The Landing
Drove through parts of Houston yesterday. Traveled up 45 from Sagemont, into downtown, and out again via Interstate 10. Went through areas where I lived a large part of my life. It was a bit like visiting an old movie set. There was a scene here, and scene there. Passed my university. Passed my high school. Passed my old neighborhood. The first one where I lived as a teenager.
It was a clear day, too, with light clouds against a blue sky, with light traffic. It was a day where I could give it over to melancholy, and let the mind wandered around thinking about the things I’d done and the things I was doing. A making sense of it day. For a brief moment, as I tried to put it all together, I felt like a man who’d landed just short of the runway, thinking this wasn’t where I wanted to be. But then I realized I’ve never known where I really wanted to be. I just ended up places.
So, my mind shifted toward the idea that I maybe my life was simple me flying on instruments, in the clouds, always looking for a place to land. And although I’ve never done it, I suppose the trick to flying on instruments is to have a good imagination and be able to visualize what the instruments are telling you. To see the see the sky, to see the terrain, to trust that everything will work out. To know there are still scenes to shoot, and roles to play, and lines to be spoken. And to know that landing, short, long, or right on the dime, is the trick. To get down, safely. To live.