When I think about my family, my relationships with my husband and my son, I think about a song I learned when I was a child. I’d heard it over and over again on television, and when I was in the third grade I heard my school was doing a production of the musical that the song came from. I told my teacher I could sing it, and she asked me to sing it for the class. So I did, and the whole class laughed. Probably because I didn’t sing it like a third grader.
My teacher took me to see the music teacher and had me sing it for him. I got the lead in the show, probably because I didn’t sing it like a third grader. They even changed the name of the character from Dorothy to Danny, so I could play the part.
I’m not sure what they heard in my voice. I didn’t know then what was meant by “dreams that you dare to dream,” but I understood the longing that I heard in that song; the wish to be transported to a place where there were no dreams I didn’t dare dream, and where there was no “supposed to be” to live up to.
Ten years later, I had dreams I didn’t dare to dream, because I knew the price of dreaming them. And I understood even more about that longing for a place that was far away from the “supposed to be” of my reality; an impossible to attain “supposed to be,” and a penalty for not attaining it.
And I discovered the burden of those dreams deferred. The didn’t explode so much as they grew heavier and more painful to carry, until they exacted a price greater than the price for daring to dream them.
So I dreamed them, reached for them, pursued them; never stopping to think where I might end up if I reached them.
More than 30 years later, my son heard that song, and I told him how it was the first song I sang for an audience. That night he asked me to sing it to him when I put him to bed. And I did. I think even that third-grade me joined in. I kissed him god night, went downstairs and kissed my husband, sat down next to him on the sofa, put my feet on the coffee table, and held hands with him while we talked about our respective days, our son, our family, our plans, our future.
I realized then, that those dreams I dared to dream had come true, and that I’d reached that place I longed for, where there are no dreams I don’t dare to dream and there is no “supposed to be.” There just what is, and what is is what’s “supposed to be.”
The dream and the destination have come together in a more beautiful way than I could have imagined.