I have always been a dreamer. Literally and figuratively. My dreams are vivid and full of detail. I emerge from them disoriented and unable to see the line between sleep and wakefulness. Sometimes, it is not as literal. They are the wispy trails of clouds that hook my imagination, leave it soaring upwards. Dreams of flying while in seventh grade. Dreams of a life far from the homeland. Dreams of a life conjured up from books, of being a strong confident woman, with a closet full of modest, tasteful dresses and a grace beyond imagination.
Some of these have come true. Some, wait on the anvil, their expiration dates far into the future. Then there are the dreams that I dream while being awake. A faraway look in my eyes, of a future playing in the rearview of my mind. Of fenced yards, swing-sets, cheery children blowing bubbles and rooms painted lilac with towering white bookcases.
Growing up with dog-eared Enid Blyton books in which entitled children lived a life of luxury, each having their own rooms, sneaking away at midnight to raid tuck boxes and plan surreptitious parties, I crave it for my children. A life of broken rules, stolen fun and adventurous forays. So, when I raise an eyebrow to reprimand my children today at the table for licking their plate clean, I have to stop myself. I look back on my childhood and realize that half the fun is in licking that plate clean. In sneaking into the pantry to raid the raisins, in stealing that new diary from the stack that appear each new year. In sitting under that single naked bulb in the kitchen, doors closed in the dead of the night, devouring the book with a fervor before grandpa finds out to drag me to bed again.
So, I stand back and watch life play out and wonder if my children will know that dreams come true if they dream big enough?