Some people have an imagination worthy of a Dean Koontz novel or a Robert Jordan fantasy while others limit their imagination to attainable realities such as immediate or purposeful goals that can be set in motion through pragmatic application. The imagination comes before goals and the imagination defines parameters of excellence or acceptable judgments. It is the imagination that envisioned cities, buildings, highways, symphonies, sculptures, books, relationships, improvements, computers, shoes, clothes, institutions, philosophies, medicines, churches, movies, and restaurants. All of these and more began with a dream in someone's mind. It is the dreamers who make a difference, it is the dreamers who imagine a better world.
Yet even the dreamers often need a little help, a little prod, or a moment of encouragement, encouragement from a friend or a teacher or passing event, that moment that seems to relive frequently in the mind as an event worthy of a greater goal, a moment locked in time forever that reminds us to keep our imagination alive, a moment that transcends the challenges and walls found along our journey, a moment that is more than a moment and instead becomes foundational to success.
During the stress of pursuing my Doctor of Philosophy degree, I often wanted to give up and emphasize something else. While the Ph.D. had been a long time dream and I often imagined being Dr. Tucker, the time away from my family was difficult, the workload excessive, the environment, though stimulating, not always to my liking, and the financial hardship became burdensome and unfair. Fighting mild depression, loneliness, and self-doubt were normal mental activities that melded with the exciting intellectual and musical pursuits. Yet, the many encouraging words from friends and family members took a back seat to a striking memory of an event that happened many years before.
In a theory class in Cincinnati, Ohio at the College-Conservatory of Music, there taught a professor whose demeanor was equal to his reputation. He was mean or so I thought at the time. He had little to no patience with "dumb" questions, which he felt free to express the quality of the question in class, and he had little regard for those who did not understand or those who did not see or hear music in the correct way. He was often unkempt, rough in language, passionate in delivery, and aggressive in criticism, while maintaining a seemingly dispassionate aloofness and antipathy toward all his students. He had no interest in our names, our backgrounds, our abilities, or our situations. He was only interested in imparting the information regardless of the results, regardless of our feelings, and regardless of our reactions to that information. The end, that is knowledge, was superior to the means, that is the process. He was easy to hate, and I discovered years later, easy to love.
I was partially afraid of him, fear I would be called upon, and fear I might not know what was expected, but also found myself entranced by his ability, his musical instincts, his earthy yet lofty philosophy of learning and of life, his bold unapproachable brilliance, and mostly the mysterious, edgy aura that surrounded him. One memorable day, Dr. Huston sat at the piano yelling at us to learn our modes, that each mode has significance, and each mode sounds unique, that each mode sets a tone of emotion. While most of the class, a graduate class devoid of opinions and only concerned with how to get an A in the class, intensely wrote all he was saying, I was busy trying to interpret exactly how each mode altered the emotions of the music. While he was playing, singing (his singing was strangely harsh, tuneful but unpleasant, accurate but similar to an amplified mosquito on its way to attack some poor soul), and yelling, I heard a casual reference that he had composed some music for the television show Star Trek.
I was shocked and amazed and found myself curious about this man who seemed to love music but hate people. A profound musician who had composed music for a television show. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps he had both a deeper, and lighter side we had not seen yet. My quest for the truth and partly for his affirmation had begun.
