I love flying.
[I do not actually love flying, but] I love the perspective and clarity of being up high above the world. And last week, all of the East was blanketed in crisp, new, unspoilt snow so that as the plane burst through the heavy clouds, below were layers and layers of white--clean.
It's a funny thing when you leave a cloudy day behind you and once you climb out, it's a sunny day. Maybe that's why United flies the "friendly skies?" It's always bright and cheery everywhere up there? But my favorite days to fly are the clearer ones, where you can see straight to the earth and even get that little tingle in the bottom of your feet if you think about it too long. Once New York was behind me, this was my view of the Midwest, territory that is as familiar to me as anything with its quilt-work spread of cornfields and grazing pastures dotted with circles of cookie cutter subdivisions, all full of wonderful, wholesome people with wonderful, wholesome hearts.
We passed over one of these neighborhoods and between the plane and the houses was one little puff of cloud. It was the whispiest thing, a whisper of vapor and cotton; yet it darkened the whole subdivision below it. I thought how all those wonderful, wholesome-hearted people might have been sitting over their cereals and coffees, sad to see a gloomy day ahead of them. From those seats in breakfast nooks in matching houses, everything beyond looked dark and heavy.
But see, I could see where the cloud ended and the light began. It was just on the other side of the neighborhood, just out the front gates practically. And I wished so much that I could call down to them, "It's sunny on the other side."
Perspective makes all the difference.