Because it’s the only way to come into “the flow” …
Jacques Fleury
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
A dream… When people hear this word, it sometimes brings joy to their faces, while at other times, it evokes deep sighs and regret. This is because as long as a person lives, they dream. They set goals, take steps toward them, strive, and work hard. Sometimes, fate grants them the fulfillment of their dreams, and sometimes, those dreams remain as mere wishes—unfulfilled and lost in time.
Since my youth, I, too, have had dreams—visions that guided me, inspired me, and fueled my determination. I have worked tirelessly to achieve them, pouring my energy into every step forward. Dreams have the power to elevate a person, to make them feel like they rule the world, to transport them into a realm as magical as Alice’s Wonderland, where everything seems possible. Even now, I continue to chase my dreams—I study, I strive, I push forward.
Some of my dreams were born in childhood, while others emerged during my teenage years. I am grateful for those I have achieved. Of course, not all dreams are easy to reach. Some may seem utterly impossible, as if fate itself has placed an insurmountable barrier in the way. But no matter how difficult it may seem, one must never surrender. One must never give up.
Because a dream, no matter how distant, is always worth the pursuit.
I, too, have lived chasing my dreams. Yet, those unfulfilled dreams still linger in my heart, my thoughts, and my mind—like distant peaks with no way to reach them.
When I shared my dreams with my parents and loved ones, I often heard discouraging words: “That is impossible,” “It doesn’t suit you,” “It’s not appropriate for our culture,” or “A girl should not pursue such a path.” I faced resistance and opposition.
One of the dreams that turned into a mirage was my deep desire to enter the military. My passion for this field began when I was in school. I was so captivated by the idea of serving in the military that I often imagined myself in uniform, standing in formation, marching with pride, singing military anthems, and taking an oath with unwavering determination. I could see myself walking with honor and discipline among my fellow soldiers.
When the time came and people asked, “What career do you want to pursue?” I confidently answered, “I want to become a soldier.” I had planned to apply to a military academy after finishing school. But, unfortunately, I was met with strong opposition and countless restrictions.
Even then, I refused to give up. I didn’t want to surrender my dream so easily. I graduated from school and began preparing my application, determined to fight for my place in the field I loved. Yet, once again, I found myself under immense pressure—barriers I could not break through. In the end, I was forced to choose a different path. My dream, once vivid and full of life, faded into a distant mirage. And with deep regret, I buried it in the depths of my heart.
But that was not my only dream. There were others—many others. And for them, I have studied, worked hard, and pushed forward. Some I have achieved, while others have slipped through my grasp, turning into mirages just like my military dream.
Yet, I refuse to stop dreaming. I continue to strive toward my future aspirations with the firm belief that I will succeed. There are still so many dreams ahead of me, waiting to be turned into reality.
Lalezar Orinbaeva was born in 2003 in the Turtkul district of the Republic of Karakalpakstan. She is of Turkmen nationality. In 2021, she became a student at the Faculty of Primary Education at the Tashkent University of Applied Sciences in Tashkent. She is an ambassador for three international organizations and a member of one international organization. Her creative works have been published in Kenya, Germany, Albania, Azerbaijan, Russia, Belarus, and several other foreign countries, and are indexed on Google. She is the recipient of various international certificates. She has also founded her personal “Anthology”. Lalezar is a holder of international medals, statuettes, diplomas, certificates, and invitations. She is a professional curator of Dreams That Turned Into a Mirage.
Just walk the stones. I think it’s a nice path, and especially in lieu of the winter snow and ice and wind. See, they have gone over it with a Bobcat machine and ploughed the way. I think I even saw salt. It’s important. Like water or light or such. I go slow, slower than average. Think thoughts, whatever thoughts, and for a second because if the paver stones I remember that Cormac McCarthy said prostitution was not the oldest profession because the first thing anyone did was stonework, was laying a stone upon a stone.
What do I know though?
Continuing there is a bridge and a blackbird. The bird disappears and the bridge remains. Calm. It becomes for a time calm there. I think already that I will have to come back. Whatever I encounter after the first half, that initial twenty minutes or half-hour, is worth it. Another bridge and the off-path area is manageable then for people have walked it. Maybe the kind man in snowshoes, a few dog walkers, a couple simple friendly types who get fresh air and exercise…whatever the case, enough so that’s it’s compacted and not too rough.
I choose to go along and know that up some hills and then down some more, it will connect with the brick path again. Bricks are also known as ‘pavers,’ and they usually are laid on compacted limestone then sand is put atop and swept in. The sides often have cuts that are done with a proper machine and someone that knows what they are doing. Sometimes a ‘re-lay,’ is needed if water or just time shifts some stones. There are different designs beginning with a standard lay to more intricate patterns. Tera cotta or blue seem to be nice colours, the path then containing lots of blue and some grey. Around here beyond the path people choose just grey though. It’s not horrible, but lacks character and everything appears too uniform.
That’s the way I see it anyhow.
There is a stream, making a sound as the thawing water moves along. Then a winding way up the first hill, a straight way up another second and higher hill. From there much can be seen, and it’s bright and clean and open. I can hear car traffic in the far distance somewhere but the world is not inhabited by me then, which is a nice break, akin to a meditation or at least small spiritual sojourn.
We can’t all go to Bali or The Himalayas or The River Ganges.
There is a time from the outer world and the inner world both that dictates its halfway through and I that must begin heading back. That time comes near a bench I don’t sit on. I walk down and admire another bridge but take the longer way around, eventually entering onto the main path of pavers again. I remember that Eckhart Tolle mentioned somewhere that your mind will feel more at ease for what it’s worth, when you physically enter a manufactured set of lines and walls. This seems anathema or at least contradictory to the whole point of nature walking, of people forever having sought out mountains, deserts, pastoral plains and fields, river and stream, and the entirety of the surrounding oneself with the sanctuary of sanguine and even sacrosanct nature.
Go figure.
But, there is some weird truth to it. My feet on the pavers feel better and I’m glad to be back on an actual path. It just is what it is. I go around a big bend slowly and see nature but also tall hydro lines and neither startles or bothers me. It’s almost time to go to the final stretch to the vehicle and then home. It will be a success, for what it’s worth, and the worth is invisible to societal mores and distinctions but apparent to me. Why? Because I have moved and breathed fresh air and gotten if even vaguely, the beginning ideas for certain words or stories. Not everyone can be Cormac McCarthy, and the Tao itself mentions that they will laugh but it wouldn’t be the true Tao if they didn’t. Yes, the most one can do is sometimes walk the stones and write some poems, being as content as possible with oneself. If there is deep snow everywhere, try and find some pavers that have been cleared and follow them.
Charity pulled her pistol from her holster, aimed, fired. Her concentration (or was it reluctance?) seemed to require far too much time. Charity, our officer, ordinarily cheery Thalia, one of three Graces, a mom who runs Safety Town, summers on the playground, came when called, came with bullets in her gun.
Inside, my wife governed a raucous birthday party, distracted wild, sticky nine-year-olds with games and cake and kept them clear of windows. Outside, a doe lost all grace, flopped helplessly in our yard beneath the apple tree, her hind leg bent, merely touched by a truck. Usually, her lean, sienna flanks flashed across the lawn, leapt over fences with fawns. Our apples, old, delicious Jonathans, the deer’s delicacy, too near Berlin Road, I’ll cut the tree down.
Inside, kids oblivious, outside, Charity and I shared an intimate glance of regret, this death a loss of elegance. Charity’s gun snapped three times, a jarring, contradictory violence. In her report, Charity accounted for each bullet.
Rod
A neighbor of sorts – office next door, we shared a wall.
A seemingly amiable fellow who lectured on Respiratory Care,
Rod with the Tennessee drawl and folksy anecdotes,
Who drove a pick-up, donned scuffed cowboy boots,
Who voted Republican every damn election – though he wouldn’t fess up,
Whose schizophrenic grandson caused him to see a few things differently,
Rod, the odious, chauvinist, good-ol’-boy bastard who harassed Robin,
Who made her life a living hell until she quit
(I gave her a pill to calm down. Simply listening and nodding was useless. There’s my regret.),
Rod, who, I am unsure why, I treated decently despite our vast differences, didn’t come to work.
A stroke. I sent a card, asked after him. I heard, “Home, therapy, retirement.” That’s that. Though my neighbor, I didn’t pay him a visit, an appalling indifference.
Why needlessly confront mortality with simple courtesy?
It appears my love is not yet unconditional.
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
