Cottonwoods :: Photographer Unknown
There was a time in my life when I flew without assistance from anything other than the wind and my gray hoodie. I unzipped it, raised it over my head and used it as a sail while hiking with a friend just below the ridge on Gore Hill. We walked through sagebrush and thick prairie grass bent by the wind. My hometown is a perpetually windy city blowing from the north and west, uninterrupted from Canada and the Rocky Mountain Front. We walked through cut banks and drop offs looking for the perfect place to leap from. We finally identified a perfect take-off. They were often just big jumps, but this time the height and distance of my leap with the strong gusty wind racing up the slope carried me weightless, and I flew. That feeling was imprinted forever.
Most of the time though, I only dreamed of flying. When I did, the dream was always the same. It began by running as fast as I could from my front yard, across the street, through the narrow side yard between my friend’s house and the house next to his, and into their backyard towards three Cottonwood trees that defined the back edge of his lawn. Right before I collided with one of them, or had to run between them, I’d get lift at the last minute and fly straight up like a jet, brushing the leaves so cotton and pollen were released into the air. After reaching the top of the sixty-foot trees, I stopped and hovered like like I was in a fight scene from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. After floating there for a short time, gravity took over and I drifted down while trying hard to stay afloat because I didn’t want it to end.
Fifty years later I dreamed I flew again. I’d been hoping to since childhood. I even talked about it with my wife occasionally, describing the one from when I was a kid. I finally did. This time it was completely different. The location was different, I was an adult, and the complexity and risk were ramped way up. There were even people present who appeared to be there waiting for me to fly, expecting me to fly. I don’t remember everyone present, but I know my mother and my father were there. That was the first dream of any kind when they were together again since they’d both passed away. It was also the first dream I can remember that my mom was in sharp focus, rather than a hazy presence. My father had been in a couple before this, one when I even spoke with him, but having both present while I flew was unexpected.
The location looked a little like the White Cliffs of Dover especially with the similar drop off to the sea. After wandering around briefly, without interacting with anyone, and without any preparation, I ran as fast as I could to the cliffs edge and leaped. I knew it was risky because I hadn’t flown in my dreams since I was a young and I didn’t know if I could stay airborne, but it worked, and I began to soar out over the ocean, making gentle turns, and gaining elevation quickly whenever I wanted to. Then arcing gently back towards the cliff and accelerating along the edge during each fly bye. I did that a few times before I eventually didn’t turn back and continued along the ridge for a half mile or so and slowly descended to the shore far below. I found myself alone in the middle of some sort of archeological ruins mixed with more recent abandoned buildings. They were made from disintegrating field stone, concrete, and crude bricks nestled among prairie grass with cut banks like the terrain of Gore Hill. After exploring for a while and wondering why I was in this place, even questioning the dreams’ purpose, it instantly faded. Now I have a new flying dream to hold on to. It feels good to fly, it feels optimistic.
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“Roaring dreams take place in a perfectly silent mind.” Jack Kerouac
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Songs :: 10,000 Miles by Mary Chapin Carpenter, July by Amy Petty, Flying Cowboys by Rickie Lee Jones, Into the Mystic by Van Morrison, and Expecting to Fly by Neil Young
© C. Davidson
