musing aboard a modern flying machine

July 30 or 31st

I've never seen a grander sunset than through a 12x6 window with the blind half pulled. I smashed my face against the glass, watching the white clouds bunch and bulge into cotton balls; the ocean looked calm and flat beneath. And the horizon, oh the horizon stretched as far as I could see: the boldest, clearest rainbow I have ever witnessed. It was as if the heavens poured every ounce of thick paint into those heavily saturated skies. I pried my eyes open wider, and pressed my nose flatter -- the steely grey wing interrupted my view. I always choose a window seat. Always on the wing. I thought I knew why, but I don't. Not really.

You know, I always thought some things about being in the sky. In the years before my first plane ride, I was convinced I would pack a jar. Once we ascended into those gorgeous white puffs, I would open my window and catch some cloud. Of course, I was a thoroughly disappointed 15-year-old who should have had more sense. You can't keep the sky with you on the ground.

I also always supposed being in an airplane at night would project me right into the midst of the stars -- surely they couldn't be more than a few thousand feet from the ground. It took an astronomy class my junior year of college to figure that one out. Being in the sky doesn't bring you any closer to the stars.

Did you know that every single element is created in the stars? Those burning balls of hydrogen, helium, carbon etc...somehow have worked together to form an incredibly and incomprehensibly beautiful Earth. I mean, I know God had a whole lot to do with it, but still. Simply outstanding.

Tonight, as I gaze out the window, I see a few stars. I guess I'd rather be looking at the from the beach. I glanced down and saw city lights. We've crossed the ocean, and now have half a country to go. This if the first time in my life I've looked at city lights and felt breathless. The ground below is glowing -- hot coals, lightening bugs, Christmas lights, lava pits, glow sticks, clusters of stars --- the milky way galaxy tipped upside down.

Anyway, I suppose the point is that I've always glorified being in the sky: my dreams of an airplane ride, sitting atop a farris wheel, climbing to the uppermost branches of a tree, or swinging nearly up and around the pole that held the set together. Now, I love being in the sky -- I do. There is a beautiful in-betweeness to it: reality but unreality -- escape from all the world below, release into the elements. But, as I (slowly) grow older and (more quickly) grow up, I cherish the moments with my feet planted firmly on the ground. Living in and on what is around me. Enjoying my place int he world. Experiencing instead of observing from about. As attractive as unreality is, there is just something absolutely charming about really living.

Novel idea, hmm?