when I twist on my own personal hook and try to
pretend that nothing unusual is happening. It comes
to me when I try to be my father's daughter.
Today is our birthday-- my fifteenth and my father's
fifty-fifth. Tomorrow, I'll try to please him-- him and
the community and God. So last night, I dreamed a
reminder that it's all a lie. I think I need to write about
the dream because this particular lie bothers me so
much.
I'm learning to fly, to levitate myself. No one is
teaching me. I'm just learning on my own, little by
little, dream lesson by dream lesson. Not a very
subtle image, but a persistent one. I've had many
lessons, and I'm better at flying than I used to be. I
trust my ability more now, but I'm still afraid. I can't
quite control my directions yet.
I lean forward toward the doorway. It's a doorway
like the one between my room and the hall. It seems
to be a long way from me, but I lean toward it.
Holding my body stiff and tense, I let go of whatever
I'm grasping, whatever has kept me from rising or
falling so far. And I lean into the air, straining
upward, not moving upward, but not quite falling
down either. Then I do begin to move, as though to
slide on the air drifting a few feet above the floor,
caught between terror and joy.
I drift toward the doorway. Cool, pale light glows
from it. Then I slide a little to the right; and a little
