Happy is What Happens When All Your Dreams Come True

Have you ever thought about how much our perceptions about things change as we grow older and become more "realistic"?  Think back to when you were a kid and starry eyed dreams of what you would be like as an adult.  How many of those dreams do you still have?  Did you want to be a fireman, because they got to ride in a cool fire truck with a dalmation and run around in awesome boots in primary colors?  Did you want to be a ballerina because they were all beautiful, graceful and princess-like?  Did you want to be a CEO because you got to wear a totally awesome suit and tie and deal with premature greying?  Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my old dreams and how far I've strayed from them as I've grown older, in the pursuit for money, job stability, and fabulous shoes. 

Ah yes, the great American dream. 

I loved dancing as a child.  Some of my earliest memories include the tap, jazz, and ballet classes I took and the awe I felt for my beautiful dance teachers.  I continued in dance classes until I was in late elementary school, until we lost our wonderful instructor and got stuck with a jazz Nazi that would sit on our backs to "help" us with our splits.  To this day I wonder, if that hadn't happened, would I still be twirling on stage somewhere?  I know that I never had the aptitude to be a professional ballerina and I love food far too much to starve myself to their waif-like proportions, but why have I strayed so far from my love of dance that I never even went back to it for pure enjoyment?  While the thought of putting on a tutu and pink ballet slippers once thrilled me, I'm now terrified of making a fool of myself.

Another of my earliest childhood dreams was to become an author.  From a very young age I was writing "books" and illustrating them, carefully folding typewriter paper in half and then in half again so that pages could be flipped properly.  I eventually graduated to the computer where I would sit in front of the keyboard and painstakingly hunt and peck for each letter, typing the story I'd written in my spiral notebook or on the offering envelopes at church.  I "published" my sister's poems in a book for my mother--a collection of colored paper bound together in a plastic report cover.  Soon I was writing plays for my friends to perform, or staging productions with Barbie dolls and cardboard boxes.  I had no fear of whether or not anyone else would praise my work, because it wasn't work, it was just what I did for fun--for me. 

When I got to high school writing began to be work.  What had once been so easy and effortless became more difficult to find pleasure in, and by the time I reached college my papers had become formulaic.  I had been affected by criticism about my writing and I was no longer doing it for me.  I learned how to write for other people, not to grow as a writer, but in search of that ever elusive A+.  Then on a whim one semester I took a creative writing class.  We read short stories and discussed.  We all took turns writing stories and distributing them to critique in the next class.  Our teacher never graded our work based on style, technique, enjoyability--if we participated we passed, it was just that simple.  I suddenly felt that long ago burned out flicker of creativity reignited as our teacher fostered our love of writing.  I wrote a story that I felt proud of, the only thing I've ever written that to this day that I still love.  And he loved it too.  He encouraged me to polish it, tweak it here and there and publish it.  I was astounded that anyone outside of my immediate (and always supportive) family actually thought I had talent.  Maybe I could do this.  But fear once again intruded and eventually the story found it's way to the bottom of a drawer, where it's still hidden away.  (Which is ironic in of itself once you've read the story.)

I finished the course, and life overtook me once more.  There were exams to study for, papers to write, and eventually graduation and a job to begin.  I've done my job well for the past two years.  I've done my job and been utterly miserable for the past two years.  But now I can see freedom looming brightly on the horizon.  In less than 5 months I'll be re-entering the job market, starting over with a fresh slate.  I've started writing again.  Writing for me.  Writing for people like me who will hopefully someday enjoy what I've written.  I've been at a standstill since my hard drive crashed.  I haven't had access to the program I need to return to my characters lives and get back to writing, but I've felt the creativity still bubbling up inside of me, still trying to jump out onto a blank page.

I feel like I'm finally at a place in my life of which my five-year old self would have approved.  I suffocated my dreams for so much of my life and nearly lost sight of the ability to do something because I enjoy it rather than because it's the most sensible option.  I may not have the tutu anymore, but I have my dreams again.  I'll always strive to remember that the answer to fear isn't to stick my head in the sand and hide from possiblities, but to embrace the twists and turns that the future holds for me.  For us.

Comments

[Airhead]

Ang, sometimes I feel like we're living the same life in two different places. I just started writing again this morning.

[The Incubator]

Just take yourself back to that old pew with your little illustrator beside you -- be your dreams. Don't ever let anyone take them away from you --

[Steph.]

This is beautiful, Angela. And, I'm cheering for you with this writing thing. Keep going with it and whatever else makes you the most happy. You deserve it!

[M]

Funny, just spent the weekend reminiscing along the same lines.

Keep dreaming!!

[wordnerd]

This is wonderful. Don't be afraid to put it 'out there' -- if you're happy with it, that's all that matters. The rest is, as we say, 'lagniappe.'

[Fraulein N]

I'm so happy for you. I think I'm still trying to get to that point, but at least I'm working toward it. Good for you for getting there!