I used to fly in my dreams. Wait, don’t laugh or critique me until you know why that was important or used to matter. Now, you’re laughing for sure. But in life, the unexpected remark from someone can send you flying into insecurity and cut you down, and you don’t exactly know why it is, but the emotions rise just the same. When I had those dreams, I would put my arms out and rise like an eagle, soaring to the highest tree above the landscape of life and over the rooftops of homes and businesses. I then would land, stopping on the top of a branch, clutching the limb with my toes, and I would plan the next day’s activities which included planting friendships and being someone who could be a person who encouraged others, not tearing them down.
I’d then would push with my feet and fly off, arms out to the side and soar in between and around, up and over, all like a bird with purpose and confidence. The breeze would send my blonde hair back like feathers in the wind, flapping and tangling my bangs while my heart grew full of hope. Because in real life, I couldn’t fly. Not truly. For in my early years, I didn’t speak much. I was afraid of the world. I fell from the small branches I stood on, those where opportunity knocked, and I faltered until my late twenties.
For you see, from my childhood, I used to climb trees wishing to fly. To get away. To hide. I didn’t want to return to the babysitter’s home, where everything was broken, and nothing was like she portrayed. I was in first grade when I learned I couldn’t fly away from the man who ruled the nest, who held the secrets of ugliness within his heart that hurt little girls.
