Flying is not limited to those who only have wings. It is not for the elite. It is not for pilots, air hostesses, co-pilots and the curious and frivolously wealthy, who have more time than us mere mortals. How are they the ones who are able to transcend space and time, hop into a Tardis of their own personal construction? My guess: their essence is finance.
Yet coins and paper cannot buy the auroral sensation of riding a bike for the first time in years. Feet leave the ground, the air is fresh and sweet, and the landscape moves past both lazily and speedily, for this motion is a departure from the ordinary; the aircraft has left the gate. The tree leaves breeze by as varied and layered as the strata – cover in shades of green that doesn’t affect the motion of my movement.
Everyone knows any form of travel is sweet, made sweeter by the reminder that nothing matters except the present moment. While the unsung heroes travel by bike or foot, this method does not deny their journey any significance. For they too can see the sparkles on the water – perhaps noticing a little more magic -, appreciate the next curve of the road, and will momentarily leave the ground, weightless, in a spot of pleasurable sunlight. There is no drama, there is only being, with photographs captured and smiled over, even more rich and precious as those paid for on faraway excursions, perhaps just slightly more precious because of their simplicity.
And oh, how has she flown: Winter in New York. Silver Bells played and there was love. Spring in New Jersey, tears fell for what was gone forever and what might never be. Summer in Greece, the heart truly opened for the first time. Fall presented a new world with growth and not decay, with miles journeyed hand in hand, and with achievements and discoveries forever treasured in stardust.