I dreamt last night that one of my brothers — the one 10 years older that me, the one I don’t have a lot of contact with — and I wandered around our old home town. Of course, this home town was an odd amalgam of locations that presented as a small, hilly, old-fashioned village. Our old house was a fabulous mid-century modern ranch house (again based in only dream-reality), which we were free to wander through.

At times, I was an adult, having a realistically awkward conversation with this brother, complete with uncomfortable pauses and a lot of un-shared memories — since I am so much younger than my siblings, I was too young to remember anything formative that went on in their youths. In real life, when my brother and I do make a rare connection in person, it is as cordial and bloodless and vaguely pleasant as our dream encounter.

But at other times in this dream, I was a kid, and my brother was the young adult as I knew him then — open and adventurous and full of ideas, delighting in the energy a curious and precocious kid can provide.

And I found myself really feeling like a child again — not in any silly or simplistic way, but in a quiet space of pure absorption. A place a kid can get to when a loving adult gives them their attention and time and ear. I felt completely open to new ideas, free to state my own, and was aware of how important this was. This wasn’t just a mindless afternoon — I was growing and learning real-time from this encounter.

I felt like I got to time travel in the best way. I am grateful to all the kids whom I encounter through my work, and my great-niece and nephew who I spent time with this holiday. They have allowed me to feel, however briefly, what’s it’s like to be them, and it will make me a better adult.