I spent most of my four hours of fly time last week gaping out my window. The skin of the earth, glimpsed from a few thousand feet up, is a shocking thing. I am smitten by the patterns that dance ceaselessly through creation. The lacework of trees, twining and reaching to the sky is writ large in the delicate cut of a river over sere, wintered plains. Each canyon is a sturdy root, each gully a frail new branch. How right, and strange, that that shape, the twirl and reach of active lines means life; water in dry places, trees pressing up to bear their fragile leaves.
And the whorl of clouds, like the rills in a stream, like the whirl of ancient stars. Lines in motion, straightness bent to laughter, to dance.
Look at this world! It’s as if all the earth and sky were carved with letters and songs. The patterns are large as the land and sky I saw from my window, yet also incalculably small. The same rills and branchings, whorls and dancings, are etched in atoms as well as atmosphere. Frenzied joy is written all over this place in which we exist, in a language we can’t yet read. I think my heart, once in awhile, knows how to sing it though.
Surely we all walk awake in a real faery land and barely know it.