I have often been told I am a dreamer, and honestly, I cannot deny the charge. If dreaming were a minor offense, I would be guilty with glitter on my hands and clouds in my pockets. I have always had what some might call a dreamy outlook on life—part imagination, part wonder, part “look at that tiny leaf doing its best.” I was blessed with a mind that wanders, a heart that wonders, and a stubborn little spark that still insists on being awed by both the small things and the grand ones.

Over the years, I have lived some dreams out loud. Others have slipped through my fingers like soap bubbles—beautiful for a moment, then gone before I could properly introduce them to reality. These days, my dreams have grown a little more sensible. They wear comfortable shoes. They check the weather. They ask questions like, “Is this financially responsible?” and “Do I really need another throw pillow?”

Still, the old dreams have not vanished entirely. I dreamed of love… the forever-after kind, complete with soft lighting, shared coffee, and someone who dotes on me and shares dreams with me. That dream has been a bit elusive for me, and the love of my life once found, was taken too soon. I dreamed of faraway places too. Of Ireland with its green hills and old stories, France with its romance and pastry-level confidence, Italy with its golden light and meals that last long enough to become memories. I dreamed of adventure among people like the movie Eat Pray and Love.

I dreamed of kind people traveling alongside me, have had them. Souls who would laugh at the wrong moments, carry snacks, and understand that the journey matters just as much as the destination. Some of those people have wandered off the path. Some were only meant to walk beside me for a season. Some, I suspect, took a wrong turn at “emotional availability” and some were lessons not companions for the long journey.

I dreamed of family being close, caring, and stitched together with loyalty and laughter. That dream, too, has shifted with time. Families change. People change. Life rearranges the furniture when we are not looking, and suddenly the room does not feel quite the same. It can be tender and strange to realize that some dreams do not break all at once but rather they simply fade around the edges.

And yet, perhaps my biggest dream is still the simplest one. I dream of a world that just breathes. Not gasps. Not snarls. Not stomps around in heavy boots looking for something to be angry about. Just breathes…  Deeply. Kindly. With thought to each other. I dream of a world where people remember that we are all in our own little boats, rowing through fog and sunshine and being surprised by whirlpools and alligators, trying to make it downstream without capsizing each other.

Maybe that sounds hokey. Maybe it sounds naïve. I have made peace with that. There are worse things to be than hopeful. There are worse things to carry than a pocketful of dreams, even if a few have lint on them now.

So I say it again, with a wink and a weary little paddle stroke: row, row, row your boat. Gently, if you can. Merrily, when possible. Carefully, when necessary. And if life really is but a dream, then may we dream it with more kindness, more wonder, and enough imagination to keep the boat afloat…