Not very long ago, flying was not really an option for humans, unless you fell off a cliff, or found yourself in the talons of a pterodactyl, who on a whim decided at fifteen thousand feet to become a vegetarian.
In the 1920's, my dad (above) used to build his own airplanes out of Harley Davidson motorcycle engines, and chewing gum. He hand carved the propellers using a spoke shave. He flew whithersoever he wished.
And sometimes he flew right into the ground.
This is a painting my son, Jesse did a while ago depicting himself flying. He wrote:
"It was like pushing off from the bottom of a swimming pool rather than flying. I hadn't actually flown before, but every kid has his own idea of just what it would be like. I didn't have to jump. Only gliding through the air. Nothing could be heard except the boats in the water and the sun shining on the lawns.
Stillness like nobody could describe. Realness like a truck with wood in the back or a paper cut from a love letter. The good kind of real. Free and real like the kind God allows only for a twinkle on this side of eternity."
This angel was drawn by daughter, Faith. Flying is a lighthearted leap! A sigh going the other way. Do you remember any dreams of flying? I used to have them as a child, and never wanted them to end. If I found myself waking, I would try so hard to crawl back into my dream.
My granddaughter drew this picture or herself flying. See her wings? In Madeleine L'Engle's book Walking on Water, she ponders a memory of flying as a child. She is certain that she truly did fly. I think I did too, but would never mention it to anyone. Oh, look I've gone and mentioned it.
When we are motivated by love, when we live in joy, when we follow our dreams and our deeper instincts, do we not also find ourselves flying?
When astronaut, Alan Shepard was silently hurtling through space, he looked back at the Earth, and he wept.