BOY MEETS DREAM – The Heartland Series

In the deep recesses of my mind, tucked away in a well-protected crevasse is Heartland. Memories of my boyhood reside there. It is a place where a boy’s picturesque view of his world makes time stand still. I do not often go there, but when I do a warm memory always welcomes me. Let’s go there now. A memory of my boyhood is waiting for us.

Dream.001It is 4:30 AM Mountain Daylight Time on August 7, 1962, the fifth day of our 10-day family vacation in Rocky Mountain National Park. The tiny camper trailer in which Dad, Mom, Pamela, my mastiff sidekick Major, and I are sleeping rests in the park’s Moraine campground, 785-miles from my hometown, Corydon, Iowa. The campsite, shrouded in silence, alit by a big moon and star-filled sky, is the perfect place for a boy like me to dream about the day ahead.

A beam of moonlight, slipping through the front window of the trailer, interrupts my dream. It pushes me out of bed. Prods me to grab warm clothes. Tells me to be quiet as I do. Then pulls Major and me out the trailer door into the chilly night. There, standing on rock-strewn ground, I shiver while pulling on my jeans, putting on socks, lacing up boots, sliding into a thick warm sweater, and giving Major a good morning pat on his massive head.

Dressed, but still cold, I head to Beaver Meadows, a mile away, with Major by my side. Trying to shake off the cold, I walk fast. The big moon and bright stars help me navigate the rocky trail. As I walk, the dream that the moonbeam interrupted, returns. In it, I am hiking a section of the park’s 355 miles of trails, following a stream to its source. I am wildly alive. Like the animals—moose, elk, deer, bighorn sheep, bear, fox, bobcat, marmot, beaver, trout, and hundreds of birds—harmoniously living here in this 265,769-acre wilderness.

Reaching Beaver Meadows, I climb atop a big, windswept rock. Here, alone in the silence, breathing the fresh, crisp, pine-scented mountain air, I think about the dream I did not get to finish. I think about the way I am in the dream and how I am back home. That here, in the vast, broad, expansiveness of the park I am a solitary figure, a speck of dust in the Universe. I have no hometown expectations. I am not the minister’s son. The unspoken pain from Pamela’s terminal illness that permeates my family subsides here. In this sanctuary, alone in myself, for the first time I think about myself and who I am becoming.dream 1 .001Sitting in Beaver Meadow, under the stars and moon, Major by my side, I think about the soulfulness I feel here in the park. How four days ago, a ranger who was staffing the fire tower on top of Twin Sisters Mountain helped me understand the cycle of life at play here.

How three days ago, during an 11-mile drive up the narrow and curvy Old Fall River Road I saw things in Dad, Mom, Pamela, Major, and myself that I had never seen before. That Dad focuses on the road ahead. Pamela relishes the few thrills that enter her fragile life. And Major just does what he does best—drool and sleep. Mom, well, as the station wagon struggles up Fall River Road, I see that she worries about it overheating, Dad’s driving, and our safety. I notice that she gives her worries to prayer. In this case, while peering past the edge of the road at the raging river far below. Me? While I respect Dad’s driving, Pamela’s thrill seeking, and Major being Major, the credit for us, and the car, getting up the rugged road to Fall River Pass, I give that to Mom and the power of prayer.

Two days ago, at Mills Lake—surrounded by the Keyboard of the Winds, 13,497-foot Pagoda Mountain, 13,579-foot Chiefs Head Peak, and 12,668-foot Thatchtop Mountain—I was a small boy in a big place. Yesterday, while hiking to Fern Lake, surrounded by pine trees and beautiful vistas, thinking about the previous days, I concluded that only a loving God could create this place, a sanctuary full of grace and beauty for everyone and everything that calls it home. In this place I can hear my heart speak to me. I feel at home.dream 1 .002The sun peaking over the mountains interrupts my reverie. Off in the distance, an elk bugles. A nearby owl contributes a deep, melodic who, who, hoot, then another, and another. The elk bugles, again, and again. The Owl hoots. Major pulls up close to me. Looking skyward he releases a slow soulful howl. After a bit, my own heartbeat keeping rhythm, the bugles, hoots, and howls of the unlikely trio form a tune that only I can recognize.dream 1 .003A meteor streaking across the sky brings the much-appreciated and heartfelt serenade to a stop. As the meteor reaches its apogee, the North Star, catches my eye. Reminding me to launch a birthday dream. Without hesitation, with my eyes tightly closed, digging deeply into my soul, bringing forth every ounce of power within me, I offer my birthday dream to the universe. In the quietness of the park, on the rock, Major by my side, I vow to hold fast to my dream.

On this trip to Heartland, a memory of a long ago family vacation to Rocky Mountain National Park reminds me about the power of place. How, in the park a ranger, a car ride up a steep mountain road, an afternoon at a mountain-circled lake, and a hike to Fern Lake help me feel and understand things that I never would have felt or understood back home in Iowa. Moreover, that where a person is indelibly effects who he becomes.

On a deeper level, the memory that greets me in Heartland is about me being a dreamer who works to bring dreams to life by carrying them in my heart. About learning that dreams make my heart beat stronger. Now, with the perspective of time I see that the dream I met that birthday morning, atop the rock, was no ordinary dream. Fifty four years later, I am still working to bring it to life.

My dreamwork is a soulful path. Most often I walk the path alone. Sometimes, as with Major, a companion walks the path with me. When that happens I do my best to cherish and honor my dream-companion. On rare occasions a star, or moonbeam, shows me the way. Alone or with others, remembrances of where and how I met my dream give me strength to stay the course and dream other dreams.

* Dreams by Langston Hughes

Note: This is the 24nd post in the Heartland Series. Please click the subscribe button on the right side of the blog page to be notified of future posts.