Yellow Brick Road: Dreams

Atop Oz Hill

The Land of Oz, Yellow Brick Road, and aspiration are all synonymous with a teen fictional character named Dorothy. She walked her long road just once and eventually reached her goal--returning home to her beloved Kansas. 

Dorothy's struggles played out in a dream state; our aspiration struggles played out in real life. Over and over, for 18 years... similar to Bill Murray's Groundhog Day, a 24-hour time span that repeated and repeated. Fortunately, our days were not insanely identical. More like the biblical Israelite people, aimlessly walking in the desert for 40 long years, but many of their aspirations never realized. Forgive the Debbie Downer, but most died never seeing the Promise Land.

The Yellow Brick Road's journey can feel endless at times; but, with a little faith and a lot of bigger-picture reminders, one can survive unscathed (with no lingering smoke smell, like the three biblical survivors in Daniel 3's fiery furnace). Their ordeal left no scent of toxic responses, like cynicism or sarcasm.

It may sound corny, but our "road" related to praying for THE dream job for my ambitious husband. To use his courageous heart, mind, and passions in a career where he is best suited. I am biased, but I believe he is gifted, IQ-wise. Brainy. For years we envisioned a dream job that was potentially a misfit. It didn't happen. We semi-retreated for a long while to study our navels and take time for needed reflection. In hindsight, we could have experienced the Peter Principle, jamming a round peg into a square hole. 

Around age 45 is when our career grooming and prayers began, zeroing in on one narrow type of promotion. Yet, after years of quiet preparation and waiting, we were passed over. Invisible. Even Loyal Toto needs affirmation other than a dog biscuit every so often... yet, our bubble dramatically burst, high and dry. That was 1,824 days (a day was subtracted for leap year), or 5 years ago. But, who's counting?

All it takes is complex math to figure out our ages now. Old enough to throw in the towel without ever seeing our prayers answered. Old enough to semi-retire and live out the rest of our years in the same pleasant city, eventually fully retiring, after being a part of a larger organization that graciously provided us finances and purpose for a combined 50+ years. Riding off into the silver-lined sunset, with co-worker friends singing "Happy trails to you."

But a funny thing happened on the way to pondering those swirling thoughts. A new job possibility presented itself. A meaningful opportunity. What's the catch? (Dorothy was required to fetch the witch's broom, so there MUST be a catch). It involves sifting through and packing possessions (dishes, pans, tools, clothing, toys, etc. acquired during 40 years of marriage), to sell our dream home; moving away from familiar and affordable Midwest to foreign and pricey East Coast.

Our tweaked dream job is in a city miles away; a long 12-hour drive from everybody and everything familiar. No longer an affordable, spur-of-the-moment solo car-drive away from those we love and cherish, but a draining drive or a pricey flight. 

That is the catch. That is the kicker. For this unbelievably impacting opportunity.

As I fumble to open a new box of toothpaste, a startling thought comes to mind: When I open the next new box (in probably 3 months), we will be living in a land far, far away.

I am fearful, about the entire moving, re-situating, and community-building process. However, fear-fueled sounds better, because this move is not about us. We dare to adapt and dream, for an ever-more cause. No guts, no meaningful Oz story.

Tick-tock. Follow the Yellow Brick Rode. Way too much to do.