Blog-friend Sian posted today about the poem He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by W.B. Yeats. It reads:
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
I found the poem touched me, as a parent. Because I've been thinking a lot about how the children grow. And whether they will ever appreciate or understand or be touched by all the dreams we have for them.
Because last week, while helping my boy study for the art history part of his sculpture final exam, I realized that some of what we have done for him really did sink in. Even though at the time, he looked bored and annoyed that we were dragging him all around the world. Because he would rather be home with his friends or playing play-station than wandering around Paris or Budapest or Prague. But then, while discussing Frank Gehry, he said "I remember we walked by that dancing building all the time in Prague, and we saw the Disney Music Hall in L.A." And later, when explaining how Dale Chihuly had a "full ride scholarship" to Murano, he recalled our visit to that island near Venice and also the Chihuly sculpture he had seen in Seattle last summer. My boy, the soccer player, had something to say about Rodin, too, and Deborah Butterfield. Because we dragged him through those art museums and cities all around the world. Because we spread those dreams beneath his feet. And now, it seems, they've given him wings.