I remember waking to the first rays of the sun gently caressing the undulating leaves of the tall tree outside my window.
I remember looking around me with a smile and knowing it would accompany me all day. It just felt like one of those days.
I remember looking across the room at the new painting I had ensconced on the wall the previous night.
I remember walking up to it and sighing at the wonder of it. That painting was, to me, the best example of utopia.
Each brushstroke told a story. The colors and movements were so vivid and life-like, I could almost feel the breath of wind rushing from the trees and running into me. I was sure if I listened hard enough, I would hear the water gurgling its merry way down the hill. But the painting was more than just what the eye could see. I loved it for the promise it offered of the perfect world.
It spoke of a land where humans were innocent and free of evil designs. It conveyed the hope of a home we could yet achieve where chaos and terror didn’t reign supreme. It revealed a world where animals roamed free and weren’t hunted to extinction. It created a dreamscape where the horizon was a stunning union of the earth and sky, and not one of smog-filled skies. It embodied the best of man and nature, and the anonymous artist had rightly named it ‘Eden’.
I remember lifting my hand up to feel the picture, and wishing I had the power to transport myself into it.
I remember feeling the rough patches of paint on the soft pads of my fingers.
I remember looking at the frame housing the painting and wondering how the wood came to bear so many scars. Did the frame have to win battles to protect this hidden Eden – this last reminder of what once was and could be if we, humans, just found our way again?
I remember feeling the prick of a sliver of wood from the frame…
And waking up!
I remember sitting up in my bed and looking eagerly out the window for that first ray of sun. All I saw was the struggling joy of a morning sky already dampened by the smoke of exhaust pipes.
I remember looking across the room to the wall holding up my painting. All I saw was an empty wall looking blankly back at me.
I remember my dream.
I write it down for you today. The painting may not have lived to see reality but the hope of it will exist as long as this word picture remains to speak of it. So, people, spread the word. Tell the world of what can be.
Remind them so that, even if not in our generation, the next one can see this dream of the perfect world come to fruition.
Remind them that long ago and far away a dreamer had a dream, and she dreamed of Eden.