I believe in dreams. Not that dreams necessarily come true, or that dreams are some sort of Freudian window to our true selves, but that dreams are real. They are rather like what we often call "media:" books, movies, TV shows, magazines, and so on. They can entertain you, they can get you into trouble, and they can be highly informative.
Usually, I don't dream a whole lot; I'm too exhausted, and the sensible part of me insists that I make better use of my time. Regularly, any dreams that sneak through are what I call "reality" dreams. I dream rehearsals and performances and homework assignments. My general reaction is annoyance. When you spend all day working with your students on their Christmas program, do you really want to spend all night with "I Saw Three Ships" spinning about in your weary brain? Sometimes, these reality dreams make trouble for me. I will dream that I had an important conversation, paid a bill, turned in an assignment, or any one of those myriad tasks on my to-do list. These dreams are sometimes so convincing that I believe I carried out that task in real life. That can be dangerous; how do you explain to your landlord that your rent is late because you dreamt that you paid it already?
In my better-rested seasons, my dreams take on a more fanciful turn. No longer do I wake up with my hand clenching an imaginary pen, greeting my alarm clock with "Music Institute, may I help you?" Especially when my days are rather free-form, perhaps spending the night at the Institute or on my living-room floor, my imagination begins to get the better of me. I have nightmares that jerk me to wide-eyed terror, convinced that I must watch both door (left of the bed) and window (right of the bed) at the same time to remain safe. Sometimes, I'll dream of other lands, magical places, where I am among heroes who can fly above every obstacle. I dream of futures I might someday know and pasts that aren't mine. When I wake with my mind whirling from those dreams, I wonder why I haven't written in so many years.
Then, there's the sort of "True" dream that seems reserved for unusual sleeping times and places. I took a long sunny walk this morning, and treated myself with a nap on the floor this afternoon. Saturdays are my day off, after all. I dreamt that I was sharing a house with a pianist friend. My parents and my maternal grandparents were visiting. The moment that I had been dreading came: they asked me to play for them. I'm not sure anyone understands how much I dread playing for anybody again. This has been a semester of challenge, not only to my ability, but to the very essence of my musicianship. I have a church job tomorrow morning, and I'm uncharacteristically frightened. Can I really play? Or am I no better than the hack I've appeared in studio classes this spring?
Back to the dream. When your parents ask you to play, you might be able to wiggle out of it. When your grandparents (both passed away years back) ask, what else can you do? I played in my dream. I played adequately at best. My pianist friend began to tear me apart, as if it were a studio class. Do I see now why she didn't ask me to play on her benefit recital? Don't I hear how awful it was? Don't I see that the best thing for me would be to quit school entirely? Eyes brimming, I looked to my musician father for his advice. But he wasn't the one who stepped in. My grandfather, my gruff, alcoholic, grouchy, beloved Grandpa spoke first. I haven't heard his voice, in my dreams or out of it, in at least a decade; he spoke to my friend. Maybe my phrasing was disorganized, my notes imperfect. Somebody else could have played it better. But there was something there, something in my playing that was special, unique, poetic. My Grandma spoke up as well -- not in the disoriented, faltering way of her later years, but with the authority of one who always knew beauty when she saw it. I was not yet where I could be someday as a pianist, but she knew there was within me the poet's heart that makes a musician. My mother squeezed my hand, and my father turned to address me. He had, I knew, specific things to direct me toward. The problem, you see, was that I didn't have the whole landscape of the piece mapped out. This phrase, for example... The real world intruded rudely in the form of the telephone, like the harsh cry of a peacock.
So, where is the Truth in the dream? I'm not the mystic Ghost Hunter type, and I never will be. That's a discussion for another time -- this one has already become far too long. What I am is the culmination of generations of poets and musicians. I come from a long line of people who see and hear beauty and grace where others ignore it. This poetic nature is the legacy of my family, made tangible in the things that they have left behind -- artwork, music, pictures, books. Beauty and truth and things of real substance, not just material.
So now I'm going to practice. I'm going to find the meaning behind the notes and I'm going to make music. Because dreams can teach you a lot.
