I have this recurring dream. In this dream, I’m walking along, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I feel myself rise, hovering just about a foot or so off the ground. At first, I’m petrified: I start flailing my arms about, afraid of falling, and I reach out for something — anything — to steady myself; but eventually, I begin to realize that I’m not going to fall, that I’m not in danger of being hurt, that I’m going to be fine. And that’s when a smile starts to creep across my face.
I lean forward like I’m about to swim, and as expected, I begin flying. I experiment: I learn how tucking my body in a fetal position slows me down and extending my body straight and taut makes me go faster. At first, I only fly about five or six feet off the ground, following the streets and the sidewalks; eventually, I become emboldened and go higher, flying over rooftops and trees and going faster and faster until finally I have no choice but to scream at the top of my lungs in unbridled joy.
After I’ve flown to my heart’s content, I return to the street where my flight began and start walking again, going about my normal day. But deep inside, I feel smug, knowing that at any moment, if I wanted to, I could soar again.
I don’t know what the technical interpretation of this dream would be — I’ve never been much into that sort of thing anyway — but I always take it as a sign that it’s time to insert a bit more adventure into my life — take a trip somewhere unknown, try a new hobby, even eat a strange new food. Because really, there’s nothing like experiencing something you’ve only dreamt of doing and making that goal and going after it to make you feel invincible.
It feels like flying.