What's in a Dream?

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes

I remember memorizing “A Dream Deferred” in high school. It’s been one of those poems that I couldn’t forget even if I tried. I never dreamed the words of Langston Hughes would seem so significant to my own life.

Over the years, I was asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I remember distinctly that the answer changed depending on who asked the question and what my interests were at that point in time. I’ve espoused the desire to be a lawyer, a psychologist, a foreign language translator, and a business owner at one time or another. The only one of those things I’ve done is run a business—and it wasn’t a success by typical societal standards.

Lately, I’ve been reevaluating my dreams. Mostly because I’m not currently living what I would call my dream. I feel like I’m in limbo. Stuck, even.

Like most people in the world, I have this tiny thumbnail picture in my mind of what my life should look like right now. My thumbnail picture looks nothing like what reality looks like. In fact, I have multiple thumbnail pictures. There’s a house, a car, the family, even the pets. I even have a thumbnail of what I look like. And what I do on a daily basis.

The reality is none of that has come to fruition. I’m a good 75 pounds heavier than my thumbnail picture in my head. My hair is nowhere near stylish. Usually, it’s in a ponytail, a braid, or the messiest messy bun you’ve ever seen.

My house isn’t the classic historic farmhouse of my dreams. You know the one—it has large windows letting in tons of natural light, a long front porch with rocking chairs and a porch swing, and a screen door that squeaks and slams when it’s opened and closed. It also has a large gourmet kitchen with a built-in cooktop and an oven built-in to the wall.

But that is the dream. Reality is I live in a tiny house that is a whopping 396 square feet. My kitchen doesn’t even have a regular stove. I cook on a two-burner hot plate. I use a toaster oven, a microwave, a crockpot, and an air fryer. I also have a roaster oven that my mom gave me. The tiny house isn’t bad, don’t get me wrong. But it isn’t the farmhouse I always pictured in my dreams. And the reality is that I will likely never get the farmhouse I’ve always dreamed of owning.

Our tiny house has three tiny windows. We have a composting toilet. We must walk next door to my mother-in-law’s house for a shower or to do laundry. We’ve been here a year, and until this summer we didn’t even have running water. Now we have cold running water in the kitchen, but I must heat a kettle to have hot water for washing dishes.

I remember pretending to be Laura Ingalls when I was a girl. I never dreamed that I would grow up to live a life remotely like hers. We do have some modern conveniences, but dedicated lights are not one of them. Neither is hot water.

A little over a year ago I got a car I really love—a Nissan Juke. I had been looking for one for a while, and we finally found one that was within our budget. Moving across state lines has made it so I can no longer drive the car I love. Was it my dream car? No. But it is a good car.

My dream car is a muscle car. Sporty. Fun. Fast. Not what most people expect to see a girl like me driving. Most people think Mustang or Challenger or Camaro, but nope. That’s not even what I want. I want a Barracuda. If you ever saw the show Nash Bridges, he drove a ‘Cuda. That’s the car I want.

I always dreamed of having a houseful of children and grandchildren surrounding me, laughing, playing. A house full of love and laughter. I have children, and they’ve started to have their own families. But they aren’t coming back home like I had always imagined. I guess my dream doesn’t align with theirs. Of course, my dream also included providing a home for children who didn’t have a home otherwise through fostering and adoption.

I wanted to be the house where all the neighborhood children felt welcome. The house where the kids gathered for their afternoon snacks after school and homework help. Where the children felt safe. My kids, their friends, the grandkids, and their friends. Any and all children.

The thumbnail in my head included a beautiful yard with flower gardens and a vegetable garden. Never mind that I have a brown thumb. I guess I thought I would magically be able to grow all the things I found to be beautiful and the food that would keep us all fed.

While we’re still looking at the thumbnails of my dreams, let’s look at the careers I thought I would be capable of having for myself. At one time I was bitten quite hard by the acting bug. I thought I had a voice worthy of performing on stage with a band or solo. I wanted to learn a variety of foreign languages and become a translator. I wanted to pursue a degree in psychology—specifically child psychology—and open a practice that worked with children in the foster care system.

I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I got a degree in education that I never used in my own classroom. Unless you count homeschooling my children. I did use it for that. Those were the best years. The years that I spent all day every day learning with and watching my girls grow and change.

Through all those times, I seem to have lost sight of the dream. Whatever that dream had become. What happens when you no longer know what the dream is? Did the dream change or did I? At each turn of life, I’ve said, “Someday I will…” But someday never seems to come. What if someday never comes?

Truthfully, I’m not getting any younger. Maybe dreams are for the young. Or maybe, maybe my someday is just around the corner. Like Langston Hughes, I’d like to know what happens to the dream deferred.