FOR YOUR DREAMS

Dear Spike:

You've had bad dreams before, of course. We know this because you sometimes wake up screaming or crying. Sometimes you sprint into our room and leap into our arms, you tiny body shaking in our embrace. Other times you just simply sob softly in your sleep.

But you've never been able to explain your nightmares to us before. Not until this morning, that is. That's when you came, sobbing uncontrollably, to your mother and explained that you had dreamed that she made food for me and none for you.

I can't explain this dream. And I can't even explain to you why we have bad dreams at all — although psychologist Antti Revonsuo has an interesting theory: He suggests that nightmares serve the evolutionary purpose of allowing our species to "rehearse" for facing various threats and in so doing prepare us to better face those threats in real life.

I suppose I can see some logic to that hypothesis inherent in the terribly sad dream you had this morning. We don't fret as much as we once did about your weight, but everytime you find a friend on the playground who is your same age I am reminded of just how very small you still are. Food is important for everyone, but it is especially important for you. I promise that we would never forget to feed you — let alone purposefully ignore your needs, as you dreamed this morning — but I guess I can see how preparing for this threat subconsciously would be worthwhile in a Darwin-meets-Maslow-meets-Freud sort of way.

But fear defined is no less frightening, so even if that explains the reason for your dreams, it certainly won't make it any easier to wake up in a cold sweat with your heart pounding and your fists clenched as tight as clamps.

I understand. I have bad dreams, too. Every night, when I close my eyes, I see death and sadness and evil and emptiness. And so I don't get a lot of sleep.

There are, of course, just two things you can do when confronted by fear: You can run from it, or you can face it.

And when you can muster the courage to do so, face it.

Face it because, when you do, you'll likely learn something about yourself you didn't know before.

Face it because, when you do, you'll likely find that many of your fears are not so frightening as you once dreamed.

Face it because, if you don't, you'll just have to keep running.

And, if for no other reason, face it because I so often have chosen not to. And I know that I am no better for all the running I've done in my life — just more tired.

I'm sorry you had such a bad dream this morning. I hope you won't have the same dream again.

But if you do, when you wake up, your mother and I will be here to hold you. And then we'll make you the biggest breakfast ever, just so that you understand: Dreams are just dreams. And every bad night deserves a beautiful morning.

Love,
dad

UPON THE MOON

Dear Spike:

When I tell you, one day, that we went to the moon, I wonder if you’ll think I’m just sharing a story.

This is, after all, a once-upon-a-time tale. And it has been since before I was born.

Man’s first small steps on the Sea of Tranquility came on July 20, 1969. Our last giant leap came on Dec. 7, 1972.

Since then we’ve sent hundreds of astronauts into orbit. We’ve dispatched robots to explore Mars. And we’ve built telescopes that can see billions of years into the past in hopes of learning something about our future.

But we've never returned to the moon. Nor have we made any substantial movement toward sending someone to Mars — which was largely considered to be the logical next step when the Apollo program ended.

So it’s still uncertain what that future holds for us outside our own orbit. Space exploration is dangerous and expensive work. And, alas, we have so many pressing problems here on Earth.

Yet I will not tell you not to dream of running on the moon. I will not tell you not to hope to take that next great leap to Mars. And if you seek to soar beyond our solar system, I will not tell you it cannot be done.

You can do anything. I know this to be true.

Because there was a time when we decided we’d walk upon the moon. And when we went, the world stood still to watch. Hearts raced. Imaginations soared. Untold dreams were realized. And untold more were born.

Perhaps it’s true that we have lost our way, a bit. But there is nothing that you have ever lost that you cannot find once again, if that is what you want to do.

Yes, you can do anything. Yes, I know this to be true.

Because, once upon a time, we walked upon the moon.

Love,
dad

OF A DREAM

Dear Spike:

Today will come and go for you like any other.

The sun has not imploded. Gravity has not been upended. The sky is still the sky and the land is still the land and the sea is still the sea.

Today is just another day for you. And, in the very grand scheme of things, for all of us.

But it does not feel that way. No, today it feels as though the entire world has changed.

Today, a black man has been elected as our president.

You are still very young, but at some point in the next four years, you will come to understand that there is someone in this nation we call our president. You won't at first understand how he came to be who he came to be. You won't know precisely what he does.

You will simply know him as a photograph. As an image on the television screen. As a name spoken on the radio.

And when you come to this very simple understanding, the man you will know as your president will not look like any of the men that preceded him as the leader of our nation.

But you will not know that this is special.

For you will not know — not for a few more years, at least — our nation's great shame. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we held people in chains and sold them as cattle and kept them as property. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we kept people from voting and sent them to sit in the back of the bus and told them that they were not human enough to eat at our side. You will not know that, at one time in our history, we hung people from trees.

Thank God Almighty that you will not know. Thank God Almighty that when you come to learn these things, you will learn them as history. Ancient as the pyramids, I pray.

You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children of many races, colors and creeds. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children belonging to parents who look like your parents and who do not. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will be learning these things for the first time, too. You will come to learn these things in a classroom full of children who, like you, will not know that the ascension of a black man into the White House is in any way significant.

For as far as you will know, that is how it always has been.

As you grow you will come to know that our shame is not so ancient, that our wounds are still quite fresh. You will learn that there is still so much work to be done.

You will learn of a dream not yet realized, of a check still not cashed.

Do not be dismayed.

Listen to me, my child: The world can change.

I know that it is so.

Love,
dad

MY HEART RACED

Dear Spike:

When I was a little boy, I suffered from a condition known as night terrors.

The problem is common with children. Just the other day, my good friend Matt and I shared our childhood war stories. His dreams got so bad that his mom took him to the doctor for medication. Mine were so bad that my mom, convinced that I was possessed, started searching the yellow pages for an exorcist.

Everyone has bad dreams, but those described as terrors usually are limited to children between the ages of 2 and 6.

Very occasionally, though, I still will have a dream that causes me to bolt upright in my bed, sweating and screaming.

I might have had one just last night, in fact.

Here's all I really remember: A loud 'thump' in the middle of the night — and a flash to your tiny body, lying on the ground outside our bedroom window.

When I shot up out of the bed, screaming, I could see that our window drapes were stirring in the early morning breeze. Before I could rush to the window, you're mother put her hand on my back.

"It's alright," she said. "Everything is alright."

I turned to see her, lying in bed with your little head nestled up against her shoulder.

I sighed.

But my heart raced on.

I've been scared before, lots of times. When I was a boy, maybe 9 or 10 years old, I couldn't find my little brother for a period of several hours after school (he'd gone to a friend's house without telling me.) When I was a young man, maybe 19 or 20, I lost control of my car on a narrow mountain road (the passenger-side wheels went off the edge of the cliffside, but fortunately the car stayed on the road.) And when I was in Iraq, a few years ago, I dove under the relative safety of an un-armored Humvee as rockets crashed down all around (two men died that day, but I walked away unscathed.)

But nothing — absolutely nothing — scares me like the thought of losing you.

It took quite a while to get back to sleep, last night. And even when I did, it was a restless slumber. When I awoke, this morning, my heart was still pounding in my chest.

There's a great risk, we take, when we fall in love, for it is all too easy for a child to get lost, for a car to go off the road, or for any of a number of life's many paths to lead us into uncertainty, danger and death.

But there's a great reward that comes along with these risks, as well, for it is our worry and our fear and our terrors that illuminate our love.

And when my heart pounds, it pounds for you.

Love,
dad

MOVING THAT FAST

Dear Spike:

I think I was about seven or eight years old when I first saw the Blue Angels fly. The U.S. Navy’s jet acrobatic demonstration team was practicing for an air show at Moffet Field, not far from where your great grandparents live. I don’t remember much about that day, other than being completely spellbound by the idea that anything in the world could move that fast while being that close to something else moving that fast.

And I wanted to try it out.

It was a few weeks later that I blew all of my toy money on a blow-up, blue A-4 Skyhawk fighter in an elementary class auction. Somewhere around that same time, I picked up a Blue Angels ball cap and a poster for my bedroom.

I’m not sure how long my fascination lasted, but it couldn’t have been more than a few months. My parents used to joke that I moved from ambition to ambition every week. And indeed, I can distinctly remember desperately wanting to be a firefighter, a soccer player, a preacher, a teacher, a professional wrestler, a dolphin trainer, an astronaut, a gymnast, a pool hustler, a comic book artist, a graphic designer, a bar tender, an architect, president of the United States, a physician, an archeologist and an inventor.

Oh... and a rapper. (Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.)

Most of us don’t get to do all the things we dreamed about as kids. And as children, we scarcely can imagine all the things we’ll do as adults. The career I finally settled upon has taken me to mountain villages and desert warzones, to the tops of the redwoods and the bottom of the ocean, inside the minds of the most depraved criminals and into the lives of the most devoted families.

And so, in trade, I’m quite content with the knowledge that I’m unlikely to ever visit the moon, design a skyscraper or body slam a 350-pound goliath. (All those other things, I’m still holding out for — including being a rapper. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.)

The truth is that life takes us in many strange and wonderful directions, cutting paths that render old dreams obsolete and make new dreams complete.

And sometimes, just sometimes, those paths collide.

Today was one of those days.

I almost turned down the opportunity. I pride myself on writing news that means something when it is painted into the great big picture of our world, and I just didn’t see how I was going to do that in this instance. Still, I had no other plans for my Monday, so I accepted the invitation of a local Air National Guard unit to fly with the crew of a KC-135 Stratotanker as they refeuled the Blue Angels, which were making a cross-country trip from California to Florida.

I don’t wow easily, but staring out the tanker’s tiny window at those shiny blue airplanes was a pretty amazing thing. I’m told we were doing about 450 miles an hour. And we flew at that speed, wingtip to wingtip, for a good hour.

For one morning, I was moving that fast while being that close to something else moving that fast.

I guess what I’m trying to tell you is that it’s probably not a bad idea to hold onto a dream or two...

... or ten or twenty...

... you really never know how or when or why your old dreams and your new dreams might collide.

But they just might.

(Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.)

Love,
dad

The Number 29

Dear Spike:

I turned 29 a few weeks ago — happy, for the first time in a long time, to accept the gaieties with which we celebrate birthdays in our culture. Thank you for giving that back to me, by the way.

The symbolism of 29 was not lost on me in the jocularity of the occasion, however. In our nation, 29 is the age people say they are for many years after turning 30 — and for some, many years after turning 40.

It is the last year of youth — or at least it is the last year in which you can get away with “being young.” According to some, it is the last year you can be trusted. And partial to all of that, it seems, it is the last year you can dream.

Truth be known, I turned the figurative corner on 30 a long time ago. I hope you inherit the same sense of responsibility and early maturity that your mother and I both possess. But I also hope you learn to balance those traits with a desire to maintain a sense of youthfulness in your life.

To put it another way: Don’t grow up too soon. For if you do, far sooner than it should, the world will get small. People will become predictable. And though your path may be richly scenic, as mine has been, it will feel worn.

Reality will set in. And dreaming will be relegated to sleep time.

So it goes.

A few things struck me this week — realities I’ve known to be realities for quite some time but seem to have been calcified by the number 29.

As it turns out, I’ll never be an astronaut. I’ll never be a professional soccer player. I’ll never be president of the United States.

I won’t be an airplane pilot. Or a steamboat captain (there are not too many of those left anyway, but no one bothered to tell me that when I was first introduced to Mark Twain.)

I won’t win an Oscar. Or an Emmy — not even a “Daytime” one.

I’ll never be 6 feet tall. I’ll never be built like Lou Ferigno’s Incredible Hulk. And I suppose I’m never going to get my hair back.

Let me tell you: It doesn’t matter.

Maybe I won’t visit Antarctica. Maybe I won’t discover a new planet. Maybe I won’t sail around the world.

And yet, I don’t think I’m done dreaming. And I don’t think I’m done being young.

Thank you for that, by the way.

Love,
dad

WHEN YOU SLEEP

Dear Spike:

Sometimes, when I watch you in your cradle, I can see your eyes moving under your tiny eyelids — an indication that you’re deep at sleep and dreaming.

And I wonder: What does someone so new to the world dream about?

For all we know about the universe, our own dreams remain a great mystery. And the dreams of infants — virtually impossible to study — may be one of the greatest mysteries of all.

But I like to think that when you sleep you simply dream of beauty.

Of a sound you’ve heard or a color you’ve sensed. Of the taste of milk on your lips. Of the texture of your blanket.

Of songs and sounds and soothing voices. Of the sun on your face. Of your mother’s breath on your neck.

As you learn and grow, your dreams will become more complex. You’ll dream of places you’ve been and things you’d like to do. You’ll dream about people you know and feelings you’ve had. You’ll dream of who you are and what you’ll be.

Sometimes you’ll have nightmares.

But maybe, once in a while, you’ll simply dream the dreams you had when you were very small and very new to the world. Maybe, you’ll simply dream of beauty.

And I hope you do. We should all dream of beauty — when we’re asleep and, especially, when we’re awake.

Love,
dad

SO IT GOES

Dear Spike:

The first time I can recall being deeply saddened by the death of someone I did not know was in the summer of 2001, when the great bluesman Johnny Lee Hooker died.

Even though I had only just recently become captivated by Hooker’s music, and even though I had not yet been through his more than 100-album canon, it struck me as calamitous that the world would have to settle for what Johnny Lee had already written.

Two years later, I remember mourning over the loss of Frederick McFeely Rogers — a man my entire generation came to know simply as Mr. Rogers. At the time that he died, I had not watched his television program for many, many years. And yet I could still sing along with every song — and still can today.

Kurt Vonnegut’s death this week at the age of 84 was saddening for me in several similar ways.

Like Hooker, Vonnegut lived such a rich and prolific life — leaving the world with a vast collection of novels, short stories, essays and speeches — that fan of his work though I am, it is unlikely I’ll ever fully exhaust it. And like Mr. Rogers, his work will continue to echo through my soul.

My relationship with Vonnegut was a long and intricate affair. I was introduced to his work, as many millions of American readers have been, (and as I imagine you will be,) in high school with the assigned reading of Slaughterhouse Five. Smitten though I was at the time, I did not actually fall in love with Vonnegut’s words until a few years later, when I came upon the short novel Mother Night.

For me, each page of Night was a vaguely drawn treasure map — a starting point for an expedition, through my own mind, that sometimes had little to do with the experiences of the characters in the story. It’s been 10 years since I first read that novel. I can think of no work of fiction that has more greatly informed my life.

At some point, I became familiar with Vonnegut as a humanist and peace activist. Not the sign-carrying, drum-beating, chant-calling sort, but rather the rarer sort that looks deeply into the nature of man and ponders — aloud, so that others might ponder too — whether there isn’t a better way than war.

To that end, Vonnegut was fond of repeating the most famous words of the American socialist leader and peace activist Eugene Debs:

While there is a lower class, I am in it.
And while there is a criminal element, I am of it.
And while there is a soul in prison, I am not free.

In the final years of his life, Vonnegut often lamented that many of his fellow Americans had lost the ability to do anything more than scoff at such sentiments — as if the very notion of a world without prisons was so preposterous that it was utterly pointless to even begin a rhetorical discussion there.

So it goes.

There was a time, not so long ago, it would have been preposterous to believe that the illiterate son of a Mississippi sharecropper could become one of the most influential musicians in American history.

And there was a time, not so long ago, it would have been preposterous to believe that a shy puppeteer and musician from rural Pennsylvania would almost single-handedly turn the most powerful tool ever devised for selling breakfast cereal and action figures to children into the most powerful tool ever devised to nurture and inform their lives.

When you dream, my child, let preposterousness be the sand in your eyes.

Love,
dad