My feet are planted apart, toes out like a ballerina.
“Beautiful arms,” murmurs a woman, a stranger.
Oh, she must be the instructor.
Out of the corner of my eye I see my arm is long and defined, my skin smooth.
She touches my outstretched hand briefly. “Leg up!”
I wobble slightly. I frown in concentration and point my toes, my right leg stretched out behind me, balancing on my left foot. I smile just a little, aiming for nonchalance. But, inside…inside I am elated. Euphoric. I can feel my toes, the muscles in my calves flexing. I am looking down at bare feet. Veins, arches, long skinny toes. It is all me.
This isn’t possible.
But, I don’t care. I push aside logic, turn away from the sadness that looms near. I focus on what is in front of me. I am here. All of me is here.
In dreams, everything is possible.
Hours later, cup of coffee in hand I can’t shake this dream. I tell Scott about it and I’m back in time remembering dreams of running, taking stairs in twos and threes, energetic and invincible. I’d wake up dream fading, loss pinning me to my bed. Grief was at its most powerful in the mornings, only losing some of its grip as I got out of bed and began the day’s routine.
What is it about anything being possible in the dark? Before the night turns gray, as the sun rises, when the world is asleep, I believe.
Time is a reliable healer. After dreaming about a body I no longer have I didn’t wake up to a sucker punch in the gut. I didn’t lift the blankets and mourn over what wasn’t there. Now a dream like this is something to ponder. It’s a lesson hidden, awaiting my discovery.
My legs are returning to me in dreams, in life. Clinging to them are my beliefs. Prodigal son-like, bruised and weakened, they are coming home. My belief in what’s possible; my belief that the world is big enough to hold many dreams; my belief that failure isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to you, but a place to begin from, are alive. I may be shaky and trying to find my footing, but I can believe. In me.