Life is the soil, our choices and actions the sun
and rain, but our dreams are the seeds.
Joseph Jacobson’s Diary
My name is Joseph Jacobson, though most call me by my initials, J.J. For better or worse, I’ve also been called a dreamer. I take this as a compliment. I’ve always been fascinated by dreams. Both kinds: the kind we create with our hearts and the kind that come to us in the night when our mental gates are unlocked and unguarded.
Throughout history, dreams have been a source of wonder to humanity. Some of the world’s greatest authors, musicians, scientists and inventors have credited dreams with revealing ideas that have changed the world.
Some believe that dreams are the very secret to understanding life. Others, like the ancient Toltecs, believed that life itself is a dream.
The story I’m about to share with you begins with a dream. A Winter Dream. One night I dreamt of myself walking through a dark, snow-blanketed forest. I came upon a tree covered with brilliant, colorful lights—like a Christmas tree. Surrounding the tree, in a perfect circle, were eleven other trees.
Then, a great storm arose. Snow whited out all the forest except for the illumination of the one tree. When morning came and the wind stopped, the eleven trees were bent, bowing toward the tree of light.
Whether the dream was prophetic or the cause of all that happened, I’ll never know. But for years I kicked myself for telling the dream to my father, who, for reasons I still can’t understand, chose to share it with my eleven brothers.
Excerpted from A Winter Dream
by Richard Paul Evans
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