I dreamed two nights ago that I was standing on a balance beam. The beam was long and wooden, but narrower than they usually are, probably only the width of my foot. The room around me was a generic gym-sort of place: low ceilings; a bank of windows to my left, the start-at-shoulder-height bland rectangle kind. A film of early-spring late-morning light was shining in, touching the other people in the room, but they were distant, soft-focus. I could see the teacher waiting at the end of the beam, but he, too, seemed far away and unimportant.

I balanced on the beam, walking slowly down it, foot after foot, arms spread wide. I was nervous, but not afraid; I wobbled, but didn’t fall. When I reached the end, pleased with my success so far, I took a cautious little jump. Immediately I could feel that something was off- my little hop allowed me to float gracefully above the beam, reposition my feet, and land easily. It was exhilirating, and surprising, and I laughed before turning to the teacher, questioning.

We’ve got the gravity set low, he explained, more bounce. Less fall.

I nodded, taking it as given. Of course, the gravity turned low, it made wonderful sense. I began to walk backward on the beam, foot behind foot, head up, arms up, concentrating. At the end, I was back where I had begun, but with a new sense of accomplishment and a rising sense of potential – this was fresh, this was different. I could feel the possibilities spreading out before me. I looked down the beam, and raised my hands for a cartwheel.

More bounce. Less fall.

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(this little storylet featured in my TinyLetter, which you can sign up for here, and view the archives of here.)