The Pipe: Dream Space

Dreams take up space. They make a home in your heart, and reside there for a time. Sometimes they pass away, like friends you know you'll never see. And sometimes other dreams, like new friends, come by and make life exciting again. And sometimes, like old friends, they come back after a while, and you strike up a conversation you never thought you would have again.

Let me tell a story about myself. I was in high school, in a place that was so terribly out of touch with my inner landscape. I read books like an addict, devouring imagery and story and character like a starving child. I particularly liked books about fantasy and science fiction, because it was about things that never happened in Vulcan, Alberta, Canada. The middle of nowhere. I like books about fantasy, because they always had some farmboy character that started out where I was at, young and naive (and from the middle of nowhere), and through his adventures became strong and powerful and honorable.

I also was a cabin leader during the summers at a camp I had gone to in my childhood. I had begun the painful journey about understanding the evils of the world, the real life evils, through camp. I had campers that were difficult to deal with, kids that wouldn't listen and would commit bizarre acts, like trying to spray one's self with the fire extinguisher (no flames were present), randomly hitting people, and kids that would run away. I seemed to attract them, and through the many camp experiences I began to see that I could not ignore the pain that was present in their lives, and their inability to articulate it, or do anything about it. I knew then, in a way that I couldn't myself express at the time, that I wanted to be their witness. A witness to the stories you will not necessarily hear on the news, a witness to stories that usually don't have happy endings, a witness to things that would make your ears bleed.

And I also began to write, while in high school. I wrote fan fiction. Which, over time, became better fan fiction. I wrote essays that pushed the boundaries of my vocabulary, essays that would provoke my teachers to discussion about something other than the bland political facts that were being shoveled into my brain. I learned that I love Shakespeare, especially speaking it aloud, and especially Hamlet.

Finally I began to love coffee, an attraction that began in away only it could, in Germany, in Europe. My first drink, alcoholic, was a Cafe Amaretto. It was also the first experience I had with espresso. Luckily, my attraction was to the latter, not the former. I had many coffee shop discussions with passionate German youth, my own age, about politics, religion, and everything in between. We stayed past closing in coffee shops, the owner watching with a merry gleam in his eye. I wanted to be that owner. I wanted to provide that place where words could be bantered, and the lattes free flowing, and closing was when I decided to.

I took part of a writing program offered to high school students through the University of Calgary. It was called (W)rites of Passage. Clever, no? We were encouraged to write fiction, poetry, or creative non-fiction. I immediately chose fiction, and pondered over the subject. My first inkling came from a discussion at camp. If I had a superpower, what would it be. Being the bleeding heart that I was at the time, I wanted (among other superpowers), the ability to be an empath, to feel other's emotions, and somehow transmute them (for good or ill). So, I began to write a short story. I wrote. Then I wrote some more. Then I realized it was close to the deadline, and I had written no short story, but a novella. Some 22 pages of times new roman 12pt font. Completely original.

There was a crowd of people, mostly family of the students that came to hear, that listened to an excerpt of that short story. It was official, we were told. This was an academic conference, and having present papers at it, we were officially published authors. Oh man, I felt it. It was a glow that I could have all my own. It was one of the best moments, day, of my life. Apparently, people even liked it.

So. I entered into university, on a degree that combined Business and English. Business for that coffee shop I would someday own, and English, so I could develop my writing. It was a beautiful dream, and my first year of university was bliss. It was a dream that I had.

Can you hear the "but"? But, life happened. I had a series of bad experiences once I began living on my own. I had some really good ones too, but they were intermixed with a story of addiction and broken hearts, and a search for a purpose. I became convinced that I should become a doctor. I thought that it would be the best thing that could do with this mythical "potential" I was told that I had. I appropriated the dream for myself with others. And for a time it flourished. I struggled though. I struggled with school, I found science hard. I found it harder than anything else that I had put my mind to up to that point. It didn't come naturally to me, like the way that words sometimes can. I had to force myself to learn things that I couldn't see a reasonable end to learning them. I failed a math course, when I never failed a course in my life. And I was too stubborn to see that this dream took up too much space.

I gave up the life, with its unpredictability, of becoming a writer. I traded in one dream, set it aside for later, promising that I would come back to it after I was done being a doctor. And for a dream, being a doctor is a good one. It's intoxicating, I love House and Grey's Anatomy. I love hearing the expert words they speak, their quick judgments saving lives. I love the idea of being a doctor. But I hate having to learn to get there.

Intuition is often how I approach things, not concretely, not sequentially. I come upon things by the sides, around corners. I struggle with pushing details through my cranium. I can't encapsulate them and cage them, and set them in a row. So learning math is as hard as learning another language for me. Learning biochemistry is like living in another country. I can do it, but at the cost of an effort that takes a lot out of me. And it would herculean for me to do with an A grade.

So I'm realizing that as noble a dream being a doctor is, the rest of my life suffers. My art, as poor and scarce as it is, would wither while I pursue that dream. My relationships with people would be sacrificed. Time would (and has) become a thing I could never have. Sanity would probably be left behind.

And realizing that, saying it verbally, has lifted an immense weight off my shoulders. I've been thinking about letting this thing go for over a year. I've been wondering if I could do it and still be the person I want to be, and now I know.

And now I can have a conversation with an old friend.