I am surrounded by dark earth, the substrate from which I was born. Eventually I will die and return to it. For now, though, I live here inhabiting a meager concentric circle around this orbiting body. I am pulled forcefully toward the surface – I feel the tug in my soul. An attraction to this giant magnet.
I wonder if I am the positive or negative pole.
My mind considers, my gaze follows my feet. My stride is a predictable pattern in the dance of life. And while I know the rhythm by heart, my eyes are drawn down to witness each step. From time-to-time I take a furtive glance ahead to check my progress from the village poste.
Curious how eyesight obeys the same rules of gravity.
A gust of wind blows me to the left. My unsettled hair whips my brow and teases my temples. Winds – les vents – are like that. Reminders that, in truth, very little keeps us rooted to this earth. The wind taunts me to defy gravity. So says the psalmist, I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
“Look up, look up!”, the winds seem to call. “Follow me”.
Spring storms have passed leaving a brilliant azure sky. Sea birds dive and dodge against the wind to keep their balance. They make no progress but revel in the game. Crystalline waters below, they check the choppy waves to spy prey, knowing they are hopeless to pursue it for now.
We must follow the breeze and set aside all of our objectives today.
A new scent meets me on the breeze. Sweet like lilac, but musky and warm against my cheek. I look up to find Wisteria enveloping an evergreen tree. Only the furthest extremities of the native tree can be seen. Once, perhaps it chose to be cloaked by this gorgeous climbing vine. Now it must surrender.
Sometimes we choose a mask that’s not our own.
Violet blooms cascade in every direction like over-flung buxom dollops of frosting. Wisteria’s long arms swing lazily like a thousand-tentacled sea creature, dangling lavender clusters like bait. Then the wind grasps hold of a single delicate blossom and carries her up. Surprised, she scales higher than the birds.
Untethered and free, she is released from gravity’s tight grasp.
In her, I recognize myself. Too often I am content to walk with my head down, my eyes trained forward no more than a few feet. I am constrained by ties of my own making and move along to the rhythm of a story not my own. But I can lift up my eyes. I can fly. I can see the horizon and sail straight on ‘til morning.
And in that moment, I train my eyes against the sun and realize that our majesty, also, knows no bounds.
40 Weeks in France 