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Illustration by James Wood

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I’m not prone to bouts of sentimentality. In my family, anything reaching in that direction was denounced as sentimental, the word said with a sour turn of lip. The epithet was used whenever spotted. Even a field of yellow chamomile on a humid summer morning, rendered in oil pastel by my mother’s own mother, was derided.

This was my family’s way of speaking truth about saccharine simplifications. Life wasn’t simple, art wasn’t simple. Art was supposed to say profound things. In a song, on a page or framed, it showed or otherwise expressed experience viscerally. Fine art was never simple – it could never smack of anything “twee.” There was always a thorn on the rose, a snake in the grass somewhere. Maybe you needed to know how to look at it, but depth was always there. As students in art school, we debated what qualifies as art, and now I hear my own students carry on the same debate.

I’ve been learning to play piano lately, and while working through a book of lessons and music for adult beginners, I bumped up against Over the Rainbow by Harold Arlen and E.Y. Harburg, made famous by Judy Garland in the 1939 MGM movie The Wizard of Oz.

The song begins with “Some – where …” Do you need to read any more than the first word to hear the swelling music in your head? To imagine the singer with a far-off look in her eye, feel a sympathetic lightness in your heart?

I slumped on my piano bench and sneered to myself, “What’s this sentimental syrup doing here?”

I flipped the page. Maybe there was a different song – something less candy-coated further on in the book I could try. Maybe I was done practising for the day. “Come on. Get back here. Give it a try,” I said to myself. “You may not love it, but you want to be able to play the piano for yourself, to entertain others – any song, any exercise will help you achieve that goal.”

“Geez, oh man. Okay, okay. I’ll try,” I sighed.

There is a fair amount to master in the song; by no means is it easy. I don’t have big hands, but still, my fingers are all crowded around middle C. I know the tune, but still I try to count the beats to get the timing right.

As I played, I discovered the harmonies are quite lovely – even if they occasionally suggested (to me) the (ever-tacky) timbre of a flugelhorn. But it was the words that caught me:

“Somewhere, over the rainbow, skies are blue / And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.”

The dreams you dare to dream. Hmm. Not just any old, everyday dreams, the ones you hold close and dear, and don’t tell anybody about. Those ones, those precious gems – over the rainbow, those ones do come true. Wow. That’s mighty hopeful.

“Somewhere, over the rainbow / Bluebirds fly …”

Okay. Makes sense. How do I get there, I wondered, but I kept on playing.

“Birds fly over the rainbow / Why then, oh why, can’t I?”

Ouch. Reality bangs against the window.

I’ve never taken the time to hear the lyrics, to learn the words, to really pay attention. There are some childish words and thoughts about troubles melting like lemon drops, but sitting there at the piano, playing the music, trying to sing the words – it got real. Why can’t I find that wonderful place? Tell me.

“If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why, oh why, can’t I?”

To me, the song is heartbreaking. It is beautiful. My eyes suddenly hurt, but I laugh instead. Gaping sadness. There is something I want so much, isn’t there? Something I could have, just over there, in a place that the puny, innocent bluebirds can reach, but I can’t. I won’t ever be able to.

The song is like a sucker punch wrapped in a perfect, fluffy white layer cake with sugary icing smoothed all over. It draws you in, then knocks you down. And what’s left? What comes after? You have to drag yourself off the floor, clean yourself up and realize the truth about life, about dreams, and about what is really possible.

But what are my dreams: discovering true, uncomplicated, rich love that doesn’t skimp on passion? A house on a hill whose panoramic view could humble any landscape painting? A flashy car parked in the driveway? A sailboat at the marina where, on a whim, my love and I could pack a picnic and sail away for an afternoon or escape for all of August?

Some of us live in worlds where anything is possible. For others, it might be possible with a little extra money, with a connection or with an education. But for me, it’s not all possible, and many dreams won’t ever come true. I don’t believe in a world of dreams, of symbols, of clicking one’s heels together and speaking magic phrases to make things happen. In many ways, I wish the world worked that way, but I can’t believe in that. For me, it’s not real. I’ve stopped wishing.

But what’s worse? To stop believing in dreams coming true, or loss of dreams altogether? I don’t know what I’d wish for. Maybe I have everything I want, or maybe I’ve just lost hope and the desire for more. I want more, but more what? What could really make me truly happy? And if I knew, could I really get it?

I take a deep breath, and start playing the song again, taking the time to finesse playing the cascading notes that build the harmonies, enjoying the resolving chords. Maybe when I’ve got the hang of playing it, I’ll play the song for Chris. She’ll like that.

I’m not sure I know what sentimental is or isn’t. Even though I teach art, I don’t know what art is. But this song isn’t simple or for the simple-minded. There is depth there, and understanding about life and reality.

And it is set to some beautiful music, even if it could use some flugelhorns.

Maybe my dreams are smaller. Maybe they are within grasp – somewhere.

James Wood lives in Lake Country, B.C.

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