“Scatter kindness like confetti”
is a pretty nice thought and an even better action! Wishing you a wonderful, relaxing Labour Day Weekend! May some of my kindness confetti float down upon you.
“And the voice spoke even more deliberately: ‘…but remember what is under the ocean of clouds: eternity.’
And suddenly that tranquil world, the world of such simple harmony that you discover as you rise above the clouds, took on an unfamiliar quality in my eyes. All that gentleness became a trap. In my mind’s eye I saw that vast white trap laid out, right under my feet. Beneath it reigned neither the restlessness of men nor the living tumult and motion of cities, as one might have thought, but a silence that was even more absolute, a more final peace. That viscous whiteness was turning before my eyes into the boundary between the real and the unreal, between the known and the unknowable. And I was already beginning to sense that a spectacle has no meaning except when seen through a culture, a civilization, a professional craft.”
I am not such a fan of plane travel. It puzzles me how a large, heavy, motorized tin can structure can trick the elements to soar. I am skeptical of the physics. There are rituals, I hold to. I listen to the little things like the sounds of the engines. Are they humming through scales as smoothly and effortlessly as a master conductor guides an orchestra? I want to view the pilot, the uniform. Is it crisp, polished? The pattering steps I hear scampering the ramp. Are they solid, confident? The last pilot scooted through the parking lot seated on top a unicycle. Flare mixed with spunk.
I want some spark, some attitude in my pilot.
Once on the plane , I fall back into the seat and cross my fingers. The engines warm up as they pace through the tests. We taxi the runway. The engine’s thrust pulls, slowly, then faster and faster, until we meet the bump that lifts the metal dream ship, wavering for a second, fighting with the wind, finally pushing skyward. I pray to Sky God cradle me. Air borne. The familiar everyday further behind us. My eyes turn skyward. I pause, silent.
Rocketed, climbing higher, pushing through layers of batting. Mastering the elements, we pass through stormy, wispy white layers. The earth below appears far away, the roof tops disappear, insignificant. The landscape spreads like a quilt. “Rest,” the sky whispers. “Dream.”
Glancing through the arched window I glimpse a spectacular stage. There is such glory to behold. Emerald green patches of land sparkle below, the glaciered prominence of a mountain’s summit, the mix of watery blues edging the greens and inky blues of painted skies. I imagine wings. Glorious wings to fly.
It is peaceful here. Pressing a cheek to the window’s glass, the chill seeps in, penetrates my skin. I press my eyes to sleep. Oh to be winged, soaring through the wispy clouds, playful, peeking from a fluffy mound of snow white piled high. Who goes there? Winged archangels, chubby cherubs, old souls.
Glorious, gone. Home. Now I walk the earth with my eyes turned skyward.
To walk away from where you came from is a frightening action. So much of your being, unbeknownst to you, tied to DNA, blood lines, loyal ancestor’s toils, stories shared, the memories, beautiful and bitter-sweet. The alluring moments linger, testing strength and will. They coax and bind you to your past. The bittersweet ones? The answers you search for, never come. This is your family; your clan, your protective circle.
Grace always knew. The child held the images, the words, locked them away for a time far, far ahead in the future. Imagine. Born into a life, sensing from an early age that life is fresh yet fleeting. She discovered the bluest of eggs, dropped from the arms of the cherry tree, tucked within tufts of grass. She cupped the coveted treasure into a fist, gingerly wrapped the thin membrane within a blanket of tissue. Later, she discovered the shattered bits of shell. Life’s fragile nature, beginning with the innocence of childhood; the necessary lessons we all must learn.
Long ago, Grace began the process of learning to leave. An eye on the future, a foot firmly planted in the past, a tender child’s heart tied to tattered scraps of love, bits of hope. The remnants of a wish. What did she wish for? Simply love. Enduring love.
Breathe. Just breathe; this will pass. That shivery sensation again, secreted memories unwrapped, tangled over her heart. Left shaken, emotionally disheveled, abandoned and dismissed.
Memories, elusive, dark, stealthy fairies, suddenly pop up, resurfacing on a whim. Beguiling tricksters snag a heart off guard. Thump, thump– stomping glee filled feet as they encircle.
“You didn’t matter,” they screech.
Imagine a perfect day, diamond lit skies, kitten white clouds and joyous moments suddenly met with gloomy storm. You wonder why these demons surface? You’re just stopped at a red light, an ordinary moment in life.
Love’s betrayal is their life- blood, their sustenance. Waiting in a ruby jewel box, carefully wrapped within life’s layers, to suddenly emerge kicking, thumping, merciless.
“You are weak,” she screams.
The cowards scamper away. They have left her alone to find beauty in another day. There will be another day; she will find it glorious, waiting not yet discovered. Beautiful moments: Look there in a child’s precious smile, see the late summer bloom of the single last rose, be in the quiet silence of reflection.
There is a purposeful plan. This is her given life complete with struggles and overwhelming joys; the path she is placed on. There is intentional strength and courage at her core. She learned compassion.
“You will never rule,” she shouts to the blustering wind.
These brave words, carried forth on a gust, travel far and wide until coming to rest upon a doorstep. Truth.
The aroma drifts from the restaurant’s kitchen, teasing all who enter. Encircling, enticing, enveloping, the aroma begs us, sit for a spell. Coffee poured into waiting cups, chatter and laughter bubble forth filling empty souls. Who knew something so simple held such power.
They wait for me in the booth. We embrace, members of a club. The Wise Women. Well, so much wiser than we were once upon a time before we grew up. Before the littlest moments captured our attention. Our fingers lace around warm cups. We smile; we share our secrets and fears.
We notice little moments now that we’ve matured, like the ladybug drinking the water droplet after the sprinkler’s mist. The golden rim of a child’s greenest eye. We wonder who the government’s new strategist is, chuckle at the lack of strategy. Call us, we muse. We share stories of children, aging parents, trips we’ll take, books we’ve read, journeys we’re on.
My treasured friends, long-standing members of an informal circle of women that joined hands years ago. Once upon a time, we chased our children’s joy, earned our degrees, worked full-time, worked in and worked out. One day, just like that, the years flew by us.
We can’t save the world, some days we only save each other. Aware of each member’s weakest heart spot, we probe gently, cautiously choosing wise words, affirming worth. We’ve all shivered in grief. My friend turns and asks,
“Will you have regrets?”
“No,” I reply, “no amount of money will fix it or make me happier.”
It’s never about money; it’s always about love for another. At least that’s how it rolls for us.
We stand, gather our bills, head over to pay the cashier. We embrace, already awaiting the next time. The Wise Women’s Club adjourns.