I flew high today.
Up in an airplane, up, up, way, way up.
I'll tell you what I saw: everything.
I saw round and rolling and creased and pulled. The hills looked like soft mama bellies. They were pristine, these hills. I wanted to lay into them. Really, I wanted to be dropped from the plane down onto one of their peaks.
Because, see, there was nothing around. Nothing anywhere. These hills, they just upped and then downed all over themselves and there was nothing for miles and miles. I wanted to be in the middle of it. I wanted to be alone there, in a small round something, with nothing but wild around me for as long as I needed the wild.
I saw tall, craggy mountains. They flew up, strident and sure. They did not dare apologize for what they are or what they do. Their posture was perfect.
And then, as I continued to fly, I drifted over liquid glitter - lakes and rivers so still, and then suddenly alight and alive right from inside of themselves.
"That's what my middle looks like sometimes."
"Have I ever told you how much I love that faint birthmark on your neck?"
There was nothing outside of my tiny round window that looked of gloss or smooth or ruler-straight.
There was nothing that transmitted the words "easy" or "hide" or "don't".
Every single thing I saw with my brand-new eyes today was as exquisite as the faint birthmark on my neck.
Now I've landed.
And so: now, to see.