What is your dream; the one thing deep inside your soul which brings you to tears because you want it so badly, and because it is so huge, you do not think you’re worthy of its splendor. Dreams, like campfire smoke, always seem to follow the one sitting closest.
Is your vision for something tangible, like winning the lottery, having a house on River Road, a BMW or the Job which will solve all money problems. Or is it for that which is impossible, the health of a dying loved one or your husband back?
After the death of both my parents I found two small bundles of love letters they had written to each while separated by WWII. From those special little gifts in white paper I met my parents for the first time. What I learned about both of them, they were younger than my own children are now, has caused me to redefine who they really were. That in itself has made an enormous impact on my memories, changing how I thought things were, to how they must have really been. But that is not what this is about. This is about their vision for each other, written down over 55 years ago.
After I finished reading the letters, and their impact settled in my heart, I realized that for my father, the nicest guy you’d ever want to know, every dream he wrote about in those letters, came true. The intimate thoughts and dreams he shared with my mother seem simple by definition now, but back then, just after the war in ‘45, with nothing between them but the future, everything seemed impossible. From finding a job, a place to live, to paying for the birth of their first child, monetarily, they were extremely compromised. Yet the promise he saw in the years ahead was inspiring.
This time of year, is a period of award shows and sports competitions the likes of Oscar and the Superbowl. It makes me think of little boys hoping to make ‘the team’, working toward playing pro-ball and dreaming about being a part of the biggest win. They were nothing more than little boys running down the field on Superbowl Sunday, little boys who wondered in their most private moments, were they worthy. When the statues for best in arts are awarded after red-carpet walks of anticipation, I see grown women, in mommy’s dress, with a hairbrush for a microphone, standing before their reflection in a dark window, and wishing on a star.
There are times though when thoughts of fame and fortune pale in comparison to the moments you stand at the foot of the bed of your sick baby listening for the next breath. Every dream you ever dreamed, and every imagined wish flies out the window on a pleading breeze of promising anything, even your own life, for that of your child.
But if most of what you have is okay, and your mind is able to soar above the clouds of daily struggle, what is your dream?
Speaking about the dream which washes my thoughts, and soaks into who I define myself to be, would be like wishing on a birthday candle and then telling what I wished for; they don’t come true if you tell. Some people say to write your dreams down on a piece of paper and place them under your pillow. My father wrote his down, they came true. I think I’ll try that. I will not tell you what they are but if you are reading this, you will know.