Flying dream

 I've been lucky to have flying dreams on regular rotation. 

Most are joyful - flying solves a problem or feels miraculous and so right.

Last night, flying was a short-cut to my car after cutting class in high school (something I never did, but Umea does all the time, I've discovered). But the wind currents were strong and pushed me out over the ocean, which was right there between New Mexico and Colorado. But I rowed (in the air, more like rowing than flapping wings) successfully over land and down over a Colorado river town, the river bed, actually, where a river rafting group (young, vigorous, blond!) was packing it up. And got a ride. And stressed out about calling my mom to pick me up. Trying to find a map to figure out how far home was from where I'd landed. Too far to bus?

And so, flying was fate - a simple choice leading to a whole lotta adventure.  And although it was stressful, it was also great. What I thought my day was, it wasn't. What I thought the radius of my life was, it wasn't. Life can be travel. And figuring out how to get from here to there, or there to here. And I did. And Colorado was beautiful in my dream. And the ocean was gorgeous. And terrifying. But gorgeous. 

And I love that I dreamed all that. Go brain!

(I suspect the shape of the dream was heavily shaped by reading Demon Copperhead for the past week. Good lord, what a book.)