I'm writing to the droning croon of a tiny single-aisle, four-seat-across, metal tube turbo-prop from Portland, Maine to Newark. Snow's scattered and speckled on the soft ranges and tributaries and lakes below. It reminds me of flying back from Paris. Of Kerouac again and Jack London. It's the cold north.
On the runway, taxiing, I remember. What's life without a question in the air. What am I doing here? Is it right?
I don't know. Which isn't to say it's wrong, it's just uncertainty. The mind doesn't always know what the gut feels unless you ask it. I try to ask often. After all, it's not a calculating hard-pressed process of thought that always guides best. Not for me. No, it's instinct, a killer autonomy within that leads when I relinquish the reins and let it carry me towards a purpose.
That's when I speak without words to that all-presence. I think it's the being that some call God. It's usually those that never hear him though that give him such reverence. They're usually shouters, self-righteous, and almost always strict church-goers, enveloped in what they believe to be right because it's what's been fed to them by voices that travel through the air. Off the pulpit. They can't fathom the sanity of those that hear the silent ones. Or perhaps they just aren't listening.
Ah, yes.
A smile creeps across at the lost rambling. I've found it again. A warm comfort, and I remember. The runway. The taxiing turbo-prop, and the question. I don't ask of myself because alas, like I said, I don't really know. I just ask, I throw the question out to be reflected back by the universe. Today he's Matthew McConaughey. I ask, "Is this good? Is it right? How'm I doing here."
He smiles and says, "Alright, all-right, all right."
It feels good, like some purpose, that one I've been searching for. It's a crisp fresh air with Claire. Thanks Maine, I can't wait to be back againe.
[this is right, this is well. I can do this]
