Where Buried Are the Dreams that Died

WHERE BURIED ARE THE DREAMS THAT DIED

By A. Garcia-Wiltse

There is a valley by the Rio Grande – once green and lush and vibrant in every way.  Where time -- for generations past -- nurtured and sustained its rich brown soil – its luxuriant fields of grazing grass and amazing crops that blossomed and bloomed under the incubating Texas sun.  It was a valley of life – of hope – of promise – where native tradition, custom and ritual competed with the richness and beauty of nature’s legacy – and of nature’s boundless wonder.

And these fields and prairies – meadows, savannahs and pastures that once enshrined the delta valley in its pastoral allegory of vestal dreams of paradise – now but a reservoir -- of mangled, tangled and discarded dreams – and of distorted, twisted and abandoned traditions, customs and rituals -- smuggled across the flowing Rio Grande when once dreams did sprout from grains of hope, of faith, of human aspiration.

But gone the faces of my past – my heritage – my legacy -- that used to radiate the glow of anticipation and expectation of what laid beyond the river’s edge – and beyond the green and untamed horizon – where golden rays of sun illuminated the promise of olden legends – myths – tales – and fables – of a land beyond a river of dreams.

The once magical valley of dreams -- and of what could be – now a valley of memories – and of what once used to be.  Empty spaces -- vacant places – shrouded in weighted vestiges of time -- burdened by the pain – the struggle – the sorrow – the sacrifice – of striving and dying to make a dream come true.

My roots entangled in this bastion of beauty and of splendor – but without the dreamers and the dreams that brought the magic – that brought the wonder to a valley by the river’s edge.  And left but reminders etched in stone -- like sentinels of time.  Waiting —watching – guarding -- the spirit of a time – a place – a dream – abandoned and forgotten by those who cannot recall – or choose to disremember – the heritage and the legacy of those who sowed the grains of hope, of faith, of human aspiration – that time has left to wither and shrivel and die – in hearts and minds that want a piece of the American Dream – without the pain – the struggle – the sorrow – the sacrifice.

I can but pity those who have chosen to forget their roots -- and the dreams of those who stepped beyond the river’s edge – and into a valley of despair, deceit, disparagement – not for a season, but for a lifetime.  To paraphrase Thomas Paine, “What we obtain too cheap [or easily], we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value.” 

How can I not but admire the dreamers who once dreamt of me – and their patience, courage and perseverance for nurturing and sustaining through all the seasons of their despair -- their hope, their faith, their aspiration – not only for me – but for generations yet to be.

Gone may be the faces of my past – my heritage – my legacy – but their inspiration, anticipation and expectation remain within the dreams that still wake me in the night – to assure me – to secure in me – the courage and the strength to persevere – and believe again – in the wonder, the splendor and the magic of that valley along the Rio Grande.