mexico.

Someone told Sara Bareilles that dreams live in Mexico. I guess I can see that. 

But for some reason, I don't think my dreams live in Mexico. I don't think my dreams have a permanent address. Scratch that, they do. They have their own place. They pay rent, utilities, water, and they even cut the grass after it rains. But they like to leave, they like to go, they like to get out. And then, with a souvenir, a lesson, or a picture, they come home.

My dreams are frequent flyers. They are madly in love with airports. They fly just so they can write at 30,000 feet. They're more motivated there. And so, they board planes as often as they can, they sit in window seats, they stare out into the sky, they reach out and touch the clouds. They get tattoos and don't care who objects, they have perfect hair, they have all the time in the world to get ready, and they exercise often. They dance and sing all day long. They're never scared. They crave big cities and all their mystery, but secretly long for the dependability of a wide open field in a small town.

My dreams play the piano. They hit one key, wait, and hit another one, one that's farthest from the first. My dreams string the first key together with the second, as if they belonged together, as if they were created to be played, together. 

My dreams get the whole truth and nothing but the truth. They don't have to worry about making sense out of two different sides, both with supporting evidence, compelling research, and fancy letters crediting their names. They ask a question and the answer is theirs. 

My dreams own a smoothie shop and make smoothies all day long. They hand out love letters and give two to disbelievers. They make amends with people from their past, ones they let go of after holding on for a long time. They speak out, they are strong, they are healthy {I guess the smoothies help with that part}, and they are constantly growing. 

After my last post on the magic of dreams, I hope you don't mind this continued dream rambling of mine but as I began to write tonight, I caught myself staring off into space, my head rested on my hand like this...which if you ask Joseph, is pretty typical for me. And while staring at one of baby girl's toys that creepily sings whenever the room is completely quiet, I realized that we're flying this weekend and I suddenly got really excited. There's something about airports, I guess you can say they live in my dreams. Well, baby girl's never flown before, so we'll see if she likes soaring through the clouds as much as her mama does.

I think my love of flying was born when I was sixteen and flying to New York for the first time. I had a paper due for AP English that I decided to write on the plane. I still think that essay is one of the best things I've ever written. I only wish I knew where it was hiding. I'm not sure if it was the actual writing itself that I'd categorize as some of my best, but rather, it's impact was incredibly unforgettable. It resonated confidence by redefining purpose, so much so, I wish I could have mass produced it's shimmer, only until I realized it's sparkle was due to it's rarity, and well, mass producing that sort of gem would only devalue it's worth. Impacts like these are hard to come by. The way my sixteen year old self felt when I clicked, "save," and closed my laptop, was like I could do anything, be anything, dream anything, or accomplish anything, as long as it was written within me. I felt creative. I felt capable. I felt worthy. I felt alive. It's that feeling that resonates within my dreams. And I don't know about yours, but as I alluded to above, my dreams seem to have similar habits, they tend to dress alike, and they like to hang out in the same hot spots.

Although we're not going to Mexico this weekend, we are flying, and that means if baby girl grants me a quiet second, I will probably meet my dreams somewhere in the clouds, think with them, pray with them, and catch them at some of their favorite surroundings. Maybe I'll get lucky and I'll write with them on the plane, like I did my junior year of high school, but my mama self knows that's probably a little unrealistic with a 10 month-old wiggle worm sitting on my lap. But one thing my mama self's got that my sweet sixteen status lacked, is a little one tugging at her leg asking mama to show her the way. Maybe, on one of baby girl's next plane trips, we'll stare out the window and talk about her dreams and what they look like and where they live. Maybe, her dreams will wear princess pajamas and mismatched socks and camp in forts made out of pillowcases and towels. Maybe, hers will wear ribbons in their hair and eat cereal for dinner. Maybe, hers will be even more random than mine. And maybe, just maybe, her dreams will live in Mexico. But on the off chance they don't, my dreams have first class tickets to wherever hers are.
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