I knew a boy who sat by an Iowa creek and dreamed of wilderness, of loving and exploring it.

I knew a boy who was shy and somewhat fearful, but still somehow looked toward the unknown years to come with confidence and anticipation.

I knew a boy who lost loved ones too early, who languished in sadness, but still somehow smiled at flowers and trees, and the songs of birds.

I knew a boy who loved the music of the skies, and of guitars and violins and orchestras and choirs, and who longed to make such music himself.

I knew a boy who could get lost between the covers of books, somehow feeling the whole world expand within the lines and the pages.

I knew a boy who one day grew up—mostly—and fell in love with the perfect girl, and could see their whole life ahead, in cabins and forests and upon blue waters, in the company of yet unnamed children and grandchildren.

I knew a boy who believed in the friends and neighbors and fellow citizens of a whole country, who all believed, as he did, in ideals and traditions and compassion and wisdom and birthrights, and all the things that made dreams possible.

I know a boy who now lives with sadness and regret, for although many of his dreams came true, he fears that the opportunities for the young ones he loves, to dream such dreams, may be disappearing. Completely. All because a flawed man-child who never grew up at all, beyond a raging, bullying toddler, and the countless lost, foolish and needy souls who follow him, think that they can compress all the wonder and mystery of the world into a thimble. A golden thimble. That they can confine beauty and wildness and empathy and art and understanding into books—books about the past.

Books that shall then be burned.

The boy is sad. And fearful. But he has not given up. And will not. Because the clouds and the trees, the wilds and the waters, the memories of teachers and mentors and loved ones gone—and the residue of dreams—are with him still. And he cannot accept a world in which they are not. For himself or his grandchildren or his neighbors. Or his country.

So he sits by the water, in the company of trees, beneath the forms of drifting clouds, and he tries to remember. To recall the feelings of hope and of possibility, and the beckoning of dreams. He remembers the world he once knew, that world of the realization of dreams, of beauty and kindness, of blue horizons and the beckoning future. And he tries to find the strength to reclaim it. For that is the only world worth living in, and fighting for.

(This is my newest Substack post. Please consider subscribing to me there at Notes From The Campfire@douglaswoodauthor)