I spent much of my childhood daydreaming on a bench. It was the bench of my favorite basketball court at the local park in Minneapolis.
Every day, when the fears and unrest of home began to surface, I fled. I made a habit of avoidance, like my father. I hastily put on whatever shoes were nearest my feet, grabbed the basketball out of our front hall closet and walked out the door. As the door slammed shut behind me, violent noises ceased.
The arguments between my parents had gotten so bad I feared someone might die. Anxiety crept in every day after school as I neared my home, which didn’t feel like a home.
And so I retreated to my bench. Slowly, amidst the gentle breezes and distant playground laughter, I would close my eyes and begin to dream.
My dreams started small at first, simple but elegant dances with joy. I would imagine my mother lying on a beach somewhere in silence, immersed in her favorite book. No work, no distractions or violence—only waves of water and words. I dreamt of places where my sisters and I could be free, like a field full of dandelions, where we could frolic with our pups and again feel the pleasant weight of laughter pressed against our cheeks and lips. I thought back to the memories of early childhood in Sweden and imagined myself in the middle of those youthful games with friends of old. Those days were simpler, quieter.
This bench was where I dreamt now. My bed no longer carried dreams. The colorful, fantastical sequences of my youth were no more; they just shut off one day like a tap gone dry. My eyes simply closed on one bad day and opened on another. There were no words between them, no intermediary adventures or mystical musings. It seemed my imagination was no longer willing to try when I wasn’t on this bench.
Hours passed as I let my mind wander the only way I still knew how. Staring blankly into the distance, I tried to pacify the violence in a mind once full of art and life.
Eventually, the bench held space for (day)dreams that carried more weight. I dreamt of far-off places I wanted to visit someday, like India and Kenya. I imagined a kid like me on the other side of the planet, dreams reaching for mine, intertwined by yearning and possibility. I imagined a world where peace was attainable, where everybody woke up and chose joy and compassion. As fantastical as the thought now feels, I truly thought it possible.
Dreams are perhaps the most powerful tool we all have to push forward. Whether conscious or subconscious, dreams allow us the opportunity to be truly audacious—to reimagine what’s possible for our lives and for our world.
But when I opened my eyes, often with tears trickling down my cheek, reality set back in. Fear, once again, took hold. I could feel the cool air of the chasm that stood between me and my dreams. Try again tomorrow, I’d say to myself. And I returned home, head low, often never having taken a shot.
I’m still not sure why my night dreams left me; now 33 years old, they have yet to return. It began around the days of my adolescent depression. Some have told me it’s because I sleep through them; I’ve always been blessed with deep, satisfying sleep. Others tell me there may be psychological barriers blocking dreams.
As a child, I thought my inability to remember dreams was a sign of something more sinister. My body and mind had betrayed me, found contentment in the corrosive forces of depression. I would have welcomed nightmares, honestly; at least then I would have felt something. Instead, I was forced to live out the nightmare—dreamless, dark, emotionless. It’s what I thought I deserved.
I miss my night dreams, remember the joy they’d bring me in my youth—airy and whimsical. But in a way I’m grateful I don’t remember them. Their disappearance made my daydreams more vivid. It was the only way I could dream anymore, so I never took my imagination for granted. I never stopped thinking about what I wanted my life to be. And over time, I made that possible.
As I grew older, I painted the pictures I imagined. I rendered the “unimaginable” into something habitable. I confronted the real, the tactile, the ever-present. I grew the audacity to ask bigger questions with bigger, more tangible goals.
Maybe, at a time like now, we should all find a way to turn our dreams outward. To confront it all—both euphoria and nightmare. To fully face ourselves and each other. My sleep stopped summoning dreams, but daydreams lit the fire beneath a life of purpose and made it possible to summon the impossible.
This space is part of that dream. An opportunity to express freely, and in so doing, to live, sustain, and maybe one day flourish.
Dreams are perhaps the most powerful tool we all have to push forward. Whether conscious or subconscious, dreams allow us the opportunity to be truly audacious—to reimagine what’s possible for our lives and for our world.
May we all continue to dream.
Questions for the Community
What dreams do you hold dear? What is something you would like to make possible for yourself or this world? Where is your “bench”?