(notes from my journal, forty thousand feet in the sky)

Flying inspires me. The novelty will probably never wear off for my simple mind. The fact that we wingless creatures can soar the open heights fills me with awe. The chance to explore the anatomy of the clouds, to plunge ourselves into this white, ethereal field of cotton - well, it's fun. I love the momentum of takeoff, that one second before the wheels lift and you think, "Here it comes! Go, baby, go!" as if your will and encouragement are what gives the plane that last needed push. I smile, every time, even though I try not to. What a victory for mankind! What an accomplishment! And I look around at the people who have already begun to sleep or read, and I wonder, how can you not mark this moment? Look at us! We fly! We did it! We conquered gravity!

I don't want flying to ever be commonplace to me. I don't want to pull the blind down and block out the clouds. I don't want to close my eyes against the patchworked terra firma beneath me. I want to feel the magnitude, the history, the effort, the sheer miracle, that has brought me into the sky. And if I seem naive, or inexperienced, or totally lacking in sophistication with my nose pressed against the window, I don't care. My mind is on other things- like the twisting of rivers, the geometry of corn fields, the glimmering of lakes, the cresting meringue of clouds.

The world becomes bigger as the people become smaller, and I am reminded of life beyond my own vista.

I see the world, and know that I am such a small part of it. And yet, it's exactly the way it should be. The world is too big for any one of us. It takes us all to fill up the nooks and cranies, we each hold up our own little end of the world.

What a lovely way to live, and what a beautiful sight it makes.