In the Beginning, There Were Dreams

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

Before the beginning of time there were dreams that blew across the firmament of all that was. It was when dreams were fragments of unformed souls seeking refuge from the expanse of time and the whirlwinds of destinies that filled the heavens and the void beyond.


By Al Garcia

Before the beginning of time there were dreams that blew across the firmament of all that was.  It was when dreams were fragments of unformed souls seeking refuge from the expanse of time and the whirlwinds of destinies that filled the heavens and the void beyond. 

It was dreams that ignited the spark of human imagination.  It was dreams that began to fuel the ingenuity, creativity and vision of the human mind.  And it was dreams that set afire the passion of the human soul.  And in that moment of fire, ecstasy and realization, the consciousness of man rose from the depths of obscurity and insignificance.

And in the Americas, a land of lakes and rivers, valleys and mountains, the destiny of man flourishes beneath a canopy of jungle growth and vegetation of every type and kind.  It is the dawning of the age of empires and of kingdoms in the Americas, inspired by native American civilizations, rivaling the Egyptian and Asian dynasties before the age of exploration.  It was the time of the Mayans, Incas and Aztecs.  A time of warriors and of thinkers.  A time of the adoration of the heavens and the stars, and reverence for the rivers and the lands, and for the creatures that roamed free and wild among the forests and the fields across a new-found continent.

It was the age of dreams and of dreamers in the Americas – a time before the Enlightenment, the Renaissance, the Reformation, and certainly way before the Scientific Revolution.  It was a world beyond the bounds of knowledge or understanding -- remote and isolated from the emerging centers of influence and supremacy.  It was a world conceived by nature and reigned by the imagination, inspiration and creativity of thirsty minds and resilient souls in search of the very nectar of creation – purpose, meaning and understanding.

I have seen, and I am a part of the remnants of their empires and their kingdoms once nestled in tropical jungles, rainforests and on mountain tops overlooking the Caribbean.  My roots touch the magnificent edifices of limestone and rock that reached toward the sky, as if to touch the stars.  And I wonder how such distinct and distant civilizations like the Mayans and Aztecs, Egyptians, Assyrians and ancient Indians and Tibetans, among others, could have conceived and constructed such similarly designed, perfect and timeless temples to their gods?  It baffles the mind to think about the possibilities or the reasons why. 

And to think that this is my history.  My heritage.  These are my roots, and ghosts that haunt my mind.  And now, after years of brooding anticipation, I greet with awkward acceptance, the finality of my presence in a dream begun before I ever came to be.  And still I have not tasted the nectar of creation, nor found purpose, meaning or understanding.  How I hunger to understand the epic of my origin, and feel the fascination and exhilaration of the time before the age of enlightenment and before the breaking dawn in the Americas.  How I long to see the days gone by and to look beyond the days that lay ahead.  It is the winter of my life, and I have just begun to sense the dreams that made me whole and thrust me to heights beyond my grasp, but within my sight.


And so, it is at this most irrelevant of times, when life has already passed me by, that I finally pause to give thought and reflection to the probabilities, possibilities and promises that became me.  I think back to the time gone by and wonder if I was just a dream in someone’s mind that escaped the boundaries of its realness, and ventured out and dreamed another dream of the me I was, or would someday be, but never was, until I came to be.

I now have time to reflect and contemplate each moment of my life without regret, but with some concern of what I may come upon as I search for identity and explore the very core of my existence.  I do not know where my journey may lead me or what I may discover along the way.  Yet, I sense within me the urge to find what I lost or missed along my journey to where I am today.

My journey begins with the premise that I was meant to be.  A simple yet profound acceptance of a divine design beyond my intellectual grasp or pious insignificance of my existence.  I was born.  I have lived.  And now, as time begins to slow the beating of my heart, I begin to reflect upon the purpose and upon the reason why I came to be, and how the irrelevance of my life was a dream of long ago, by unseen and forgotten faces, and unheard and silenced voices. 

I was a vision that came to be.  I was a specter in the heart and soul of a people that erected monuments to the gods, and an empire that nurtured and cherished the soil that sustained and maintained the human soul.  I was but a mere shadow on moon-lit nights of what was to come, as they looked to the sky from atop their monuments of stone and rock along the Yucatán.

The night sky spoke to them of times before and times to come.  They heard the voice of time and saw the signs of all tomorrows in the stars.  I was a part of all of this and more before I came to be.  They knew me before I knew myself or of myself.  And all because they dreamed of me.

I am a descendant of dreamers.  I am the inheritor of their hope, their expectation and their aspiration. 

I was born in America, a garden of good and evil.  A place where dreams are born, and a place where hope unfortunately sometimes dies without reflection or attention, not for lack of want or need, but for lack of faith. 

I was born in a green, lush Valley along the Rio Grande, at a time when it was an imperfect creation by men of goodwill and compassion, blossoming in an emerging world of arrogance and greed, from a single seed of faith and passion sowed in the minds of ordinary men seeking solace from the cruel and unjust world around them. 

It was the time when America was the living, breathing creation of our imagination, and of the flowing inspiration that filled the untamed and boundless soul of man.  It was a time when the color of one’s skin reflected one’s place and purpose in society, and in the confederation of men.

America has always been a flawed and blemished creature by design, as pioneers, speculators, opportunists, adventurers and dreamers of all types struggled with the errors, the blunders and mistakes that marred the splendor and the grandeur of what was meant to be, but never quite came to be.

I was but one of countless constant gardeners in a place that fed upon the discarded remnants of our past.  I was part of a family of dreamers who endlessly attempted to prune and trim and clip away the dead and dying visions and illusions of infected and contaminated illusions and delusions that poisoned and destroyed the harmony of our garden and our lives, as we aimlessly attempted to interrupt the rhythm of the changing seasons. 

I remember the good, the bad, and the ugly moments of my life along the Rio Grande.  I remember that at our best, I saw the beauty and magnificence of America as it blossomed and bloomed.  But then, at our worst, I saw and experienced America’s conscience and character whither, fade, and die, as it ignored the fact that it was nothing more than a collective dream, dreamed by ordinary men, tainted by flawed and blemished hearts and fractured minds.

With each passing season I recognized the fact that America was never about one man, one dream, one vision.  I realized early in my life that America was, is, and always will be, about blossoming and flourishing ideas, about planting the seeds of hope, and about nurturing the seedlings that spurt from the hallowed ground that has nourished and sustained a dream and a vision that defines a divine creation.

I have lived a legacy of shattered dreams along the Rio Grande for far too long.  Too many of us remember the hardships and adversities of our parents and grandparents.  They were the constant gardeners along the Rio Grande.  They listened to the shifting seasons, and their lives and dreams were bent and twisted with the changing winds of time.  And through it all, they persevered.

And now, during this time of chaos, disillusionment, distrust and division, it is my time to help assure that our living, breathing, feeling creation will continue to blossom and bloom, so that others will walk through our garden and see and feel the beauty and the magnificence of our America -- a garden where dreams are born, and where hope can still grow free and wild. 

 We are all living the legacy of ghosts and shattered dreams, as we listen to the echoes of time blowing in the wind.  But the one thing to remember is that in the beginning, there were dreams. 

Submitted: May 27, 2021

© Copyright 2021 A.Garcia. All rights reserved.

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