When You Wish Upon A Star . . .

The dance form that I had been trained in is Kathak. The word Kathak means Story Teller (the one who tells a katha or story is the Kathak). You could say that all my training in all I have studied has purported towards teaching me to tell stories. I have always taken this ideal very seriously and have made it the end of all. I have wished to tell stories that would tell listeners about themselves. I have not been able to sustain the rigor of my dancing training, but I have sought to hold on to the idea of the story teller, and connected to that has been my dream of a fiction book contract. But you know what they say about wishes, though: they all come true and they are not free.


Yes. This is what it feels like when dreams are granted: the constant nervousness, the unending fear of inadequacy, the unimaginable excitement (which feels like big cats cavorting around one's innards), and the desperate need to maintain balance, to keep things real.


Yes. I have a book contract, and I only hope I will not disappoint. On the one hand, I do believe that this is what I have always wanted, that my training, teaching, indeed, my living has been leading up to this, that at least some of my stories now have a validated purpose. I remember being ecstatic for exactly four days when I first heard; but after that, this deep fear has taken home within me. I think that this fear is the price I will have to pay for this wish.


We are forever told stories of happily-ever-after, of dreams coming true, of wishes granted. These stories end there. What else is left to say, the story-teller asks. The after-story is boring, like all accounts of "happiness" are boring (just ask Tolstoy!). What is interesting is the journey to this shining gem of dream, the process undertaken, choices made, prices paid to achieve it, that we might step on the same stones to our dreams.


I would insist that the journey and process are boring. They are often accidents, not even vaguely connected to what they lead up to, and the choices are not deliberate; such a narrative would lack focus and would ramble. What happens once the goal is reached? That is what interests. I wanted to come home when my house burned and I did; I wanted a fiction book contract and I have it (if I do not disappoint). How does one figure out exactly what it was that caused this? Most importantly, how does one avoid waking up and losing the dream?


I do not mean to seem ungrateful. Of course, I am grateful. I also recognize the wonderful, unimaginable feeling that has accompanied this gift: I no longer feel alone with my story; the validation has done wonders for the stories and an editorial voice is just the infusion of freshness my stale stories have needed, something I had not even realized until I got it. I love the absolutely new perspectives opening before me, like the revolving doors for Walter Mitty. The possibilities seem endless and instead of feeling defeated or diminished, the editorial feedback has given me a focus and an excitement for working on those stories; I actually look forward to the work. I cannot believe that my stories merit this serious treatment!


The popular adage advises that if one meets the Buddha, one should kill him; life (and the journey) are more important than achieving perfection. What if one could actually avoid killing the Buddha and begin a new road? That is the process that would interest. That is the story that would need no sub-plot. That would be a story of true courage, since I don't think I am the only one who is enveloped with this dark fear once the euphoria of a granted wish evaporates.


This post goes out as a validation of all fears, especially the ones that form the dark shadow of a granted wish. Perhaps we need these fears as much as we need our dreams; they provide depth to otherwise single-dimensioned ideals. I will try to study the face of these fears so that I may understand the actual nature of what happens when a star grants a wish.

Patronus!

Give me a ghost, a ghoul, a witch any day. Lonely evenings do not frighten me. Rats? Disgusting,yes, frightening? No. Spiders are fascinating, not frightening. There is only one being that elicits uncontrollable screaming from me, and that being is organic, mortal, and weighs a fraction of what I do; but the thought of this being on my hand is unbearable.

Fear amazes me. I realize that fear is the most primal feeling, undefinable as it is unmistakable; insubstantial like the wind, but solid like a typhoon. The world bows to it, yet it is often the axis mundi of our horizons, a compass. In fact, I have willingly circled my home with poisons, like spells, to keep away undesirable insects. One strong dream is enough to send me running around, checking bank balances, or shutting windows and doors, or plunge into boxes in quest of objects which MUST be found. I HATE to admit this, but Freud does have a point about fears defining who we become.

I see the cats learning, unlearning, and otherwise navigating fears as they step around with caution and deliberation, unwilling to explore terrain with hind legs, as they get used to sofas and shelves that form the landscape of my house.

My daughter, who is unafraid to speak her mind, can happily live on her own, and remains unfazed at prospect of harrowing journeys across time zones and date lines, even she holes up in the only place she feels safe, her room. If an unwelcome bug flies in the window, she believes that her closed door will keep it out. Likewise for all movie ghosts and ghouls that frighten her.

When I was young, I remember the best cure for all that frightened me: the voice of my father. I knew, then, that if I only called or screamed loud enough, he would speak, sometimes only a word, and the world would turn back to the recognizable familiar, everything in place, everything explained with a name.  Now, I have shlokas that calm whatever restlessness haunts.

I wonder, now, in times of fear, what my father's solace must have been. He often used to tell me to order myself to think of some happiness, plagued as I have always been with strong, concrete dreams. I suspect my father was not the only one to counsel their restless child thus; this might be the reason why the idea of a Patronus is so easily grasped!

My sincere gratitude goes out to my father for righting my topsy-turvy world with a mere word. I thank him for banishing and diminishing my fears, for giving my sword light in all manner of darknesses, for filling up  my dreams with the sound of his voice so they never bleed into my waking worlds.

Something scared me today, frightened me enough so I forgot myself momentarily, and behind a closed door, I ordered myself to hear my father's voice saying my name; I produced a corporeal Patronus and my Potterite readers will know what a big deal THAT is!

Happy Fathers' Day, Daddy!