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THE CHOICE

September 25, 2023 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as dreams, Flying

This is a true story.

Two nights ago, I had a dream I could fly. I opened my arms wide, pulled the wind toward me and felt my feet lift off the ground. It was glorious. With my engineering-trained mind I quickly sought practical applications.

First, my husband and I went out at night—so the neighbors wouldn’t see—and I picked all of the apples, red and ripe, off the top branches, dropping them one by one into my husband’s waiting hands. Next, I inspected the flat portion of our roof. Never buy a house with a flat roof. We worry about that 10 x 10 section constantly. Then I decided to fly out to Seattle to visit my son. But about three minutes into the flight—I was traveling at approximately 10miles/hour—I realized that Seattle is 3000 miles away. That’s a 300 hour flight.

Hearing a roar overhead, I decided to fly into the clouds and hitch a ride on a passing jumbo jet.

NO!

Those things travel at 600 miles/hour. My head would get blown off.

I suppose even flying has its practical limitations.

In the final image of the dream, I was in the future and my son had a three-year-old daughter. I had volunteered to watch her for the day. As the scene opened, we were gleefully jumping on my son’s bed. Then I taught her to fly. “Open your arms, like this.” I opened my arms, “and pull the wind to yourself.” How quickly she learned.

“Flying is so much fun, Nana.”

When I woke, I immediately understood the dream. I can do the impossible. The choice is mine.

Last night, I had a second dream. I was agitated and rushed. I slipped the car into reverse, stomped down on the accelerator and backed out of the parking space so recklessly that I plowed into the car behind me one row over. Crying and distraught, I called the police and reported the accident. My silver Chevy Malibu—a huge tank of a car with bench seats and a V8—was undamaged. The next morning, again jittery and overwrought by . . . whatever . . . I backed out and hit another car. That night I hit a third vehicle in exactly the same way, this one belonging to Omar, a guide who had been helping me by showing me around town. “You totaled my car!” He grabbed his head in distress. “How am I going to get to work!”

I was taken before a judge.

“I’m so sorry. I was stupid. This is all my fault.”

She took away my driver’s license.

“I don’t know why I did this. I was just so upset and angry.”

I was sentenced to counseling. “You could have hurt someone,” she said. “When I’m satisfied you’re no longer a danger, I’ll give your license back.”

I woke. Immediately, I understood the dream. I am powerful. I can use my power to destroy things and hurt the people I love.

The choice is mine.

My power is my creativity. Most importantly my power is my writing. With my stories I can reveal truth to those who would hide from it. I can comfort the soul of a hurting person. I can unveil oppression. I can say, I understand, and I stand with you. With my stories I give my heart word-wings to fly where I cannot go. And on these wings my readers soar to longed-for futures.

Or I can ravage tender souls with hate and lust and violence.

The choice is mine.