When I was young I would imagine I could fly. I was a realist of course; I knew I couldn't soar over tall buildings or glide off into the sunset. I was content with hovering, lifting off of the ground for just a moment in time. On my way home from school I'd run and leap, believing that I had actually succeeded. I just knew I had caught air for longer than possible, suspending myself above the laws of gravity. My desperation to believe that I could do, I could be something more than what I was, convinced me that I actually had the power within me to rise off the ground and hover. It never failed, I always hovered, I always caught just a little to much air for just a little longer than I knew I should be able to. It didn't cross my mind that it wasn't really happening, all that would play through my mind was the desire for next time to last a little longer.
As an adult, I think back to all those homes I traveled by. What a sight it must have been to see this 9 year old girl running and leaping as she headed home. I tell ya, I was as content as I knew how to be in my little world of hovering because in those moments between school and home I could do things others could only imagine.