My Head in the Clouds

Howdy folks,

I've just come back from a week in Texas, where I saw my beautiful niece married to the very nicest man and I got to spend loads of time with my lovely mom and her siblings. I come from a family of VERY liberal Democrats and when we all get together, we talk about the horrors of the world(Donald Trump) and how kindness, virtue, a helping hand and {gasp}higher taxes might be all it takes to solve a world of problems. Also, as Democrats are wont to do, we get a little overwhelmed by the sadness of the world and the meanness of the world and we get worried about the state of humanity.

After a week of family and wedding and philosophizing and a whole lot more carbs than I am used to eating(recently), a big storm was blowing through and as our plane took off among the clouds, I was feeling kind of melancholy. I had lucked into a window seat despite my B36 position on Southwest, and I watched all of Texas shrinking into view and I realized that even though Austin is barely recognizable from just 10 years ago, a whole lot of Texas is still relatively undeveloped. I saw forests of pines and rolling pasture and tons of swollen creeks as we made our way East. The cloud cover took my view for a while, but about 20 minutes in, I could see the many, many swamps, creeks and what I imagined were alligator-filled bayous as we flew over Louisiana. I made eye contact with the little boy whose seat was in front of me. He was watching out the window, too, and looked at me--brown eyes, long lashes, incredulous at the whole world beneath him--then looked back down to gaze some more. His brother was equally interested, peering over his little brother's shoulder, and in that moment there was none of that boy-jostling that we're all waiting for on planes. They were quiet and enraptured and delighted.  I was reading a short story by Bailey White about "The Imagination Game" and how she could never see anything when it came time to imagine, except for big, giant chicken feet and I thought about how these boys didn't need imagination in this moment, because they were living in real time.

It reminded me how often I live in some other time: the time of what's to come, which is a time of fret and worry and the time of what's behind, so often sadness and regret. This time, this moment,  is inescapable, but I work so hard at escaping. And then I'm reminded of Omar Khayyam's admonishment:

Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.

oh. 

This moment IS my life.  As I'm peeking down at planet Earth from my winged perch, my life is happening. And those little boys in front of me, they are reveling in it and I am starting to revel in it, too, to the point where I want to offer my seatmate a quick peek at the glorious planet. I turn to her and she pulls her coat higher up her shoulder and turns up the volume on her phone, where she's watching Southwest-provided TV.  Well, that would be kind of weird. I mean, normal people don't offer strange, grown people a quick look into the beauty of the here and now. It's just not how we do things.  Plus, these moments don't translate well to adults. Kids can say, "look at how the river looks like a snake through those trees and you can't see any houses and it is nature and it's so cool." and adults say (think Ben Stein's voice when you read this)"the remarkable beauty of nature." I settled back down in my seat and went back to reading my book and the next time I looked out there were puffy clouds forever. And then we came back to civilization, as the sun set, the lights came on and Georgia was illuminated by organized neighborhoods and happenstance neighborhoods and clustered neighborhoods and 5-acre lot neighborhoods. The roads were the snakes, with streetlights, stoplights, all the city lights that go on for miles. Of course, the boys in front of me were overcome with the beauty of the lights and the expanse of the city, and they continued to stare in quiet awe until they broke character and yelled "BUMP" when the plane touched down. 

It's that BUMP that brings us all back to Earth--literally, of course.  It jogs us awake and sweeps out the cobwebs and wakes us from our reverie. The lights come on and the people stand up("All Rise..." our flight attendant said)and we all start to strategize our move to the aisle and we forget about the books we read and the scenery and the only here and now is "GET ME OFF THIS PLANE!" On to the sea of humanity, hoping you don't get caught in a crushing wave of a thousand people rushing to the next gate or away from that gate or into a giant school of Starbucks patrons. This moment is our life.

I don't know. It was just a moment, up there in the sky, but it felt important. And I was happy and it was my life. I want more of that moment. Guess I have to take more plane rides. Where do you want to go?

Love,

Corks