your dream, then perhaps the shadows will answer you too.