copyright © 2009 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
All of my life I have been a dreamer. Don Quixote is my adopted name. Happily, I tilt at windmills. I do the impossible. Nothing deters me, that is, unless my lack of ego strength is involved. Then, unlike Susan Boyle, a contestant on Britain’s Got Talent, I falter. A being, whose energy, enthusiasm, and personal story brought her to stage, has the courage I lack. Might it be a fear of failure, or perchance, success scares me. I know not with certainty. For now, as I reflect on the woman who wows the world, I think of how I too have dreamed, and what I did to damage, defeat, or even destroy my own ascension.
I also wonder. Will the tears I shed as I listen to her sing and watch her gracefully move through her recital wash over me. Would all that I felt, as I immersed myself in Ms Boyle’s performance, be gone before I acted on the audacity she radiates, or might these emotions help cleanse me of my own deep-seated apprehensions. Oh, how I crave to come out into the light, to as Susan Boyle stated, be given a “chance.” Indeed, for me, I know the one who never seems to provide me with what I need to succeed is me.
At the age of two, having entered school at one and one half years of age, I aspired to earn my Doctorate degree. The vision never faded. However, apprehension filled my heart, my head, and ultimately delayed the desire. Absolutely, letters of intent, and introductions for dissertations were written. Interviews with Department Chairs were granted. Conversations with Deans inspired and encouraged me. Nonetheless, excuses prevailed. Dollars could have been deemed the cause for the postponement. Other pretexts were easily posed. My dream was deferred.
Later in life, I realized, perhaps, what I truly yearned for was not as I once believed it to be. Could I compose, rather than recognize a prestigious scholastic rank. Might I follow a bliss belatedly acknowledged. I wish to write, to produce prose, to publish. This, I realize is my passion. While, unexpectedly, accidentally, I was given an opportunity I never imagined, I denied its importance. I did nothing to further my future as an author.
The one tome was widely distributed in a highly esteemed and well-known textbook. Educational Resources accepted some rare submissions. Quite a few others honored me with requests for missives on the World-Wide-Web. Appreciative, I shared many an inscribed statement, stories, and poems. Complements came and I dismissed them all.
I hoped for an authentic chance, uncertain as to what that might look like. Surely, I told myself, I tell myself, one will never come. I did not have the final, the one, the “proper” credential. Nor could I possibly pen or present a publisher with a proposal of worth.
I have read the accepted requests of many an author .who already appears in print. Some of these papers were hand-delivered by published persons who assured me, I have the potential. Only I, these wordsmiths said, could create the prospect I think must be provided.
I look ’round every corner for clues. I crawl through dusty shelves in search of a book to teach me how to market my manuscripts. I chat with those who have achieved as I aspire to do. I defend what I know hinders my growth. I turn to Susan Boyle with delight. Perhaps, one day I too will perform. I do have a dream.
I thank you Ms Boyle. You, perchance, my mentor, my muse, are beautiful, inside and out.
“Dream what you want to dream; go where you want to go;
be what you want to be, because you have only one life and one chance to do all the things you want to do.”
~ Bette Midler [American Singer and Actress]
Post Script . . .
Curious and contemplative, I wish to consider the words of the melody Susan Boyle chose. I recall the musical Les Misérables. However, I heard the song so long ago. I search for the lyrics to I Dreamed a Dream and much to my sorrow, I find words of despair. The character that chants words of woe envisions the world as a place where she is unwelcome, where dreams die, perchance before they are able to be truly born.
Fascinated, I find reason to ponder. Might this moment is Ms Boyle’s life have been her first. Could it be that she, just as I, had not given herself a chance, at least not until that night.
I recall she left the stage before a more authentic, spoken acknowledgement was delivered. She was surprised to discover the depth of appreciation for her “talents,” her being. She brimmed with delight when she was told, it is true. Her voice, her strength, the being who touched so many souls, was, and is sincerely special.
Might an occasion that conceived much within me be the one that gave birth to Susan Boyle’s dreams come true?
References . . .