Anatomy of a Dream

Lately I've been contemplating dreams, those deep desires, the yearning for something that seems impossible, something that seems far away. Some dreams I've let die because they really are no longer a dream, but some still sit small and unrealized waiting for their chance and my full attention. Harlem, by Langston Hughes has long been one of my favorite poems, and the questions posed therein have prompted even more reflection: Harlem--Langston Hughes

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?

What will happen to those dreams I've deferred? The ones that I haven't let die? And when will their time come? Will their time ever come? And are they worth the effort and work? Are they worth the price, not just the work, but the price paid by my family? There are dreams for which the answer is "yes." And other's for which there is no answer…yet.