The years have passed. Life waxes autumnal. My hair is brown now only because I visit the supermarket shelves and survey the assortment of light brown hair dye, probably for longer than I need to, before I toss a box into my shopping cart. Then I use it. I let it go gray for a while. It was pretty, but my brief and current foray back into professional life prompted me to maintain the facade. That’s not a really good sign, is it?

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams 
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

I kept that on my desk when I worked at the Chatham College library. I was devastated, working in a library again, my dreams of being a professional flute player shattered, but only around the edges, just chipped away at. The icy cold heart of my ambition remained intact.