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| Age 7 - with my pig Molly |
in my dreams. I lived there
for the first 18 years of my life; have lived elsewhere for 30 years more. Yet
in dreams I find myself climbing the stairs of the old farmhouse, looking out
my bedroom window toward the barn (which remains standing when I sleep, even
when my consciousness intrudes, reminding me of the fire), or exploring the secret
attic passageways which are always bigger and more elaborate than they were in
real life (also stuffed with treasure I always dreamed of finding).
Last night I was there with my son. He was still a small boy,
and I was younger too. We were pulling long, thin boards from the biggest attic
and talking about all the things he might build with them. I kept thinking the
scene felt familiar. I told him about building a helicopter when the room was
being remodeled for my brother. In real, waking life, the construction must
have taken place when I was three or four. I did build a helicopter in that
room. I nailed two boards together to form a letter X. I attached them to a
larger board and added a small piece crosswise for the tail. I could spin the
propeller with my hand and felt tremendous satisfaction with my creation.
I also visited a memory of jumping, years later, from a stack
of bricks built with my cousins. We were flying then too. I don’t remember if
we had propellers or wings (perhaps we were testing both) but the important
part was the moment between jumping and landing, the brief span of time where I
believed that anything--even flight--was possible.
As I woke, I told myself to hold on to the lesson, to
remember that I built a helicopter when I was only four, and to hang on to even
the littlest moments, those times when anything feels possible.
