Babies, those little stars that begin with a twinkle in someone's eye. You leave the doctor's reception room proudly bearing a sign that sparkles "Just Pregnant". Your dream takes on the hue of girlie pink sugar and spice, or boyish blue snakes and snails. The toilet bowl becomes your best friend and you fall asleep in your oatmeal.
For nine months I gobbled and growled my way through pregnancy complete with morning sickness and the sleepys. My giant tummy grew according to rule as did the miniature person I carried inside. I envisioned a tiny star pirouetting in pink. While I dreamed, she jumped and kicked. Her movements so incessant that she presented herself bottoms up.
Aside from being breech, she was in all respects a perfectly healthy baby girl. But in a moment all that changed. Because of the clouded judgment of a drunken doctor a tiny life was broken. His desire to party in spite of being on call, his late arrival, and his neglect to do a cesarean put me and my baby through a critical ordeal. In his devil-may-care state of being he literally tore her feet first from my body, stretching her delicate spinal cord in the process.
Being a first time mom, I already found myself on the fault line of unfamiliar territory but with the declaration delivered to me that day my world caved in. My little ballerina would never dance. Cotton candy tutus and taffy satin slippers would be replaced by heavy metal braces and rawhide leather straps.
My tinted pink dream collided with hard, dark truth and fell broken and lifeless at my feet. Pieces cut into my heart like shards of glass. The sense of loss I felt and the harsh reality ahead left me empty and confused. My dream was coffined within dimensions of disappointment and buried beneath the cold soil of sorrow. Mournfully a piece of my heart and soul were laid upon the coffin like one would lay down a spray of flowers; a silent tribute to the death of my dream.
I am older now and since that day I have found the hope and strength to continue to dream. A few have taken root and flourished. Some were a "passing fancy" as my mother would have called them. But none were like the shooting star that appeared incandescent but never danced. That one, rooted deep in hope left me to agonize its absence and ponder its purpose.
But whether fancied or hoped my dreams compel me to look ahead. They define direction for that secret recess within my heart that dares to envision an aspiration. Whether abruptly terminated or timely achieved they cause me to reach for a star and rise to a challenge. And for a time the incense of the image surrounds me and lifts my spirit
In my dreams I find a motive to believe and achieve some great expectation. I realize the remarkable in my life. So, I will keep dreaming. Keep journeying toward those secret aspirations, challenging goals, and more than mere theories that cause us to revel in hope, and frolic in the fulfillment of a dream come true.
And if my dream slips away like grains of sand through my fingers, I will let it go. I will allow it to fade away peacefully and drift toward Heaven where expired dreams rest in the hands of the Dream Maker. And in my darkest night when I gaze up at that heaven I will imagine my dream dancing with the stars.