Field of Dreams

Why does it seem that when we set out to do something, the actuality of it seems forever away, and when we're finished, we look back wondering how we did it at all.

Everything we touch, hold, use, or love---was once just an idea. Had the person who first envisioned that thing thought too keenly as to his or her chance of success, it may have never happened at all. My writing started with blog postings, a way to unwind and work through things that were painful, it was a way to view my life and actions as a third party, which sometimes is painful in its revealing of the past and past actions that weren't good choices.

 People said "You need to write a book" and I put it off with the excuse of "after retirement". Part of it was (insert Dr. McCoy voice here "Jim - I'm a doctor, not a writer!") But honestly, the thought of writing an entire book wasn't just daunting; it was flat-out frightening. I pictured it in one of those $5 bins at the bookstore, spent brass of the heart that no one wants to pick up. I pictured the sound of the critic's crickets, or worse---their scorn.

But I did it anyway. 7 books later, 5 #1 bestsellers, 3 major literary awards and I still show up at book signings looking around like I expect a “real author” to show up, then I just dive into the cookies, pour a cup of coffee, and share my dreams. Without dreams, there is nothing to do but wait to die.

My parents fell in love as teenagers. World War II interrupted their wedding plans but they wed on his return from England, so many years later. Dad told very few stories of those times. All I have of those lost years is a stack of letters, written in the years he was overseas, carefully held together with a ribbon. Reading them feels a little like eavesdropping, as you can almost hear the words as they formed---heartfelt, intimate.

I open one; it is just one single page, and I think of the way their day stopped at the brink of it. In these letters bridging the time and distance they had to be apart, there was talk of how much they missed one another; of how their families were faring; of good coffee and how Dad missed vegetables from the farm; of burning heat and a cold on the field that would murmur to your very bones. There was playful affection, there was unstated passion and stated promise. Some were in Mom's flowery script, the rest in Dad's meticulous, indomitable hand. "Is everyone there well?" Mom would ask, and Dad would reply that they were, though some were now only well beyond Lamentations.

Dad never imagined that he would not come back, he never told himself that they would not be married, would not have children, would not make a life. Even in times of great battle, he held the final prize in his hand, never doubting that it would come to be. He watched over that dream as our Father in heaven watches over us, his creation shaped out of the primal absolute that contained nothing and all, knowing we are equally as capable of being ruined and being saved, but believing we will be saved, as to believe anything else is to perish. 

We all have our dreams, just as we all have our fears. My husband was, and is, a gifted musician, a prodigy as a youngster. He performed with a symphony orchestra in Austria before he was 18, offered a university scholarship to study music. He wanted to be an engineer. He still plays, well enough to make me cry. But his passion is creating---inventing things out of form and void, and steel and noise, things that touch his brain and his heart---for what the heart holds becomes our only truth.

I talked to my father every night in his last years. He did a lot in his life, Golden Glove Boxer, Veteran, Freemason, father. One night I asked him what was his biggest regret, and what was the one thing he was glad he did. What he said was his regret was: "That time in my 20's I spent $5 on hair growth tonic from a bald barber", and he chuckled. What he said he was most happy for surprised me until I understood what it meant. He said. "I'm glad I loved and lost Gracie" (my mom).

But it was not because he was the one that physically remained after she died, but because he was glad that he had followed his heart, not his good sense. Because if he had not, she would not have become the one he had to grieve over, because he chose to abandon the idea of them.

Those of us who have lost a furry family member understand. Though we hate that deep hurt of loss when it is their time to leave us, we have no regrets about the months or years with that soul, if offered a choice now to change the experience. So many precious memories; so much love, we would not have experienced if we'd not dare to dream that dream, of making them part of our lives. So as you look around your life this day- think of things you'd like to hold onto, picture flesh and blood, wood or glass, cat or dog, paper, or plastic. Do not think about all you will risk to get it. Do not think about how long it might take, or even if it will be what you expected. Do not think about what happens if you get it and lose it one day.

I look at a photo of my parents on their wedding day. Dad in uniform, my mom wearing a beautiful dark suit. They look both innocent and immortal, even if slightly amazed to be saying those vows after a great War separated them for years.

On my table, I see a violin, worth more than my first home. I carefully put it away, for in a few hours my husband will be home and that table will be littered with all manner of tooling bits and mechanical drawings and plans. They will lie next to a small pile of books to be autographed and mailed for an animal shelter auction. Across the floor are strewn countless toys of a new rescue dog, one surrendered because she wasn’t physically “perfect,” I look at her bowed legs and funny gait, and all I see is her heart (and the remains of a slipper).

I don’t have the vista of the open plains that was to be my dream home, I have the skyline of a major city. Yet, the sun still dawns just the same here, with a first ray of light out of the east that darts fleeting and faint through uncertain clouds, a portent of daylight and thunder. I wouldn’t trade this view of life for any amount of planned perfection or the promise of only sunny days. All these things are objects that print the often-silent mold of our dreams and desires, as easy to be ignored as small fairy feet, when they are magic indeed. - LBJ