| — | Hermann Hesse |
Dreams not fantasy. Start small. Series of small dreams. Put them all together. Together, the series of small dreams become big.
Dreams are aspirations to me, a reality. Professionally, I dream of making it big in the business world. I studied hard; added initials beside my name; started low from the rung; work hard for a big corporation with the partners and managers side by side, I made it. Big money, my office, a name for myself. Then reality hit. Mother died. The corporation wanted me there first and foremost. No such thing as bereavement. I woke up from the dream. Pack up, left the prestigious work, and never turned my back.
Dreams made a 360-degree turn. There is a still small voice in my head. More of a calling than anything else. Not my thoughts, not my dream. Assisi was calling me. St. Francis of Assisi. I started dreaming of walking in the footsteps of St. Francis of Assisi. I did, on my own.
Dreams keep on creeping, quietly and slowly. It carries on.
Dreams getting stronger as I reach close to my jubilee year. I wanted to visit Mt. La Verna, Italy where an Angel pierced St. Francis and received his stigmata.
Dreams visited my siblings and in-law. They wanted to fulfill my dreams and join me. Dreaming together is better than dreaming alone. Having the support of family, I can reach the unreachable place, La Verna.
La Verna is out of my league. It requires private transportation and situated on top of a mountain. Too remote for public access.
When a good thing happens, there is always evil force that thwarts our path. The car we rented, an Alfa Romeo, to travel to La Verna went up in smoke as we exited the gate of Assisi. It’s easy to give up when plans go wrong, however, we persevered. The car rental delivered a replacement. Too much time has passed waiting and we are behind schedule. Still, we took whatever time is left for the day.
Finally, La Verna.
Here I can feel the sacred ground. Here the dilapidated cassock that St. Francis wore is in the showcase. Here a woman was crying profusely at the sight and story that St. Francis experienced for the glory of his faith.
A peregrine kept St. Francis company in this isolated mountain.
In the monastery, I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. The view from the mountain top and looking down at the precipice are both spectacular and scary at the same time. Another person is present, living his dream.
Then I heard. A sound. A call. A cry. It was the sound of a peregrine. But I did not see a bird flying around.
‘Did you hear that?’ I asked the man. ‘Heard what?’ he responded. ‘Oh nothing.’ I said.
I did hear it. I wasn’t imagining it. I know this is not a dream.,
Every day before I go to bed, I pray: ‘God come into my dreams.’
Every day before I get out of bed, I pray: ‘Lord, let every step I take, I take with you.’
Photographs and Memories 