A few days every week, I drive past a used car lot in my town, home to a vintage red Ford Mustang – my dream car. Ever since I first set eyes upon that car, it became my car. I wanted to own that car, perhaps in covetous ways that a person should not feel toward any material object. I couldn’t help it, as it had laid claim to my heart.
I remember when the Mustang first hit the market. I loved it even back then. I made plastic model Mustangs. I had Mustang Matchbox Cars and Hot Wheels. Corvettes? Oh, sure, they were okay. Camaros? Sleek and stylish. But none could match my beloved Mustang. This was bordering on an unhealthy relationship.
Later in my life, during the wild, college years, my friend and I used to cruise around town in a red Mustang that his family happened to own. Our long hair (now gone forever) would flow in the wind as the 8-track player (now gone forever) blasted “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” and “Jump into the Fire” to the delight of the girls and dismay of their parents. We felt cool, probably a thousand times cooler than we actually were, but that didn’t matter. We kept the music loud and obeyed the speed limit whenever someone in authority might see us.
We did, however, turn down the volume if a black and white car was spotted, as two long-haired upstanding citizens in a red Mustang did not wish to draw any extra attention from the police. I never said we weren’t careful.
The Mustang was my youth and my adolescence. My dream was to make it a part of my golden years, too. But something happened to burst the bubble that held my dream. When I drove past that car lot the other day, my Mustang was gone.
I had told everyone about my Mustang, and how someday it would be mine. People scoffed at the idea. People laughed at me. Now, the potential for ridicule would be high. My Mustang was gone.
But people didn’t “get it.” They did not understand what that Mustang represented to me. For that Mustang was not a car, it was a dream. I did not want to own it. I wanted to want to own it. I wanted to see it there every day and think: “someday…someday.”
My Mustang was a dream, a goal, a plan, and we need these things in our lives. What is a life without a dream? What is a life without a goal?
And what if we have a dream, a goal, and we make it happen? What then? Well, it’s simple: we make a new plan; we dream a new dream.
My Mustang is gone. What will I do now? I will find a new Mustang. I will never stop finding my Mustang.
Will you find your Mustang?