Looking down from 35,000 feet up fascinates me, how you can’t differentiate the canyons from the mountains or up from down. Is what I’m seeing a ridge or a river, a mountain or a mole hill? Flying over the Sea of Cortez, peering west across a hump of land, is that the Pacific Ocean I spy on the other side or the endless blue sky floating above a peak?
Coming home from Zihuatanejo, Mexico, I am riveted by the sudden sight below of an active volcano, steam venting from the top. Then right beside it another ancient volcano with its top blown off resembling Mt. Saint Helens in my home state of Washington. Then two little cinder cones not far away.
It all takes me completely out of myself. The headaches recede from my awareness as I wing my way high over the surface of the earth This shift from my inner to the outer world, this change in perspective displaces pain.
At home the whole south side of our house is filled with windows in every room. When my kids were young, it was a distinct advantage to be able to see what they were up to. Now I have a rocking chair situated in the bay window. It’s my go-to spot for reading, writing, drawing or basking in the sun surrounded by light and leaf, the next best thing to being outside no matter what the weather. The form and lines of the apple tree in winter, the sun shining on the fir flooring, the sight of a hawk perched on a tree near the bird feeder, looking for an easy mark, a fast-food meal. They all catch my eye, pluck my heart strings and move me, for the present moment, beyond the weight of my worries.