Big Believer
Returning to myself and the buried dreams within
As we packed an overnight bag, not even 48 hours after returning from Portugal, I fought exhaustion, listlessness and bittersweetness- along with a case of the “I don’t wannas”. But my first baby sets off on his dream today, and even if I didn’t WANT to drive 4 hours, what I wanted even less was to miss out on the realization of a manifestation and intention he set for himself as he watched a docuseries on Disney 5 years ago called “On Pointe”. He was still at the “newborn gazelle” phase of dance and I doubted he’d even make it through local dance classes, let alone to New York, but he declared “I’m going to go to SAB someday. I know it.” And today, he’s entering their 5 week program. A stone’s throw, and a single year away from being eligible to be asked to study there year round- the feeder school for the New York City Ballet. A life at Lincoln Center, nestled next to The Met and Juilliard. I’m more proud than I can say. And also, embarrassed. Embarrassed I ever doubted him. Embarrassed I somehow became the woman who said she believes in dreams, but also lost her belief in their ability to come true.
The truth is, I’ve been in a season of growing the dreams of others, and I think- I know- I’ve simply forgotten about mine. I’ve been shrinking to fit spaces I don’t even care if I’m in, and forgetting to show up in places that were meant for my special brand of magic and skill. I forgot what it was like to be a dreamer because I’ve been so busy being a doer.
As we pulled up to the Hotel Beacon last night, I felt flooded by the weight of my ancestors. Beckham and Shaun felt it too- their own guides covering them- and we all entered the city exhausted and lit up. Home, somehow. I imagined my grandma as a young girl, walking those streets, skipping gym class to play piano, as she would, her mother singing on the corners of streets, drawing a crowd, as she would. I thought of my grandmother in her early 20s- hardly any money to her name- meeting my grandfather at a cafeteria in midtown; 10 dates in as many days only to be separated by 2 years and a war and ultimately wed on the longest night of the year on Pineapple Street in Brooklyn after an erratic return and a simple request that if she still didn’t smoke (she didn’t) and didn’t swear (she did), the man she had never seen out of uniform (and likely wouldn’t have married if she had) would marry her. I thought of my great grandfather, Charlie- my grandma’s father- a Russian immigrant who was a big believer, a caretaker of a mostly sickly wife, and a tap dancer. Charlie was the first opening manager of the Beacon Theater- the building attached to the Hotel Beacon. I thought of what dreams he must have had, watching and organizing the shows that would come through- less than 10 blocks from Lincoln Center- and how many dreams he must have dreamt, knowing because of the time- of the world, of his life- they were unlikely to come true.
And then, I thought of my Uncle Craig. The last time I slept at this hotel it was with my entire family to see the test revival of my first favorite musical, “Ragtime”. My parents were supposed to have joined us, but called an hour into our drive to let me know they were diverting to go to my uncle who was sick, in the hospital. Craig hadn’t been *well* in many years, but he wasn’t sick, either. He was a flirt with the edges of life- a comic, really- but still seemed a touch invincible and immortal. But when I woke up that morning, he was gone. I felt the reverberation of the ancestors that day, too; my grandparents seemingly sending a battle cry out that they were once again holding their baby, and we left New York faster than we came to it.
We walked up to our “apartment” at the Hotel Beacon, where I have frequented enough to have a friend in the bellhop, Victor, and it was like remembering who I was. The sky was ablaze with pink and that blueish gray purple that you only see during the most spectacular sunsets. And I wept. I wept for the dreamer I’m ushering to his dream at Lincoln Center. For the dreamers upon whom every dream he has have been built. I wept for the dreams I forgot were still buried inside of me so as to not risk being “too much” for people and spaces that are simply, not enough. Or, at least not mine. I wept for my mother, wishing she were here for the magic, too, but appreciating her being with the boys, as her New York stories and dreams flooded into me- this was HER home too; the place she came at the start and at the middle of her careers and life to overturn the stones, no matter how mossy. She is the ultimate dreamer, my mama. She teaches me that heartache should never hang around for long, and that wild belief should pulse through you like the drum of an orchestra playing your overture. That it’s never too late. That it’s never too big.
Today, we drop my baby off. I’m ready. He’s CERTAINLY ready. I’m in awe of him. And grateful to him. Because what he’s doing, and what he’s forced ME to do by doing it, has shaken something in me and reminded me of who the fuck I am, by boldly standing in who he is:
I am Isabeau Miller. I am the wanted daughter of a line of anointed creators and adventurers who co-create worlds that are worthy of the beauty they end up attracting. I’m a story teller. I’m a believer. I’m worthy. Safe. Protected. And ready to chase the dreams I’ve always held. The ones that have always been and will always be meant for me. I’m carried by the past, anchored in the present and boldly and curiously heading towards the future. With my son leading the way.
What a gift. What a life. What a needed and cherished reminder that no matter how long it’s been since we’ve seen ourselves, we’re still in there, just waiting for the dreamer to come home. And, I have.
