What happens to a dream deferred?

I love Langston Hughes. As the Harlem Renaissance goes, he speaks to the core of what that movement in literature stood for. A Dream Deferred always spoke to me, strangely. I remember reading it for the first time at about age 12 and thinking it an infantile piece of poetry. Only as I grew in age and understanding did I realize that such a wealth of soul, such regret, such yearning, could be packing into such a sparse piece of poetry. For those unfamiliar with it, here it is:

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

The thing that brought this particular poem, and this topic, to mind was watching one of my favorite television shows, So You Think You Can Dance.

OK, go ahead and laugh now if you need to. There. Feel better?

Watching the dancers on this show, and the magnificent work that they do, makes me think of some of my own dreams deferred, or even some that were lost or abandoned outright. One of those was to be a dancer. I danced ballet as a child, and always danced on my own, but never had the money available for the type of lessons that would get me to such a high level of ability. The exquisite ability of the human body, in concert with the power of music, combining to tell a story that needs no words.

Want to know what I mean? Watch this, and then tell me some part of you doesn't understand.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1wr42lSuo8

The power of emotion is such a scary thing. A feeling can take you somewhere you want to go, somewhere you've been, somewhere you might never want to go again. It can thrill you, frighten you, fill you with awe. All the emotion we bank is intrinsically intertwined with all our dreams, deferred or otherwise.

I thought tonight about my own life, and my dreams. Dancing, singing, performing. Writing. I've often been accused of not communicating my thoughts and feelings well, and it's a charge that is not leveled at me without cause. My heart and my mind exist in a world of words, of texture and sound and movement. My feelings and thoughts are better encapsulated in a snippet of a song than in an hour of conversation. I am my own composition of sorts, and the problem is that I have not yet found the medium with which to translate that into a form visible and accessible to others.

The best thing about a dream deferred is that it is not, as yet, a dream denied. I may not ever be a professional dancer, or have a record, or write a book. But that won't stop me from trying. I can still sing for anyone who wants to listen. I can still write whatever the spirit moves me to write. And maybe I can go take a ballet class. Who knows.

Regrets do sag like a heavy load, but we can lighten that load by finding fewer things to regret. Defer the dream if you must, but once you get the chance, grab it and don't let go. A sore that festers cannot heal.