Recovering dreamer

When I was younger, I was a romantic. I don’t mean romantic in the lovey-dovey sense. I mean I had big hopes and dreams. I craved adventure and true love. I wanted to move to Europe and drink coffee and write books. Perhaps most importantly, I listened to music that gave words to the yearnings in my heart I couldn’t put into words.

My Auburn roommate and I used to sit outside on our teeny porch and listen to Joni Mitchell and talk about what we hoped our future life would look like. We would drive down country roads with windows open and music blaring— Paul Simon or Counting Crows or some college garage band. We wanted to savor that fleeting moment that only comes along every so often —and mostly only to the young — when you grasp that the world is a big place, you’re a small but important part of it, and you really can do anything you want.

After college, many of my friendships revolved around music. We listened to it, talked about it, went to hear it live. I had a zip-up CD case as big as a suitcase. I was always reading liner notes to find lyrics that articulated the exact notion in my heart. When I couldn’t put it into words, U2 or David Gray or Josh Ritter could.

Fast-forward a few years and I’m married with children. My life is full and chaotic and incredibly blessed. I have no idea who Florence and the Machine is, or Bruno Mars or Drake. Instead, the “No More Monkeys” Pandora channel is in top rotation. The only CDs I have are kids’ music. Liner notes—what are those?

I still think about that young, idealistic girl I used to be, the one with a tune running through her head and a heart almost bursting with hopes and dreams. I assumed she was gone, replaced by someone more mature and grounded, less apt to be carried away by flights of fancy.

Then I get in the car to drive by myself to Atlanta for a baby shower. It starts raining and I get tired, so I turn on some music. Before long, the music is so loud I can’t hear the pounding rain. I’m singing, but I’m also remembering not just who I used to be, but also dreams that are still buried in my heart. I remember hopes and yearnings that didn’t disappear now that Jack Johnson sings about Curious George and sitting on the back porch means playing house and drawing with sidewalk chalk.

At the shower, I found myself talking to two girls holding their small babies. After some polite conversation, they started asking questions. Nursing, how long to wait before having the second child, feeling overwhelmed. I answered honestly and encouraged them as best as I could. Their questions made me long for my own two children tucked into bed and my husband waiting for me at home.

The day was a strange mixture of the woman I am now and the romantic girl I used to be. I am 100 percent sure I am exactly where God wants me to be; otherwise, I would be somewhere else. But I was so happy to run into the girl who used to turn the music up, roll the windows down and dream big dreams. I’m glad she hasn’t totally disappeared. All I needed was a stretch of highway, some good music and time to remember.

Lauren can be reached at LaurenKDenton@gmail.com.