My Utmost Dream Has Changed

When I was a child my utmost dream was to be recognized, famous. I determined that it is rather a curse, not a joy, for it impedes freedom. Being a hippie I relish my seclusion and communal time; I revere it. If photographers were hopping all over my house I could not bear it. I allowed my childhood fame dream to float casually down the brook, Knowing that I can forever write my truth without public criticism. I paint my canvases and keep them safely hidden from the Status No. Weird how swiftly I put down my mantra of wanting recognition actually. When I was about eight I had an epic dream that continued for a year. I was rich and famous. Anyone who had a newspaper knew of me. I had an orphanage, an animal shelter, a home for unwed mothers. How in the world I knew about unwed mothers is nobody’s guess. This was in the early 1960’s when no eight year old knew of them. Yet, somehow, I did. Giving credence to reincarnation in my mind As my mother shared nothing with us kids, not even her grocery list. A secretive time; I could not wait to go to sleep to dream of my fame. I added a movie theater, basketball court, playground and tennis court. I could not wait to get to sleep, for the orphans fawned all over me. The dogs and the cats did too for I had added a cat shelter. When the dream stopped, I was shocked, willing it back, disappointed. Now that I am grown I wear a mumu with paint stains on it, I draw my pictures, paint them, dance in my garden, raise flowers, Take care of dogs and cats, play with my ten grand children I am never bothered by photographers or reporters I am happy to say!