From the Deep

I love the Olympics. I enjoy watching athletes push themselves to the boundaries–and beyond–of what they can do. I appreciate the years of dedication and hard work culminating in this pinnacle of competition. And most of all, I love the stories that emerge of the sacrifices people have made to participate in this ultimate experience.

I heard one such story last night. Watching the pairs figure skating short programs, I heard the story of Yuko Kavaguti, a skater for Russia. Kavaguti, Japanese by birth, trained in skating and dreamed of being coached by Tamara Moskvina, famed figure skating coach who has coached a number of Russian pairs to Olympic gold. As the story goes, Kavaguti sent a fax to Moskvina, requesting that Moskvina become her coach, and that brash act resulted (I’m sure after many other steps) in Moskvina saying yes.

It also cost Kavaguti. For Moskvina to coach her, Kavaguti had to become a Russian citizen and compete for her new country. Scott Hamilton, himself an Olympic champion and now Olympic figure skating commentator for NBC, said “How many people defect to Russia?” Some people in Japan are calling her a traitor.

But now, with her partner Alexander Smirnov, Kavaguti stands in third place in the pairs figure skating competition. Gold is within her reach.

Obviously, this girl is talented, and to reach her potential, she had to take risks and make sacrifices. As gifted people ourselves and as parents of gifted children, we know what this is like. I remember telling the principal of our neighborhood school, who is also a friend of ours, that we were moving our children from his school to a new charter school. I felt like a traitor. But since that time, I’ve seen my children rise to the challenges presented to them. We’ve defected for excellence.

I know many of you have made similar choices. While the world may never understand, we have to do it. We have to go for the gold in our lives, for our kids’ lives, no matter the risk, the sacrifice, the misunderstanding.

Thanks to Yuko Kavaguti for the inspiration. It may be small consolation, but she has gained a fan in me.

She walks onstage, a middle-aged woman in clean, conservative clothes and a less-than-stylish haircut, and the judges and spectators have visible reactions: eye rolls, smirks, exchanged “knowing” glances. You can feel the collective “You’ve got to be kidding me” vibe. The judges smugly interview the contestant, and she answers them with honest, even saucy responses. She seems good-natured and oblivious to the fact that the judges and audience members have settled themselves in for some good ol’ schadenfreude: taking pleasure in the pain of others. They’re anticipating enjoying her failure.

Then the music begins, and when she opens her mouth to sing, what comes out astounds everyone: a strong, clear, beautiful voice that gives pathos to the song “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables. The judges’ faces soften, one’s jaw drops, another rises to her feet mid-song. By the time the woman sings “Now life has killed the dream I dreamed,” everyone in the theater has risen in standing ovation, some of them wiping tears from their eyes, the kind of tears the come from deep within you when you’ve heard something profoundly transcendent.

This scene, which happened recently on Britain’s Got Talent, has rocked the Internet, and Susan Boyle, the woman from some far-off village in England, is becoming a household name. You can see her triumph here. 

I’m not sure why her story is taking the world by storm, but I do know why it has affected me so deeply. I watched a woman–slightly quirky, not the cultural ideal of beauty–take a large risk. She took it in the face of tremendous ill-will and opposition. Yet she has a gift and a dream–a gift and dream she has carried since she was twelve years old–and finally let the whole world see it and be blessed by it.

If you are a gifted person and/or have gifted children, you know the risk it takes to allow that inner light to shine for the whole world to see. The opposition can be fierce and unfair. Marylou Kelly Streznewski, in her book Gifted Grownups: The mixed blessings of extraordinary potential, says it like this: “One is not allowed to enjoy accomplishments, but one is not allowed to be average either. Somebody always seems to be waiting for you to fail so they can gloat” (p. 39). 

So we and our children have two choices: 1) to shine and risk failure and opposition; or 2) to hide, blend in, and deny ourselves. Perhaps we can walk the line somewhere between the two and feel the constant tension of it. But no matter where we are on that line, we are to some degree allowing life to kill the dreams we dream.

But what do we really want? To deny ourselves forever? Or to let our gifts give birth to our dreams? I personally feel inspired by Susan Boyle. I want to take risks to allow the brilliance within me to shine–to experience possible rejection and failure but also the potential to provide a transcendent moment for the people around me. Maybe they’ll laugh, maybe they’ll scoff–and maybe, just maybe, they’ll be moved to experience the more within themselves too.

Today in the United States we celebrate the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr., a figure in our national history dedicated to civil rights, to equality for all. Had he lived, he would have turned 80 years old on Jan. 15 of this year. On August 28, 1963, King delivered his famous “I Have a Dream” speech in which he shared his great hopes for us all:

• “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’”
• “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”
• “I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.”

It’s official. Time has been called, the death certificate has been issued. I’ve let a dream die.

Actually, the dream had already been brain-dead for awhile. I just pulled the plug. Why not? After expending so much energy keeping the ventilator running–the dream didn’t have the courtesy to die after I’d pulled the feeding tube–I was haggard, tired. Plus, I’d come to acceptance. This dream was never going to live. Even if it did manage to survive off life support, it would be only the shadow of my true dream. Better to let it go peacefully into the night.

And so I mourn. I mourn what once was…what never was. I feel an empty space where the dream used to live. I notice its absence at the dinner table. Sometimes I feel as if it still lives, as if I were to turn my head at the right moment it would be standing there healthy, vital, fulfilled. I could experience what I’ve always believed would happen. Then I realize it was only the wind in the trees taunting me, and I feel the loss again.

Yet I’m no longer chained to the bedside of a dream that will never live. I don’t have to spend my time in a stuffy hospital room, hoping. I can walk into the light of day, feel the sun on my face and the breeze on my cheek. And while I sense the space the dream has left in my heart, I feel lighter. I might even have a bounce in my step someday. I might walk around the path’s bend and come face to face with a new dream that may someday become reality.

That could not happen if I hadn’t let the dream die. Only in admitting the death can I live. Only in realizing the truth can I be free.