Something I could do when I was little

A few years ago I had a moment, in a day, that touched upon something ~ for whatever inexplicable reason and whatever the trigger was ~ that made me remember something from childhood that I realized, incredibly, I had managed to have forgotten about, for all this time. For so many years.

How could I forget about this? The fact that I could, the fact that I did, alone, is the kind of unliklihood that raises goosebumps on the back of my neck. [As in: There's no way in a thousand years a person would just accidentally forget something like this actually happening in their life, and being real. Therefore...No accident (????) ] Yeah; like I said: goosebumpy.

All I know is that I'm thankful that the memory is not lost. Because the other creepiness factor of the quality of the "forgotten"-ness is that, once that day's trigger brought that long-ago memory back, it flooded back. With immense crispness and pages' worth of detailed clarity. A little more than uncanny; more like bizarre, you know? The way an important memory that had been taken away- temporarily stolen - from you, or had been veiled from you, in its entirety, would feel and be experienced, if it were suddenly restored to you.

Okay, okay! I'll get to it.

I remember talking to some girlfriends at the time, on the day I remembered it, and I intro'd it like this:

"Does anyone have a memory of something, from childhood, that you know happened, or that you know that you did, even though it's supposed to be impossible, and no one would believe you- either at the time, or if you told them about it now? But you KNOW that it's real, and you didn't imagine it? You know that you weren't play-acting, or fantasizing, or using your imagination...and you know that it wasn't a dream; you didn't dream it, you weren't sleeping?"

Then I told them what I remembered:

When I was little, on numerous occasions--very frequently, actually: I floated. Like, across the floor. A couple or three inches off the ground. I could do this all the time, at will. I never did it in front of anybody or if I could be observed, though; I knew not to. It was dangerous; I just knew that. Very foolish to do so. And I was not a foolish child. (Nor am I now).

It was very relaxing, and thrilling, at the same time. Thrilling in a relaxed sort of way. :) lol

I could move forward at a slow, kind of glide-y pace those few inches off the floor, whatever direction I wanted to direct my motion. I remember wanting to try to go faster; and trying to figure out how I could make that happen. I also remember trying to see if, on my feet, I could make myself float up further...you know, more than a couple of inches. But I don't remember having been able to get either of these things done. (At least, not by much.)

I remember that I had to prepare, sort of; get that particular feeling to happen, in my feet, in order to float. There was definitely a particular feeling to it; and I had to relax and focus on 'remembering it' in my feet, to bring it back to them and get that feeling to be there. After that it was no trouble keeping it going and having them stay that way, until I was done.

I remember having the feeling of being able to bring on that same feeling in my whole body, as if I could let my whole body float up, and therefore sort of 'fly.' But that trial is hazier in memory and if I did succeed at all I know it was confined to a slow floating up to my bedroom ceiling (or any ceiling), and I was frustrated by lack of directional control, in the air, and again, the speed or rate of acceleration, floating upward. It felt like there was nothing to "push off" of, in the air, once my whole body was in it. Unlike on the ground (floating on my feet, that is), where somehow the ground was the thing I could push off of, in whatever way, to achieve my will of direction that I wanted to move.

I know that I would not do it outside (the whole body floating up), because I was terrified of the fact that there was no ceiling...nothing to keep me anchored, should I not know how to stop my upward float. Inside, the ceiling kept me confined, and when I wanted to come back down, I just had to gradually relax the feeling, and as I released it I would slowly float back down, pretty much at the same rate and way I'd floated up.

Now that I think about it I think I maybe did learn how to get myself propelled forward, a bit, whole-body floating in the air; but it was slow (very slow), and I couldn't accelerate it, to make it like "flying" or anything, which is what I really wished to do. So it got boring. Relaxing (and cool), but boring.

The foot-floating was more fun. I could glide faster. And it was cool not to make any footstep noises. :D (You know, for sneakiness' sake.)


The reason I know, and knew, that this memory was not imagination or make-believe or an old dream is for a few reasons: One is that I did it with a great deal of frequency- I practiced it a LOT (trying to hone it, and stuff, like I said); another is that I distinctly remember being very awake, while doing it and practicing at it; and finally, that I was always very nervous and careful about no one being around or who could barge in, catching me doing this. As far as I remember I think it was always in a room by myself with the door(s) closed. That's how guarded it had to be.

And because I distinctly remember thinking of all the sorts of unwanted attention, interference in the peaceful state of my life as I knew it, and negative/bad/adults-freaking-out-with-nervousness it would cause if I showed anybody else I could do this. That level of guardedness and secrecy about it was always, always in the back of my mind, every time I went to do it/practice it. It was very much a logical, conscious, rational thought process- nothing like a dream. And the foremost concern for the need to hide puts down thoughts of it being an imaginary practice or make-believe. Kids don't feel the need to be that zealously guarded about something they're pretending. They especially don't go and close the doors.

There you are.