For Collins—a documentary filmmaker, writer, educator, and disability advocate—such dreams were not entirely unfamiliar. Over the years, similar nocturnal narratives had surfaced with unusual intensity, each marked by a distinct variation of the same fundamental dilemma: an essential tool or key had vanished, leaving him stranded in an incomplete story. Initially, Collins suspected these recurring dreams were driven by practical anxiety, perhaps stemming from a forgotten obligation or a missed professional deadline. Yet, as he paused to examine the emotional residual of the experience, he realized that the primary feeling lingering in the waking hours was not panic or worry. It was a profound, quiet sadness—an abiding sense of emptiness that signaled the absence of something fundamental to his life.
That realization initiated a period of deep reflection for Collins, who holds both a Doctor of Education and a Master of Fine Arts degree. He found himself questioning whether his grief belonged to something he had once owned and lost, or if he was searching for an elusive state of being he had never fully attained. Neither explanation felt entirely accurate. He was not yearning for a specific geographic location, nor was he searching for a lost companion or a place to call home. Instead, Collins recognized that what he sought was a particular state of human consciousness: a condition in which he could consistently feel creative, productive, helpful, and, in a deeply philosophical sense, beautiful.
In defining that quality of beauty, Collins emphasizes that he does not refer to physical aesthetics. Rather, he envisions beauty as an active, vital mode of inhabiting the world—a state characterized by being fully engaged, responsive, generous, curious, and alive. It is a way of existing that he had known intimately across decades of professional and artistic work. As an international documentary filmmaker, musician, author, and teacher, Collins spent much of his career navigating dynamic environments across diverse cultures. His work demanded a constant openness to the unexpected, whether he was entering a classroom without knowing what insights his students might uncover, embarking on a film project with an uncertain outcome, or encountering individuals whose lived experiences challenged his understanding of the world.
During those years, life was rarely simple, and creative endeavors did not always yield immediate success. Nevertheless, there was an unmistakable momentum. Collins felt himself actively participating in a reality far larger than his individual existence, bound to others through shared exploration and storytelling.
In recent years, however, a subtle disconnect began to emerge. Despite maintaining a disciplined creative routine—writing books, drafting personal essays, developing artistic concepts, and seeking new teaching opportunities—Collins found that much of his daily life felt strangely hollow. Admitting this disconnect was challenging, particularly because, by any conventional metric of academic and literary output, he remained demonstrably productive. He continued to write extensively on topics surrounding creative scholarship, collaborative filmmaking, and resilience, while actively sharing reflections on meaning, hope, and living with disability through platforms like Substack. Yet, the work brought into focus a crucial distinction that had previously eluded him: the profound difference between merely producing creative output and actually feeling creatively alive.
It is entirely possible, Collins observed, to accomplish tasks that are objectively meaningful to others while experiencing very little internal meaning within the act of accomplishment itself. That growing divide between action and fulfillment became a central concern, compelling him to look more closely at the physical and psychological realities reshaping his daily life.
At the center of this shift is a profound physical transformation: Collins is living with progressive vision loss caused by macular degeneration. For an artist and scholar whose professional identity has long hinged on visual observation, filming, reading, and precise environmental engagement, the deterioration of his sight has fundamentally altered the mechanics of his existence. Macular degeneration has stripped away simple everyday autonomy; Collins can no longer drive, and basic tasks such as reading, writing, traveling, and navigating unfamiliar physical terrain now require meticulous planning, adaptive technologies, or direct assistance from others.
Despite these formidable barriers, Collins has refused to halt his creative work. He adapts continuously, continuing his writing projects and remaining engaged as a disability advocate. Yet, while his visual impairment has not extinguished his intellectual capacity or artistic skills, it has exerted a quieter, more insidious toll on his psychological terrain. It damaged his baseline confidence that the kind of engaged, vibrant life he longs to live remains genuinely attainable.
For a long time, Collins interpreted his persistent sadness as evidence of an internal loss. He wondered if aging had diminished his imaginative reach, if his sense of core purpose had faded, or if the passage of time had inevitably stripped life of its vitality. But further reflection revealed a different truth. The underlying desire to engage fully with the world had not died; what had faltered was his confidence in finding viable avenues to express that desire given his physical limitations.
The durability of that inner drive became striking when Collins evaluated potential teaching opportunities abroad, including prospective projects in documentary filmmaking in Pakistan and the Philippines. The mere act of imagining himself in those environments—working directly with students, exploring narrative techniques, and guiding aspiring directors as they discovered their own creative voices—instantly altered his internal state. The persistent sense of emptiness lifted, replaced by a surge of genuine excitement and enthusiasm that he recognized from earlier chapters of his career. The spark proved that his capacity for passion was intact, as was his urge to connect through direct human encounter.
However, that surge of optimism was immediately tempered by the realities of his situation. Both prospective teaching engagements remained uncertain, contingent upon institutional approvals, funding, and bureaucratic decisions beyond his personal control. Even if realized, the projects might not fully match his expectations. This tension highlighted a frustrating vulnerability: so much of his potential future seemed tentative, leaving him in a position of waiting for external institutions or circumstances to grant him permission to participate in the world.
Collins acknowledges that he does not literally need external permission to write, compose music, or generate ideas in isolation at his desk. Yet solitary production cannot fully substitute for the dynamic reciprocity that defined his life’s work. The core of his artistic identity was built on collaboration, mutual exchange, and direct human connection. Writing alone offers quiet satisfaction, but it cannot replace the immediate, reactive energy of standing in a classroom or collaborating on a documentary film set. What was missing from his life was not simply work to fill the hours, but reciprocity—the opportunity to offer a meaningful part of himself and feel the surrounding world actively respond. He sought to be genuinely needed in a collaborative space, rather than merely occupied.
This struggle illuminates a poignant reality faced by many who navigate aging alongside progressive physical disability. Retaining a powerful desire to contribute while encountering shrinking physical pathways creates a unique form of grief. Collins notes that this longing is not a simplistic desire to reclaim youth or return to the person he was decades ago. Rather, it is the desire to become the person he is still capable of being today, within a life that feels authentic and purposeful.
In examining this ongoing transformation, Collins draws implicit resonance from the insights of psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor Viktor E. Frankl, who famously wrote in Man’s Search for Meaning: “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” For Collins, the physical reality of macular degeneration is a condition that cannot be undone. The imperative, therefore, lies in adapting to altered circumstances without allowing those adaptations to morph into quiet surrender. Accepting visual limitations is a practical necessity; accepting an empty or diminished life is not.
Reflecting once more on the dream that prompted his search, Collins recognizes that he may never identify a specific missing object, nor does he feel compelled to force a neat symbolic interpretation onto the experience. Instead, the emotional clarity brought by the dream has helped him clarify the fundamental question governing his present life. He is not searching for a lost item or waiting passively for an external invitation to restore his purpose. He is seeking sustainable ways of participating in the world that allow him to recognize himself again—as someone creative, productive, helpful, and engaged.
As Collins continues his work—completing books on creative scholarship and collaborative documentary practice while advocating for disability awareness—the path forward remains an open inquiry. The prospective trips to Pakistan or the Philippines may materialize, or new pathways for local and digital engagement may present themselves. What remains clear is his determination to redefine participation on his own terms, choosing to inhabit a conscious presence where meaning is constructed not by waiting for ideal circumstances, but by actively engaging with the possibilities that exist right now.
