"Little girls with dreams become women with vision."
~Unknown
I think too many people stop dreaming once they reach adulthood. I guess the reason for this is that children have less sense for reality than adults. We grow up and find the world to be much more cruel than we set out to believe. And that is when we leave our dreams behind.
As for children, they have not yet discovered reality. Reality has not quite set in within the heart of a child. Children feel no strains to what society proclaims realistic. They have not yet come to understand the world and their place in it, and so, they dream bigger than adults ever dare.
I believe the visions of children are one of the purist things in the filth of this world. Children see not the obstacles or the hardships, but instead, they see only the dream. They think more with imagination than with logic. Children believe without doubt. They have faith without fear; dreams without limits.
Maybe this makes me a child. Maybe this means that I am naive and need to be broken down by the world a bit more. Maybe this is just me, but I think there is something alluringly beautiful about being naive. But then again, I am the naive one... am I not?
I do know one thing for certain; despite what my childishness may make me, I like to consider myself a visionary. I have not yet left my dreams in the dust, and I do not intend to.
I believe we should all listen to the parts of our brain that give us our visions. Of course this doesn't mean we should foolishly follow our hearts into the abyss of our vision. Visions that work are those that correspond with our hearts and our minds.
I sincerely believe that, the world would have a lot more humanity in it if we did not forget who we wanted to be when we grow up.
We should see childhood dreams, not as something naive, but instead, remember them as something that was pure. Something that as untouched by the world. Something that was a part of us before we became something "realistic."
That is the vision, the line between those who live, and those who survive. The difference between grown ups and children.
I would rather be broke with a dream, than to be filthy rich but broke on vision. Because, without my childhood dream, I wouldn't be much of anything.
I love listening to my Dad play the piano. Especially when waking up on a Sunday morning.
The piano in our house is old. It was donated to my Dad by our church when we first moved into our new house. The paint is scratched and the keys are chipped, but the sound is ancient, and I love it. There's something about old pianos that intrigues me. Timeworn melodies and creaking pedals have so much more to tell us than the electricity driven sound of keyboards.
Over the years I have taught myself how to play. One of the first songs I ever played on these keys is Tale as Old as Time from Beauty and the Beast.
I
remember the day I decided to learn. My Dad's cousin was visiting, and I
was sitting by the piano and clinking keys. Counting notes. Wondering what it might
be like to touch these keys and create melodies, a perfect sound knit by
the chords. My Dad's cousin is a master of the piano. He has a passion
for music that drives him through life.
He came into the
studio where our piano is and asked me if I wanted to learn how to play.
I said that maybe one day I would, although I don't think in that
moment I really meant it. Then he replied, "Why not, it's in your
blood." This was all the encouragement I needed. I had to learn how to play.
I have never been super passionate about music. But
whenever I feel lost or thoughtful or lonely I play that piano, and
suddenly the thoughts that seemed utterly pointless and insignificant in
my heart before fall into a place and harmonize with me.
I have
discovered that, although I have not nearly mastered the piano, it is in
fact in my blood. My hands know where to go and I cannot explain it. The old piano is not the
only thing that has been passed on. Music can be passed on through
generations more than it can be taught. Some hands have a familiarity with music that they are simply born with. It amazing to feel this inborn
emotion that runs through my fingertips, up the arms that compose the
keys to harmonize, and into all of me.
Old keys and ancient chords. Music is, perhaps, as old as time
itself. Music is not just a passion, it's a companion. It's the chords
that tell our lives. It's the songs that inspired past generations. The love songs written for long lost lovers The hymns of ancient nights in ancient times. Ballads of adventures long outlived. The rock to every roll. Over time, the songs have changed, but the desire
is still the same.
Music is a tale as old as time itself.
If I could wrap up your blessings, outline them and try to fit them in a box, would blessings then be more as gifts?
There are some things that cannot be caught inside boxes. Some things cannot be contained. Some gifts cannot be put under trees or wrapped in shining paper. These gifts have imperceptible value. So we leave them priceless, uncountable unmeasurable.
You can count the gifts under your tree, but can you count the stars that enshrine the night sky? Can you count the flakes that dress the winter? Can you count the things you have been blessed with?
This man does not count his blessings, but he counts the thing he’s lost in one aching silence. This is the first Christmas he is spending without his wife. He sits alone in an empty home. The driveway has not been shoveled and there are no gifts under the tree.
The door bell speaks of chimes when it rings. His daughter brings the turkey and his son shovels the driveway.
This man has lost his true love, but for Christmas he gets Family.
This girl spends Christmas in the hospital. Next Christmas she’ll be gone. Her blessings are like broken toys she is too weak to play with.
She counts the moments of her life that she will never get to experience. She counts the years of her life that she will never get to live. She draws tally marks, etched into her desperate heart, one mark for every single thing that she’s about to lose.
Tonight someone told her that she will celebrate next Christmas with Jesus. Her life is a temporary moment, short lived and evanescent. She trades it in return for an eternity.
She leaves behind her anger. This Christmas she gets Peace.
His children receive no gifts tonight. His soul is wearing thin because the money is beginning to run out.
This Christmas his family gets only Christmas dinner, bought with a dozen spare coins. His heart is so twisted in his frustration, so intwined with resentment, that he can hardly recognize it. Would his children resent him when he lacks to provide?
His family laughs and in his heart he finds a familiar golden thread. He cannot recognize himself but the things he loves are familiar.
He begins to untangle his anger. Unsnarling the resentment. He Unweave's his blessings and puts them up on a shelf so he can admire them. He begins to count them.
He cannot provide, but God provided for him.
What he gets this Christmas is unconditional. This Christmas he gets Love.
No one comes to visit her this Christmas Eve. She has no blessings to count because in her youth she traded those riches away. Now the things she exchanged them for stand like dusty furniture inside the great big house that is her soul. This house is not a home because no one is there to share it with her.
She can’t help but think that, maybe, if she had made a few better choices, someone would visit her tonight.
A stranger comes in place of the family she does not have. He reads to her from a book she’s never touched. He reads words like none she’s ever heard.
Her life is almost over, yet he speaks of new beginnings. Her soul is tainted in sin, but he tells her of renewal.
She leaves behind her dusty furniture. She castes her guilt away. For Christmas this women gets Forgiveness.
Just outside there sits a man.
The snow is made of crystals, but to him it’s only made of cold. This man’s coat is the only thing he has for shelter. The night sky is the ceiling in his home. The Winter nights are countless, and Christmas Eve is just another night left out in the cold.
Everything he feels is cold and made of ice. It’s always winter in his soul. His heart does not revolve through the seasons. No one has blessed him with their Spring.
The doors of the Church are left unlocked tonight. It’s warm inside, and he can’t help but listen to the message that they share. It is the words he hears that send summer to his soul.
His life was filled with darkness, but he leaves it all behind.
Only through the one that grants our blessings can one who once had nothing so suddenly gain everything.
This Christmas this man gets a Savior.
This
Christmas I got the greatest gift of all. I got to become a published
writer. Thank you for everyone who encouraged me to pursue my dream.
This
will forever serve as a reminder to the blessing God has given me! He
is the great gift giver. The granter of our blessings.
I recently re-discovered this painting behind some canvas's.
This Lion is inspired by Aslan from The Chronicles of Narnia. I was always intrigued by the power of the face of Aslan. Instead of a fierce and lethal look in the Lion's eye there was instead a look of immense wisdom and overpowering peace.
The painting is now hanging in my Dad's office.
This is by far one of my favorite early works.
My love for literature began before I even learned how to read.
My passion started with my Dad.
My Dad's bed time stories were the first stories I remember falling in love with. Whether it be a story he invented, or a re-tell of one of his favorite books, I loved it when my Dad told me stories. I often wonder what I might have become if my Dad hadn't read to me a as child. He introduced me to books like The Chronicles of Narnia, and, the book that would forever change my life, The Hobbit.
Growing up, I had more books than I had friends.
People often thought I was shy, in some cases, they even thought I was lonely, but I rarely felt alone.
I found greater friends with-in the pages of my favorite books than I did in other kids my age.
I never felt uncomfortable with being excluded. I never felt like I was a loner or a loser, and somehow, I never even realized I was different. Maybe it's because I spent so much time with my nose in a book, or maybe I just didn't care.
All I know is, although I did make friends eventually, I believe growing up as a book worm shaped who I am today. The more books I fell in love with the greater became my passion for fiction.
Some of my childhood favorites include Narnia, The Hobbit, The Sisters Grimm, Peter Pan, Pippi Longstocking, The Tale of Despereaux, The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, Matt Cruse, East, Coraline, and Stardust.
The Photo-credit goes to my Dad.
You can see more of his pictures at
www.heinrichnikel.com
Thanks for reading to me Dad.
We have strived to discover the reality of this world since this world first began. We have studied reality, we have discovered sciences and placed a thousand theories on this simple word.
The definition of reality is, “the world or the state of things as they actually exist.”
Defining the meaning of the word is easy. To define the reality of our existence is much more difficult.
Most people believe that reality it something to be accepted. I do not believe this is true. The reality of life is that, when you live by realities limits, you do not get very far. It is only when we reject realities strains that we can make possible what is temporarily fictional.
Reality and fiction have always been viewed as opposites. They are viewed like synonyms for right and wrong. True and false. Real or fake. What fiction really is, is the challenger of reality. Fiction is a list of possibilities that reality denies. For something to be a part of reality it has to be a fact. Facts are laid out plainly and bluntly. There is no room inside the fact for question or for doubt. This means that there can only be a handful of facts in this world. Anything that cannot be proven, without a doubt, can, therefore, not be factual.
Most commonly it is believed that reality is the more powerful of the two because reality is something we are bound to. The truth is, reality is fragile. Deny reality, and it breaks. The reality of things as they are is always debatable because there are more than 7 billion different realities in this world. Just because one man says that an apple is the greatest fruit does not mean that another man’s taste buds will agree.
The definition of fiction is “a fabrication as opposed to fact.” Fiction has always been defined as the invention of a lie. I would much rather say that fiction is the invention of a possibility. Fiction happens within realities loopholes. Fiction is a question. Fiction is undecided. Fiction is an opportunity. You cannot argue with fiction because fiction cannot be false. Fictional things can neither be wrong nor right because fictional things are not a statement, fiction is the vision of one individual. Ralph Waldo Emerson says that “Fiction reveals truths that reality obscures.” Reality tells us what is. Fiction tells us what could be.
The human race is a society of dreamers. Constantly we aspire new fictional goals. New dreams of a better reality come with each passing generation. This means that reality is in constant motion. Today's fiction will be tomorrow’s reality. William C. Samples says that, “Without the dreamers who write science fiction and other imaginary material we’d still be sitting in caves.” The human race is where it is today because, at some point, we rejected reality, and dreamed of a greater future.
It’s been said that imagination and fiction make up more than 3/4’s of a person’s life. Goals, hopes and dreams are 3 out of 4 in the war against reality. Any goal you set for yourself, any dream you aspire, it all begins as fictional. Fiction will always be more powerful than any of this worlds realities because fiction tells us what could be instead of constantly reminding us what already is. The dreamer will always get further than the realist, because the realist only sees what is. The world is ruled by dreamers, and that is this World’s most beautiful reality of all.
I would much rather be a part of fictional possibilities than bound to realistic facts. Reality is just a surface to build on. The ground on which we gain momentum so that we can take flight. It is fiction that gives us wings.
I will place a fact on this. Reality can not exist without fiction.
J. R. R Tolkien said that, “A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities.” We continue to make real our fictional possibilities. We are a society of dreamers. A nation of visionaries.
Try and prove me wrong.
This painting is called Jungle Town.
I had this idea almost a year ago, but I never thought I'd actually get around to doing it. When I heard that we were going to be given a free project in my art class I thought it was a good a time as any to finally start this project.
I love the surrealism of the painting. My favorite kind of painting is the kind that depicts a snapshot of a story, and I feel this painting does that very well. The Tiger and the Boy are inspired by Calvin and Hobbes.
Before I sold Jungle Town a few weeks ago, it was hanging over my bed. I used glow in the dark paint on the neon signs, so that as soon as I turned off the lights the painting would begin to glow.
I have decided to make Jungle Town into a series and am currently working on a Woodland remix to add to the collection.
