The latest flying dream. Memory tells me that I fly in my dreams at least once or twice a year. Perhaps I flew more often in my childhood. Perhaps that's because I also flew in the daytime then.
I'm not convinced that adults, in general, lose their imaginations; they put them on a type of layaway. They promise themselves that when they save up enough time, then they will get back to creativity and play. But time is spent doing the necessary grown-up occupations that, if ignored, would cause a lot of trouble. Soon, adults are in the red and imagination gets dusty on the shelf. Or, worse, it gets put out on the rack for someone else to buy. Sad truth is, few people buy it.
Secret Santas get recognized in the news every Christmas season because they pay for strangers' items that are on layaway. If I had a million dollars—or half a billion if I chose the winning number for tonight's Mega Million jackpot draw—I would go buy all the imagination that is on layaway. Then I would give it back to every sad-faced, weary, dreary, overworked, stressed, depressed, bored grown up out there. Maybe then they would smile more, laugh more, play more. Maybe then they would create and share and give such as never before.
I suppose I should do what I am able to—since I have not the wealth of Bill Gates—and rescue my own imagination, support my husband's, and feed my son's. I should fly while the cage door is open instead of locking it shut.