Why Do You Dream the Dreams You Dream?

Do you catch yourself dreaming during your waking hours? What are those dreams? Where do they come from? Why do you dream?

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photo credit: Oliver Lein, unsplash.com

Recent research indicates that your sleeping dreams are generated from your brain stem. Perhaps this is a maintenance function that allows you to process things that have been clogging up your higher thinking processes. What we do know is that people often wake up with answers to questions that plagued them the night before or with insight that escaped them after days of attempts at rational thought.

The dreams I have during quiet moments of wakefulness never seem to be like that. If they are truly dreams, then they are projections of reality — a wish, a hope, a . . . well, a dream. These thoughts are fairly well-formed. They have some degree of substance. And almost always, they bear a price. The concoctions of the mind that come easily and cheaply don’t seem to rise to the status of true dreams.

We can become lost in these dreams. Or we can experience these thought-filled moments with an expectation of finding ourselves and our place on a path. That moment of discovery is the seed of vision. As I wrote in an earlier post, I believe that vision is simply a dream with a pathway to make it real.

Not all dreams should result in vision. Let’s face it some dreams are just dreams. In fact, some are pipe dreams — wishes that are almost impossible or impractical to achieve.

But what about those dreams that call to you? Why do they keep coming back?

I wonder what fuels my waking dreams and I’m an eager witness to the dreams that edge their way towards vision. I’d love to hear yours someday. And I am really interested in how you invest in those dreams to produce vision.

Evaluation: asking questions and doing something with the answers

Why "Rut-Living" is Such a Powerful Force

I live in a rut. My view from here is a dirt floor and two dirt walls extending as far as the eye can see. My initial evaluation of my situation makes me tired. I can definitely climb out of this rut and do things differently. Yet that would require asking hard questions, making difficult decisions, and investing time and resources into something less predictable than this rut.

Don’t get me wrong or hear this as a complaint about the rut or some kind of creepy cry for help. I am truly blessed. But in my sixth decade of life on this planet, I still have dreams.

Some of you know that my choice of the word “dreams” has significance. I almost always prefer “vision” over “dreams.” My self-imposed working definition of “vision” is a dream with a clear or emerging path to achieve the dream.

I know dreamers. Wonderful people. Hearing them talk warmly about their dreams is a pleasant experience for all of us within earshot. With some of these folks, you can tell that their dreams will always exist in the land of unicorns and cotton-candy rainbows simply because they will never do anything to achieve them. This does not make them any less wonderful. Although, if the dreamer is someone in your life who is supposed to be leading or making something significant happen, watching dreams die a slow death is truly frustrating.

When you live in a rut, you can have dreams. And unless life has really beat you down, rut-living can be an awesome inspiration for many, many dreams.

For a good part of the almost four years I have been in my sixties, I have made a point of telling people that I am getting old. I do that to some extent because I want to acknowledge the gray and absent hair, the hearing loss, and the embarrassing slide to rut-living contentment I sometimes feel. But my dreams plague me. And, upon further thought, they frustrate me because few of them connect to vision anymore. There are no clear paths ahead for some of these great ideas or zany inspirations.

I often counsel younger individuals to evaluate — to ask questions and then to be honest about the answers that come. Without evaluation, rut-living becomes pretty appealing. Ultimately, it becomes an excuse to stop planning and, in essence, stop engaging in making the world a better place.

So, if you’ve been my next door neighbor in Rut World, won’t you join me in some good old-fashioned evaluation? If you read the news, you know that there is a deep need for people with vision. Let’s be part of that movement.

Look carefully. Often, too much is made of too little & consequential things are hidden in the bloated shadows of the inconsequential. — Joey Cope

Joey Cope
Joey Cope

Each person has a piece of goodness within them. Your greatest calling is to find that treasure & help it grow in others & yourself. – Joey Cope

Joey Cope

Thrill Versus Routine

I think of myself as an interesting fellow. And since I am a little on the introverted side and not a champion of exploring the feelings of others, I am capable of living out this personally-held perception with a degree of confidence. I once considered myself adventurous, seeking thrill in doing the unusual or attempting the unlikely. Yet inwardly I long for the comfort of routine and the well-traveled paths.

Brian Wilson & Al Jardine. Austin, May 2017.

Of course, I have moments of revelation when I realize I’m more prone to the routine. I simply want others to see me with their thrill-spectacles on.

For example, I occasionally throw into a conversation that I am a drummer and once played with a touring group — even recorded with them. That, my friends, is pretty thrilling stuff. When pressed, though, I have to admit that the last time I performed was over three decades ago. The more truthful statement is that I was a drummer.

Last weekend, our son, Justin, hosted us at a Brian Wilson concert. The Beach Boys were the foundation of my popular music experience in grade school and junior high. Although only Brian and Al Jardine were on stage from the original group, the evening was a nostalgic and emotion-driven experience. All the words to the songs were on my lips. I could still anticipate each drum and percussion beat. And I remembered the time, prior to puberty, that I could sing the high parts, sans falsetto.

I felt the thrill and the desire to go back to music. But by the end of the concert, I knew that wasn’t a possibility. You see, I had abandoned my routine thirty years ago. The routine of listening to old music and new music, the routine of deconstructing rhythm patterns in my head, the routine of taking sticks in hand and building the new patterns and muscle memory that enable simply striking to be molded into music.

Routines can, of course, be reinstituted. But other routines must be pushed aside. At some point in life, we have to measure the thrill against the cost of routine. To experience the thrill on a regular basis — and to survive — demands routine to be a necessary element.

Too often, we look upon our routine as a burden. When in truth, the regularly pursued actions cannot only lead to a thrilling experience but can, in and of themselves, become a source of exhilaration. Simple things, even mundane things, can bring great pleasure and fulfillment.

And routines sometimes seem like luxuries. Several years ago, I was facing the challenge of rewriting a reference book. Out of the twelve chapters, nine were my responsibility. It was not a matter of updating, but one of reimagining and creating. I made a deal with my editor and publisher, to rewrite three chapters a year for three years. In earlier days, I would have taken a week or two of vacation annually and accomplished the task through binge-writing. Instead, I established a routine of researching and writing an hour a day, five to six days a week. My routine was a blessing as I sat at my computer from 7:30 to 8:30 each morning and the book took form. Not only did I complete that writing assignment, I found time to write other things regularly. The routine of writing was not only a discipline, it was a thrill. By honing my writing and thinking skills, I was able to accomplish my goal.

Writing, like drumming, has fallen out of my routine. It happens sporadically. Like drumming, my skills have diminished. Yet, the thrill remains and inspires because I now recognize that it is born from and lives inside the routine.

Perhaps I’ll write more. And, in private moments, perhaps I’ll drum to old tunes.