When you were five, did you ever dream about running away and joining the circus?
Did you dream of being an acrobat or a trapeze artist? Maybe you got as far as the stop sign at the end of the block, but then realized you would miss home, or your dog, or your favorite teddy bear you forgot in the rush out the door.
Or maybe now when you watch a Cirque de Soleil performance you imagine yourself twisting, turning, flying through the air and wish you were five again so you could at least fly like an airplane on top of your father’s feet?
Have your dreams of flying faded or did you give them a final performance years ago?
“Be fearless in the pursuit of what sets your soul on fire.” –Unknown
My dreams of flying started forty years ago as a thirteen-year-old gymnast when there were volunteer coaches, non-sparkly leotards, and practices in the school gymnasium. I loved the movement, the challenge, and the feeling of air beneath my feet.
The 1976 Olympic performance of Nadia Comaneci fueled my gymnastics drive and dream of flying. I remember being mesmerized by the heights she reached as she flew over the floor, the beam, the bars, and the vault. Each twist and turn and jump became a still frame in my mind as I mentally calculated how much distance filled the space between her and the apparatus. I dreamed of flying higher during my own performances.
For two years I practiced my routines and focused on leaping higher on the balance beam and flying between the bars. Each competition gave me the chance to fly.
Did I mention this was 1978?
School systems, not private gyms, bought the equipment, and most of it had been around for ten to twenty years.
During my first traveling competition, I hung from the top bar as I’d done so many times, swung to build my momentum, and checked that the distance between the bars matched my body’s length. As my hips wrapped the lower bar, I knew I needed an additional adjustment. My coach came over and it didn’t take long to determine these particular bars could not be adjusted for my height.
Did I mention I was the tallest gymnast on the team?
The only option was to perform my routine at the maximum setting.
I nervously approached the bar. New heights of nervousness and fear washed over me. Competing was one thing. Competing in anticipation of pain was another. My hips were already tender from the initial distance check.
Did I mention I was thin?
While an athlete at heart, my body-type did not fall into the muscular category. I’d been called skinny. And trust me, it was never with the tone of a complement. It always carried the weight of there being something wrong with me, but that’s a story for another day.
My hip bones beat the bar several times during the routine. The initial pain came from the humiliation of being too tall for the equipment. It climbed higher as my hips crashed into the bar, creating loud vibrations like the rolling thunder of an impending storm.
I finished the routine with a clean dismount and signaled my finish to the judges. I remember fighting back tears as I left the mat — my chin still up, my arms swinging, and my legs making their pointed-toe march.
My coach approached and with genuine concern, she helped me pull back the elastic of my leotard. Skin had been rubbed clean off exposing the tender, red flesh below. Tiny drops of blood oozed from one side. There, exposed and raw, were not only my wounds but my dreams.
I don’t remember a single practice or competition after that day. I finished the season having heard a very clear and powerful message — you are too tall to fly.
Dreams of flying can’t be grounded
With gymnastics out of the picture, I refocused my dreams on ballet and gracefully leaping higher.
“If you can imagine it, you can achieve it. If you can dream it, you can become it.” — William Arthur Ward
Embracing this quote and wholeheartedly believing it, I read it every day on the poster hanging in my adolescent bedroom. I saw myself as the girl in the photograph, a beautiful dancer in a classic white ballet dress posed in arabesque — standing on one leg while the other extended long and lifted behind, her graceful arms reaching in opposite directions.
A couple years after the gymnastics incident, I’d grown a few more inches and was always the tallest ballerina. I kept imagining and dreaming despite subtle messages about my height. It didn’t matter if I could leap higher or dance the steps with precision; I was always in the back row and told to only leap as high as the shorter dancers.
Did I mention I wanted to fly?
I found a way out of the back row by performing solos. I worked with my dance teacher to choreograph my leaps and turns, always pressing for more height while maintaining grace. I continued to dream about flying higher and there was one way to do that — partner with a male dancer.
But this was central Wisconsin in the late 1970s and male ballet dancers were hard to come by. During one class, made up of all girls, our teacher had us pair up and we worked on partner moves. We took turns dancing the male role. Without any discussion, I danced the male steps first. I lifted and supported my partner through each of her moves. Then it was time to switch.
Did I mention this was a class en pointe?
Pointe technique is the part of classical ballet where the dancer supports all her weight on the tips of her fully extended feet within pointe shoes. This is dancing on the ends of your toes, higher than tiptoe.
I was now fifteen years old and in my pointe shoes I was pushing six feet tall. My petite partner who may have been all of 5’3” as she stood flatfooted was unable to overcome the natural laws of physics to help me fly higher. Even my teacher struggled to dance the male role with me. Finally she suggested we return to our original dance roles to complete the class. But what I remember most was her matter-of-fact statement that most male dancers were not very tall — Mikhail Baryshnikov is 5’6”.
My dreams of flying seemed grounded — again.
Can grounded dreams have both roots and wings?
As the years passed, I limited myself to always having one foot on the floor during social dances and accepted my “flying” days would only involve new “heights” in academics or career advancements. But in my dreams, I still imagined being lifted into the air, fully supported by another human being.
Fast forward to this year.
I was listening to a podcast by Tim Ferris where he mentioned an activity called Acroyoga. I’ve done yoga intermittently over the last ten years and had recently restarted a daily morning practice of Sun Salutations. It was part of my new focus of creating a morning routine — win the morning, win the day.
I did what most people do and searched the internet for Acroyoga descriptions and demonstration videos.
The demonstrators moved with the grace of dancers, but I became mesmerized by how they looked like they were flying.
Next I found a TED talk delivered in Boulder, CO titled “You are Never Too Old for Airplane.” For me, the dots finally connected.
I was going to fly using an Acroyoga ticket.
From the Acroyoga.com website: “Acroyoga blends the wisdom of yoga, the dynamic power of acrobatics, and the loving kindness of healing arts. These three lineages form the foundation of a practice that cultivates trust, playfulness, and community.”
Acroyoga is described as a yoga of trust.
It doesn’t defy gravity, it honors it.
It values technique more than strength — muscles tire, bones don’t.
Acroyoga became the newest addition to my bucket list. I found a local gym that provided training and asked my husband to try it with me. He graciously agreed, but as we drove to our first class I wondered if I would be too tall for this flight to take off.
Did I mention my husband is 6’1”?
Through the positive encouragement of the trainers and gym owner, we learned five moves: folded leaf, straddle throne, plank, flying whale, and throne.
Flying whale? Yes, I wanted that one!
Over our one hour lesson we each learned to base (the person on the bottom), fly (the person in the air), and spot (the person who ensures no one gets hurt).
I’m not going to lie, flying was the best, but being the base for my husband so that he could fly too gave me goosebumps. Even at 6’1” he was not too tall to fly.
My feet did not hit the ground for several days after that class. For now we can practice flying at home: on the grass in the backyard or in the living room once a space is cleared. Our family and friends have been supportive and playfully curious as to when we are running away to join the circus.
Maybe not the circus, but the next acroyoga class?
How about you? Do you dream of flying? Or have your dreams been grounded by some false boundary from the past? Do you need to reimagine your dreams from another perspective so you can finally achieve it?
“If you have a heartbeat, there’s still time for your dreams.” — Sean Stephenson
Did I mention I can fly?