When I was younger, I often dreamt that I could fly.
Raising then powerfully pushing my arms down would propel me up.
Power lines were a nemesis.
They seemed to occupy a disproportionate amount of my dream self’s energy.
Planning for avoidance, then constantly judging my height to avoid being too high or too low, relative to the danger.
Descending, too, was tricky.
It was as though there was no recognized method for returning oneself to earth.
The skill must be learned anew, in each experience.
Returning the leaden weight of standing on solid ground, to my body.
But floating up? Allowing the joyous buoyancy? Effortless.
Like I was born to do it.
