Everyone Has a Dream

By Lisa Hering, 2022

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I’m at a symphony. I’m in the audience. But I stand up, and begin dancing with ballet toe shoes on and scarves in pink and purple. I kick high and twirl and run forward. I am graceful. My long hair wraps around my face. I stand on both toe shoes and look downward, but my eyes are closed, and my arms wrap around my head as I pray. The dance itself is a prayer, demonstrating the beauty and grace of the human body. I run and jump like an antelope leaping, and a man catches me mid air and holds me in place as he walks in a circle backwards and I fly with my arms apart and my sheer scarves allow the light to pass through, showing the structure of the fabric, and its transparent nature. The music comes to an end, and I am set down on the asphalt. I dip to the ground in a deep plea-ay and cross my arms in an oval over head and down to the earth. My eyes are closed and I can only see what is in my head.


I stand quickly and pirouette on one toe with the other bent behind me, he holding my hand just above my head. I spin and spin and spin seemingly for hours. I open my eyes to see the world a new. I see him for the first time as I turn to face him. We leap in circles as we smile at the newness of life and love. I bend and he twists me into a position above his shoulders where I again fly as a butterfly out of a cocoon, my sheer scarves as its wings.

The musicians are on stage in front of an audience consisting of thousands of viewers. The conductor is dressed in a black tuxedo. And I watch them play in harmony from a distance down one of the aisles. It is an outdoor concert and I watch the violins and now the flutes, and then the conductor points to the cello. But right before my eyes, the conductor changes into a raven. He has a black beak and black beady eyes. His feathers are iridescent black. He flies into the sky above, and then into the tall trees. The symphony is left on their own. But soon, they too transform into desert snags, the shape of juniper trees and pygmy pines like the ones I used to hike past. These were my friends. And now they are here again, playing for me. And the raven protects me. From what I do not know. But I am under his watchful eyes.

I begin to hike to the front. I point my toes as I go. I go in a staccato manner. Each step is timed to the music. I get to the front and climb the stage steps. I am amongst them now. I hover over one playing a flute. I caress the air above its head. I twirl to the next section. I gracefully give a bow to the clarinets as I reach out to them while tiptoeing backwards as I leave them to head to the piano. This snag is larger than the others and older. His reach is wide. His fingers nimble. I jump on top of the grand piano and roll into a sitting position as I lay my head upon the backs of my hands which are in a cradled position. I adore listening. And I think of the hiking trails in Sedona which I miss very much. Can I learn to live and love where I am? Or will I forever be missing that which I do not have? I roll over on my back with my feet straight in the air, twisting until I land on my toes on the wooden stage.

When I look up next, the musicians have returned to their human figments of my imagination. Men and women, young and old, diligently strumming professionally as great artists of their crafts. I sit next to one, a girl with brown hair and blue eyes. She is playing a mandolin. She has a proud nose and large eyes. She is concentrating hard on her music and is very serious as though she does not see me. I look deeply into her eyes. She looks deeply into the sheet music and continues playing. The music comes to an end. I stand up and twirl on one toe, the other leg bent with toe at my ankle. I spin once, twice, then run away. But she looks after me and smiles. I run to the conductor. I twirl around him. I stop in front of him while the music is paused. He hands me his baton. I am now the conductor. I can make the music do anything. I stand on both feet and look at the orchestra. I gaze at them as an entire unit of music. I raise my arms, tap the baton symbolically in the air, and say, “Let’s go!”

I point to the piano who begins a solo, but shortly I point to the strings who chime in with appropriate timing to compliment the piano. I bring both arms down hard and bring them back up high into the air and point to the percussion section. They give a strong rhythm to the melody. Then I turn to face the audience. They stare vacantly, mesmerized, entranced. Then I turn back to the orchestra, but they are gone. The seats are empty. I turn to the audience. They are gone. Their seats are empty. But he is still there. And he ballet dances to me. He graciously bows to me and asks for my hand. And as I take it, a piano key makes a sound. Then slowly, it turns into a song, a very slow song. And we twirl around and around and eventually wind down as the music box winds down. Then, a young girl dressed in sheer scarves of pink and purple reaches her hand up to twist the key on the music box to hear the song again and to watch the male and female ballerinas dance to the music. She takes the box to bed with her. She places the music box very close to her so she can see it as she falls asleep. Every time the songs winds down, she reaches over and starts it up again until she falls asleep. The last thing she says is, “Someday, I will have parents like these,” and then her eyes close with a satisfied smile on her face and she dreams of these perfect parents.

Everyone has a dream.I

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