Dreams are a funny thing. In my dreams, I can do things, like sitting cross-legged, running down the street, climbing huge flights of stairs, and walking pain-free without the slightest limp or wobble.
I can partner dance. I can sit on the floor and get up with ease. I can soak in a tub. I can hike up a mountain. I can paddle board. I can hold a grandchild on my hip. I can have a grandchild. I can water ski. I can do beautiful needlepoint and embroidery.
I can play golf, and ride a jet ski. I can climb a ladder, and paint the door. I can visit quaint shops in totally inaccessible historic buildings. I can kneel down at church. I can spin around in a field like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. I can even line dance without losing my balance at every turn.
I wish I couldn’t do these things in my dreams. It all seems so real. It all feels so wonderful.
And then I wake up, and it’s gone.
In my dreams, it feels real. I feel so alive and so connected to the world. Then the morning comes, the dream is over, and I painfully try to get out of bed.
