Dreams are funny things. Whenever I want to accomplish some big exciting adventure, it always turns out to be a lot of work…And I think I can truthfully say that it’s usually the hardest work I’ve ever done.

But when I think about my best memories? They are always of events and accomplishments that took huge effort. Maybe if we invest nothing of ourselves, there can be no real return? Maybe that’s it.

When I go on my bike trip each July and my hands have gone numb and my neck feels like it’s going to snap and the mountain just keeps getting higher, I hold on to this idea of my future old self sitting in a rocker, too old to move and I’ll sit and rock and remember that I threw myself out there and went for it. And I’ll smile like an old fool and be the wiser because of it.

So now I have this dream of writing a book. Apparently it’s not going to come without some serious sweat…That’s what I keep telling myself when I sit here with my hair clenched in both fists as I try to wrestle some memory or thought on to the page. No one said it would be easy and there’s certainly not much glamour in sitting in the house all alone, but when the words line up and a metaphor floats in from a room that I built from my imagination, well, hello…one more memory for that rocker.