From infancy, I made a habit of entering into a pleasant reverie before falling asleep.
When I was at the crawling stage, lying in bed, I would plan next day's climbing adventure. I had an ambition to climb onto the sitting-room sofa, and from the arm of the sofa up onto the window-sill and look out on the front garden. I remember being annoyed when I heard my mother telling Mrs Breen that, among my strange activities, I had climbed up onto the window-sill. I was appalled to hear my mother tell a blatant lie, for I had never succeeded in reaching this goal (except in my reverie). Every time, I either failed or someone intervened to prevent me.
Later, when I could walk and run a few steps, I planned how I might fly. Initially, after I realised my plan to climb up into the air would never work, I would flap my imaginary wings (attached to my shoulder blades). Then I planned to sew a wind-proof shawl to my shirt or jacket sleeves, and to the centre of the back. No need for neat stitching; rough work would suffice. Then with my arms spread wide, I would run at the house, taking advantage of the up-draft as I got near the house, and rise up to the sky. Flap, flap, flap to gain height and then cruise along like the seagulls.
With more maturity, I realised that none of these plans could have any material success, but I could take off in an imaginary flight by spreading my imaginary wings, lean forward from the hips, and take off.
In my reverie, I could see into the back gardens of the houses of the roads around Phibsboro, then fly over Dalymount Park, and continue on down over Drumcondra, Fairview, the Docks, and out over the Irish Sea, or, by leaning one way or the other, depending on the direction of the wind, turn around and fly over the island of Ireland and out the the cliffs along the west coast - where there was much to see and admire and many (imaginary) adventures to be had.
In previous centuries, wise women who undertook such flights were condemned as witches. On their flights, they could see into their neighbours houses and observe the private lives of the people who lived there. While these flights are imaginary, you see a lot of things already known to your subconscious mind, which is constantly storing and interpreting data, most of which will never be called into play in real life.
In our own time, some people call these "Yogic flights," and profess that you can influence others (for good, of course) by communicating with them in their dreams by means of such flights.
In some recent recordings, I have attempted to reproduce the moods contained in such flights:
To hear this tune properly, spread your arms out like the seagulls wings, tuck in your tummy, lean forward, and press the play button. Enjoy the flight: it is better than any real thing.
In this imaginary flight, I rise out through the stratosphere into open space, and venture out of the solar system into the greater cosmos. What wonderful things are there to be seen (I mean "imagined"). But take care, since there is no air out there, you will continue, not in a "state of rest," for you are already moving, but in a "state of continuous motion in a straight line," and will not be able to turn around, unless "acted upon by an external force." To be meticulous, maybe you should bring a set of small rockets with you, to enable your trip home, or simply call the project off whenever you feel like it.
Of course, the reverie can be used just to muse over other things: What might have happened if you had taken a different path at one of the many crossroads in your life:
Or just suppose you were elsewhere and enjoying other environments:
