When Dreams Become Sentient

This is About a Boy, But Mainly It’s About Jessica, But It Takes a While

This is a story of a boy. A normal, but extraordinary boy. One with imagination and dreams like most boys.

The boy's earliest memory of it dates back to a classroom drawing at age six. The teacher instructed the class to draw anything the mind could conjure. No limits, no walls, only the edges of the paper to contain whatever he could dream.

He carefully held his yellow-orange No. 2 pencil and began. And somehow, it came out better than his six-year-old mind could fathom. He couldn't believe it. What he dreamed of was no longer just a thought. It existed in reality. Two dimensional reality, but it was here.

For the next several years, he sketched it on paper again and again. Sometimes a near replica of the first. Other times with slight variations or adjustments. Many times with different mediums, maybe crayon or paint or the fancy $100 set of Prisma Color Pencils he could use in Art Class.

At 17, he found himself in a new class—Ceramics and Sculpture—but with a familiar prompt.

Create what you want. No limits, only the clay in your hands today.

The boy was ready. He could have taken out his notebook of sketches for reference, but he didn't need to. The dream was more a part of him than it was a part of the paper. He began to sculpt, and soon, there it was. It didn't take him long. He had thought about and sketched this for years. The same thing that was in his mind before he could even speak. It was here, in three-dimensional form. His dream had taken shape.

He placed the sculpture where his teacher instructed, in line for the kiln. All that was left for this piece was the fire.

The first bisque firing strengthened the clay, preparing it for the final glaze firing. His teacher said it would be a week before it was complete.

It only took 5 days and today was the day to retrieve his piece. He couldn't wait. He walked into his Art Class and saw it. It was perfect, yet imperfect. He took out his notebook of sketches now, and couldn't believe it. What he had drawn more times than he could remember through childhood, and what was only a thought before that, now had a greater existence. He looked closely at the paper, then looked closely at the sculpture. The form was different, but the same. A little more refined and a little more formed than what the paper could reveal. He turned it over in his hands and felt the hardness of the clay. The smoothness of the glaze.

This was more than his dream. More than his drawings. He couldn't have imagined this, it was simply more.

He went home and set it on his desk near his bed. It would be one of, if not the, first thing he saw every morning when waking. He wanted to keep this dream in his view from the beginning of his day.

Years went by and the boy grew up. He met a girl, got married, had a few babies, and moved across the country. The last thing he thought he would do. But he brought his sculpture with him. It sat on his bookshelf in his office now. It had a little bit of dust on it, but not too much, because he often went through his spaces and got rid of the clutter that time leaves behind.

One day, this boy was working very hard. He had been working very hard for years. On his own for most of it. He and his sculpture, weathering the demands of the days.

Then more recently, with others. People who found him and also who he found and in turn brought alongside. He and the others worked as hard as they could. So hard that he didn't recognize it at first. The movement on his bookshelf. Like the rise and fall of breath in the deepest sleep. Slow, steady, effortless.

His dream moved. He was certain of it. He swiveled his chair and watched, trying not to blink. Nothing. For a little while at least.

But soon, something. His sculpture moved. Around two inches to its left. It moved like a snail, somehow adhering to the surface below and oozing along without the trail. He couldn't believe it. He always thought of this as possible, but never believed he would see it. He stared for a long while, willing to see it move again, but only saw stillness.

Days passed and he'd think he see movement in the side of his vision, but never as clearly as before. He would dust it regularly, polish it, place it in good light, and even offer it to others. Sometimes he would have to repair chips or cracks in it. It looked different than when he first got it from the kiln. It looked different than when it only existed on paper as a sketch by a child. It looked different than the dream he had held in his mind. But he didn't mind. It seemed, somehow, better. Stronger.

After some time (months, maybe years), the boy began to forget about that moment he saw it move, and when he did think of it, played it off in his head as a fantasy, until one morning he stepped through his office doors and there on his bookshelf, his sculpture was missing. Not missing because he lent it to someone. Just simply, gone.

He searched the office, expecting to find the sculpture fallen or misplaced. But it was nowhere. There were no signs of struggle, just an empty space where it once sat. He felt a flicker of sadness pulse through his body, but then something else. Joy? A quiet knowing? An understanding that this day would come?

Yes.

He quickly packed his stuff back up and left his office. He needed to walk, to think. He didn't know where it had gone, only that it had to go. The sculpture was never meant to stay.

Time passed. He didn't search for it, but he also never stopped noticing.

One afternoon, he sat at a café, and something caught his eye. A shape, a form. Not exactly like his, but close. The curve of the edges, the way the light reflected off the sides. It was familiar.

On another day, he saw it again. This time in a painting at a boutique in his favorite part of downtown. Not his dream exactly, but this painting was touched by it, he was certain.

And then in the work of a friend. A phrase in a song that echoed what he once had held in his own hands.

It had traveled and grown. His dream had stepped into the world, beyond him. It now had life.

And that was always the point.

Back in his office, his bookshelf was no longer simply empty, it was waiting. He picked up a yellow-orange No. 2 pencil, ran his fingers over the blank page, and began.

Time to dream.

---

This story isn't just about a boy. It's about all of us. Life is full of dreams becoming sentient, growing beyond us, stepping into the world, living on their own. It's a beautiful process, and also a very difficult one.

If you're possessive, controlling, or self-centered, you'll hold a dream too tightly and it will never become what it could be. If you're careless, complacent, or distracted, you'll never cultivate a dream into something real. If you're cautious, fearful, or hesitant, you'll never take what's in your mind and bring it to life.

This story is also about my wife, Jessica. This weekend marks the fifth Inspired Conference (I think?), and the first one she's not leading. I've seen her make sketches of this dream over the last five years. I've seen the sketches begin to take shape in the physical world. And now I see it moving and breathing and becoming, and not simply staying still on her bookshelf. No longer something that is just hers, but something alive.

I've seen the challenge of letting it change, and I've seen her joy in watching it become more than when it was just hers.

I couldn't be more proud of Jessica. The Inspired Conference is here because of a dream that she took a risk on. She envisioned it, drew it, sculpted it, nurtured it, invited other people in, and let it grow beyond.

Now she's bringing new dreams to life.
So am I.

And so should you.