We all are aware of folks who are fortunate to make a living at their dream job. Usually, this is a confluence of talent and hard work and luck; we “mortals” see them as world-class athletes, renowned experts, and global celebrities. But I know that there are folks out there living quiet lives, who are also working at their dream job, as a teacher, a firefighter, a decorator, a data analyst, and such. Not all dream jobs are splashy. And, the concept of “dream job” isn’t fixed, isn’t static; they change over time, as we grow and learn and become ourselves.
When I was in grammar school, my dream job—as it was for many—was to be a veterinarian. What could possibly be better than working with puppies and dogs and kittens and cats all day? So, when given the opportunity to spend the day at a vet clinic, I leapt at the chance (as did several of my schoolmates). The day started with grooming and nail clipping and such, but when we were introduced to the procedure called “expression of the anal glands,” I was out. Looking back, I’m pretty sure they popped that particular procedure into the day’s agenda so as to weed out the weak of spirit. Wise move.
Shortly thereafter, I was given a violin to play, and all thoughts of a “dream job” were set aside in favor of figuring out how, as a bookish, bespectacled violinist, I might survive into puberty. Somehow, through strategic applications of humor and social invisibility, I survived the wholly predictable bullying and made it into adolescence. At this point my success with the violin and my now well-honed acumen in pleasing those in positions of authority led to other musical opportunities. Violinists were a dime a dozen in grade school, but a viola player? Priceless. So, sure, I could try that. And I did. How about branching out? The jazz ensemble needs a bass player. Wanna? I’m on it. Band could use a tuba player. Any interest? You bet. I also tried bassoon and French horn, but sadly I met my match with piano and harp (playing two staves of music at once was, simply, sadly, beyond my ability).
But all of this was an academic exercise. None of it hit me as a “calling,” and none of it constituted a dream job. Could I see myself as a musician? Sure. It made my folks proud, it brought a certain frisson of fame during recitals and concerts, and it put me into the society of kindred souls, some brilliant, some pedestrian, but all of us akin to misfit toys searching for a home.
Then my high school orchestra teacher, the wonderfully eccentric Hugo Rinaldi (may his memory be a blessing) decided to start a “student conductor” program. Would I be interested? Oh hell yes!
Instant Dream Job.
Everything changed for me at that point. I had my first Life Goal: Symphony Conductor.
It was a great opportunity to learn, but it was also a thrill to stand up there, baton in hand, and lead an orchestra through a performance of stirring music. During those few years, I conducted musicians through symphonies and concerti and musicals and operas. I conducted orchestras, symphonic bands, marching bands, chamber groups, and pit orchestras. I loved it! It was a tremendous, not because I was the focal point on stage—that was actually the aspect I cared for the least—but because it was a collective experience, where through rehearsals and sectionals and repetition we all, together, brought a piece of music to life, and if I had done my job well, by the time we performed, I was merely a timekeeper, a reminder, an encourager, an adjuster of volume and balance and speed and precision.
And so, entering university, my dream of a life as a conductor was my goal.
Within two years, that dream was dead.
The conductor “path” at my uni had certain requirements. Beyond the music history, theory, and orchestration that were part of any performance major, it also had a specific requirement for proficiency on the piano. No way around it. In time, this requirement made perfect sense—most conductor path grads would go on to get teaching credentials, and when leading a school orchestra, being able to play the score on piano was an almost essential tool—but at the time, the revelation was devastating. The joy I experienced leading an orchestra from sight-reading to performance, that exaltation I felt as the conduit of an orchestra’s creative energy, it would never be, not for me.
I kept on with music for many years afterward, but it was not a dream job. I tried doing an end-run around the hurdles. When I was principal violist for a regional symphony, I tried to cajole the conductor into allowing me to lead the group so he could go out and check the balance (we really needed it in our concert hall), but ceding the podium, even for a few minutes, was something that particular conductor would never contemplate.
And so, eventually, the dream was not only dead but finally buried.
In time, I found other avenues of interest, and contemplated other “dream jobs.” As I grew older, more introverted, and (admittedly) more jaded about dealing with the public, my concept of a dream job became more solitary and cloistered.
“Successful novelist” was one dream job. I gave that two decade’s hard work before reality sunk in; the best I was able to achieve was “accomplished novelist.” A more recent iteration was “museum conservator,” specifically of documents and books, but by the time I began contemplating that, I knew it would remain more “dream” than “job.”
Now that I’ve retired, I have no need of a job of any kind, “dream” or otherwise. Now I am free to do what I will (as long as my health holds out, I guess).
In the end, though, I have to say that I’m not rueful over dream jobs never achieved, for I have dreams that I have achieved. A happy home, a secure life for my family, an excellent partner, a long marriage. And as for those dreams that lay broken along my life’s margins, they are what led me to achieve things nearly dreamed of, gave me a taste of perfection, and drove me to efforts I did not believe I could perform.
So I say: Regret no failure met in service of a worthy goal.
Onward
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Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 