This Is What Dreams Are Made Of

It’s 9:28 p.m. and I’m alone in my office. It’s just me, my laptop, and a small oscillating fan. A copy of Eugene Peterson’s The Contemplative Pastor rests on the planked desk beside me. I have never been a pastor, but I do desire to be more pastoral.

This is what dreams are made of.

A thunderstorm, which was also deemed a dust storm, just passed. It marked the first precipitation of any kind I have seen in two weeks as a resident of the desert. The heat is fine. I’m not one for running outdoors anyways. Besides, my still-healing sprained ankle has kept me from much voluntary physical activity.

This is what dreams are made of.

Earlier tonight, Sam and I installed a second whiteboard together. It sits 3/4” below and roughly 1mm to the right of its twin above it. I love whiteboards. I love dreaming. I really love dreaming about the possibilities whiteboards hold. But two? My mind is overwhelmed. My heart is happy.

This is what dreams are made of.

I have made little use of social media lately. If we moved across the country two weeks ago but have yet to post about it, did it really happen?

This is what dreams are made of.

I don’t know what this is, but I wanted to write.

This is what dreams are made of.