Just A Dream

   I had a dream one night. In the dream I walked along a shaded lane through a country setting. A gentle wind blew on my back and I could feel it moving my hair. My footfalls made little noise on the dusty road. It was a narrow, unpaved road. Every little bit of distance I would pass a small cottage, most of them pretty, idyllic places. Some were white, some were yellow or other colors. I passed one white cottage and saw a lady sitting in the living room at a piano. She was playing beautifully, her long white fingers gliding gently over the keys. I paused on the road and listened. It was so lovely that I almost wept.
    She began to sing songs as she played them. Many of the songs she played were among my favorites. As I lingered, enjoying the moment, she glanced my way and saw me outside the window, which was open. I was still in the middle of the road, but as I was only 20 feet away and her windows were open, I could hear her plainly. She immediately stopped playing and blushed red to the roots of her hair.
    "Please don't stop!" I said with deep feeling. "You play and sing so wonderfully!" She shook her head in the negative, then stood and walked out onto the porch.
    "I can't play or sing in front of others. I just can't."
     "Why not?" I asked. She merely shrugged and walked back in doors.
    Disturbed beyond any logical proportion, I walked on down the road. I can remember that, in this dream, I felt both elevated by what I had heard and crestfallen that I would never hear it again.
     About a mile down the road, I came to a boy who was sitting under a big oak tree. He was scribbling furiously into a notebook and didn't notice my approach. The funny thing was, he didn't just write, but  he was saying the words out-loud as he wrote them. It was an adventure story of such interest and quality that I listened, fascinated as he expounded. It was a tale of swords, bravery and romance that spanned many years and peoples and lands. I was so caught up in it that I forgot the time, the place and the fact that I was eavesdropping. When the boy stopped writing, I came to myself and saw him staring at me in irritation.
    "What are you doing here?" he demanded. I just smiled.
    "Evidently watching a lad write, and obviously he is a lad that is one of the world's great writers." The boy broke down and wept. I asked him what was wrong.
     "I can never allow anyone to see my work, lest they mock me." He ran away into the woods and left me to resume my journey.
     My sense of loss now reached burdensome proportions. As I went on, I met many others. Their gifts encompassed a multitude of skills and qualities. There were inventors, designers and heroes. With each one it was the same. Their special abilities were largely or totally limited in their use.  
         Eventually I came to a crossroads. In the middle of the convergence of two roads stood a robed figure. He was tall and dark, with a kind face and longish black hair. He motioned for me to halt as I approached. I did so, expecting him to ask for directions.
    "What interesting things have you seen on your journey?" He said, with a keen flash of his hazel eyes. I answered honestly.
    "I have seen a covey of the most talented people in the world, whose talents are used only in solitude. It is a great waste and a travesty of justice, of life. I can scarcely bear it." Then I began to weep. I felt his strong hand on my shoulder.
    "Go in peace. Know that for most people, dreams are only dreams."
     I awoke with a start and found it had been only a dream. I was sweating to the point that it had soaked my pajamas. I stood and walked to the open window. Somewhere far away I could hear the sweet strains of music, carried on the night air.
    "Just a dream," I muttered to myself.
    From the author's green retreat, I'm CE Wills.