1986

I was nine and I had my first reoccurring flying dream: I was wearing a white eyelet nightgown in the backyard in the middle of the night. Running around the perimeter of our small yard trying to get up enough speed to take off. I had tried countless times and had crashed into the fence several occasions. Except once. I ran and ran and finally felt my toes lift gently off of the cool grass. I felt my stomach tighten, even as I was sleeping.
I looked down at my feet as my nightgown grazed the neighbor’s fence. I was flying! And the sensation was so real and incredible that when I woke up, I almost had to make sure I was lying down.

17 years later, I bought a convertible and felt that same sensation all over again. The wind whipped through my hair, my face was warm from the sun, and as I peaked at the top of Vasco road the perfect song came on. I will always remember that feeling. I felt like I could do anything. Like I could fly.

Now, in the year leading up to my thirtieth birthday, I am frantically trying to recapture that feeling. The feeling of lifting off instead of falling down. Why is it that as we get older things look downward instead of flying upwards? Our breasts droop, our time gets shorter, days fly by endlessly. How? Last night I had the same dream, the same one I did when I was nine. Which is why I started this whole idea in my head. I find it quite interesting that at this pivotal time in my life, I am reverting back to childhood dreams and images. How I wish to be so young and spread my wings and sail through the sky. Feeling the evening sky on my face. The tops of fences whisking under my feet.

Just a thought...