Chapter 3

I was moved to see my son go to bed with his new hand-me-down shoes from his real life hero. He has an appreciation for gifts. Whatever it may be, it is a guarantee, he will be sleeping beside it at night. As I watched him sleep, listening to his rhythmic breathing, such a tiny being with a grandiose future, I began to reflect. Have I forgotten what it is like to be able to close my eyes and to enter into a place of absolute mystery? To not think about the struggles, the pressures, the demands, or the plans of tomorrow? To embrace the actual moment of the now. To relinquish fear? Fear of what? Failure? Disappointment? Success? Approval? I used to believe in the Sandman. I was excited to go to bed because the Sandman would be coming shortly to give me a dream. Perhaps it was my fascination of the 1950’s at such a young age. Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, Elvis Presley, and Nancy Sinatra, though she was more 60’s, there was a magic to the 50’s. I remember in my early twenties asking my neighbor Fred what era he liked the most. He said, “The 50’s.” As he said it, he left me alone for a moment in his living room. Though he was there sitting across from me, his eyes told me otherwise. He was there, somewhere in the newly development place of newness and excitement and romanticism of 1950. His mouth gave way to a side grin as he reminisced somewhere in the depths of his core. Then he came back. Looked at his hands holding a mass of broken dreams and images of deceased and elderly printed in time, stamped images frozen on black and white photographs. Reality. “This is not the Fifties anymore, little girl, this is a dark day in age.”
There is something distilling with sleep, with watching one sleep. It is a glimpse of the invulnerable, vulnerable and the disturbed, undisturbed. It is a place for the unrest to rest and an opportunity for the one who won’t dream to dream.