Flying like a Bird

I am sitting on my deck and looking up to the sky. It is clear and blue with the sunshine looming from the other side of the house. The day is almost over. It has been a tough one. Voices from work remain in my head.

Why did you change this paragraph?

Why didn’t you keep this sentence?

I know his words don’t make sense but he is the writer, you have to please him.

Can you edit three chapters in one week?

Quickly, I shake my head, trying to push the voices away. They are all gone now. It is quiet again. Except for one sound, the sound of birds. It comes from everywhere: left, right, above.

But I don’t find them noisy, just peaceful. And even though they are flying back and forth between trees every 30 seconds or so, they don’t seem busy to me, just free.

Yeah, I know how it feels.

Five years ago, I would take advantage of a nice afternoon like this to fly. I would drive to the small airport not far from my house where I kept my airplane.

It was a 1941 Piper Cub. I had it for ten years, but I felt a thrill every time I opened the hangar door and laid eyes on her. She was so pretty. I called her the Yellow Butterfly.

She was super light, just a little over 700 pounds. My friends were always surprised to see me, a woman just over five feet tall, dragging her out from the hangar like a baby carriage.

A Piper Cub is a single-engine monoplane, covered with fabric instead of aluminum. It does not use any computerized equipment. It does not even have a radio. To start the engine I would flip the propeller down with my right hand while gripping the plane with the other hand. I had to hold the plane so it would not fly away without me. It can happen!

It felt so good to be up there, especially when the wind would wash all over me. I would always fly with the windows wide open. It didn’t have a GPS. I would use a simple map, take my direction from a compass in front of me, and check my progress by watching the hills and rivers and railroad tracks pass beneath me. Totally traditional.

The only equipment around me was the control stick between my legs, a pair of rudder pedals at my feet, and the throttle lever at my left hand. I worked them all together whenever I wanted to make a turn, or go up, or go down. Nothing complex, just trying to fly as precisely as I could.

“Honey, aren’t you going to watch Jeopardy?” My husband is calling, scattering my memories.

There is no more Yellow Butterfly. It was a dream in my life. Now it has been transformed into another dream.

“Which one is the winner from last week?” I ask my husband.

He is my new dream, a dream that came true.

Today is over. Tomorrow is a new day.


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