I was deeply saddened recently to hear a tale of a fellow writer who after the very long, very arduous task of completing a manuscript and then (even more arduously) securing a contract with a literary agent, proceeded to pass away within a week of the latter. I'm not sure what it was about this news that struck me so. I didn't know her personally. Hadn't even really followed her story up until then. And yet. The very notion of somebody who had clawed, scratched and climbed her way out of a thought in her head and made it all the way to her goal only to have it all come crashing down around her in such a finite manner - well it's disturbing. To say the least.
It made me think about the lengths we go to when our dreams lay waiting. It made me frightened. It reminded me that life makes no promises and that we presume there's always time. We presume bad things happen to the other guy. We whisper, "There but for the grace of God go I."
And we live our dreams with blind faith. Presuming. Imagining the best, fearlessly.
Until a sad tale presents itself and then...
I'll speak only for myself. I pause and say a prayer. Keep your dreams close and your blessings closer.