Posted on Saturday 3 May 2014
It used to be easy, before it was every day. Some things supposedly get easier the more you do them, but the more you do them the more they change on you. The more they turn into something ever so slightly different. That doesn’t make them any less enjoyable, but it does make it more difficult to pull them from the mass and fog in your mind when you need to. The ether gets sticky, less permeable than it used to be, when you were plunging through it headfirst, full tilt, not caring to pay attention to the mile markers on the side of the road. When it mattered more than you were headed somewhere and less where you were going and how well the journey was progressing, as it were.
Slowly it changes. Suddenly the signs around you matter more. The travel becomes more of the joy and the things around you are more important. You spend more time soaking up the air along the way, running less feverishly and instead pacing yourself, not because you’re not in a hurry, or because the destination isn’t important, but because you really, really do want to enjoy your trip. You let the anticipation bubble up inside you like a minor panic while you progress, providing just enough adrenaline to help you keep moving while simultaneously reminding you how great the whole affair really is. It’s a tingle in your stomach that, while it’s not as easy as it used to be, is really enjoyable.
So it’s not as easy as it once was, but hell if it’s not as much fun.
It’s spring now. It’s been a long winter, or at least it felt like one. Cold, bitter, snowy, but just snowy enough to make it the real thing. It felt like winter, which was nice in and of itself. Now, on the other hand, it’s starting to really feel like spring – green is reappearing, and I can see the branches and the leaves waving gently from my window while I write. It’s a lovely thing, a zen thing, that makes everything just a little bit easier. The green touches the blue skies with the tips of its branches, reaching up to say hello the same way I do every morning.
I remember a long time ago I used to walk into work in the mornings and always look up – looking up is important, mind you, it’s something too many of us forget to do as we keep our eyes on the ground in front of our feet – and I’d watch the hawks and falcons floating on the thermals high above my head and envy them. Logically, of course, I know there isn’t much to envy, but I appreciated their ability to float and fly, to come and go, to choose their own direction and follow it.
I still envy them the gift of flight, but I feel more like I have a few things in common with them than I used to. And that’s a beautiful, wonderful, heart-swelling thing for me to type.