Of Skunks, Toilets, and Flight

I tucked my daughter into bed just now. Per our usual routine, I gave the preamble prayer. "Please help Kristina and Jared (don't forget Jared, Mom) not to have any bad dreams, and please help Kristina not to dream about smelling any skunks." I don't know that Kristina would know a skunk if she smelled one, but she has me say the same prayer every night, nonetheless.

My husband tells me his dreams in detail when he wakes up. Somehow, verbalizing and examining that bridge into his day puts things into their proper places, like shutting drawers or making the bed. I, on the other hand, rarely remember my dreams. When I do remember them, I find they generally fall neatly into one of the categories in a dream analysis book. For instance, I was relieved to discover that other normal women also, apparently, spend their sleeping hours wandering past filthy bathroom stalls in vain search for a relatively clean and private place to relieve themselves. Who knew?

In my favorite dreams I fly. Sometimes I soar almost effortlessly. At other times I tire with the labor of flapping my arms to stay aloft. Even when my arms ache, however, I marvel at the fact of my flight.

I have missed those flying dreams in recent years. Though happy enough, I have let my lack of ambition and the weight of everyday routine ground me. Garden variety escape dreams litter my early morning sleep now, dreams that wither quickly in the post-waking reality. I miss the view from above, the power of flight in my arms, and the faith in the impossible.

Just in the past few days, with a couple of simple goals to spur me on, I have begun to feel a tingle of possibility again. Time to dust off those dreams, flex my flying muscles, and reacquaint myself with the world above. Sweet dreams!