I have often dreamed that I could fly. Not like Superman at high altitudes and over long distances, but a much more convenient form of flying. I can zoom around a few feet off the ground, maybe as high twenty feet or so. Sometimes, I have to kind of touch the ground and run a little to propel myself back into the air. I don’t have to flap my arms, but it helps sometimes to swim with them through the air, especially on an acceleration. There are no wings involved. I'm not angel, just me who can fly.
Flying is exhilarating. It’s wonderful, everything you would imagine it to be; fun, freeing. I frolic in the air. I zoom everywhere and do flips and turns and loops. These dreams of flying are very happy dreams.
In the dream, I am usually remembering that I can fly, as though I had forgotten, but something brought it back to me. And I am usually trying to explain to someone else that they might be able to fly too, and how I do it.
I do it just as you might expect. I just plant my feet firmly, lower my shoulders and push off from the knees, lifting the shoulders as you do. You steer with your head. Your body follows the top of your head, so you just point your head where you want to go, and push off and away you go. Just remember it is the crown of your head that leads, not your nose.
Usually, afterwards, I wake up in an elated state and while I lie there gathering myself for the day, I slowly remember that it was a dream. I cannot really fly, but I can remember flying. I can remember what it felt like. And then, the air goes out of the balloon.
But this morning, for the first time, I realized in the dream itself that I was only dreaming of flight. I remember saying to the student flyer in the dream that I could only do this when I was dreaming. That it was wonderful and exhilarating and very very cool, but it was not real.
I did not wake up elated, but sort of sad, to start another day of letting go of this stage of my life.