Flight

A car door slammed and they took to the sky. A cloud of tiny black birds flapped their wings wildly in unison, as if ignited by the sudden fire of the same perfect idea. They exploded out of the tree. They flew over our heads, across the field, into the rest of the world. And then they were gone.

It is one of my favorite things to witness, that moment birds spread their wings and lift away from the sturdy perch. It is peaceful and it is fierce. It is miraculous, the way they pour themselves into the expectant air, the way they glide through the wind like a knife.

Most of the world is time when we’re not here – not yet born, or long gone. Our lives, though they can sometimes feel gruelingly long and insistently significant, are neither. Blink and we are gone. Sigh and we are forgotten. Laugh, cry, jump, scream, love, hate, sing, sound your barbaric yawps. Be loud and bold and rowdy. Feel as though your life is all there is, or will ever be. Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile birds take to the sky, over and over, noticed and unnoticed. How often do we consider the song of their flight? How often do their chirps and squawks imprint themselves onto our hearts? How often does the sight of their certainty as they step off of the branch set the precedence for bravery? How often does the great span of their wings leave us breathless? How often do they teach us that there are beautiful, magical things that we will never truly understand?

Because you understand, watching them, that you understand almost nothing.

As a child you longed to know what the birds know, how to fly, how it feels to spread out the wings of your body and float along the breeze. As an adult you still long for that deep, mysterious knowledge, even if it goes unnamed. You learn that it’s a silly thing to say that you wish you could fly, and it is silly, perhaps, to keeping wishing for the impossible. But it’s even sillier not to.

Hope, when it’s done right, is a form of flight. It is stepping off of the sturdy perch of reality into the expectant air of possibility. It is pouring yourself into the world. It is gliding through the tumultuous winds as though they were made of satin – that smooth, that tender. It is wondering what exists across the field, and then what exists beyond that. It is believing, always, that there is more to be discovered. There are more lessons to be learned. There are new perches to stand on and rest awhile until we’re ready, once more, to take flight.

And so this afternoon, when those tiny black birds erupted from the branches, I stood still for a moment to delight in their secret knowing. They did not chirp or squawk or make a single sound, but anyway they called to me. They tugged at the imprints other birds had left upon my heart. They floated through me like a knife.

Most of the world is time when we’re not here, but while we are, why not spend our time – however fleeting – stretching out the soft wings of our bodies and stepping off of the perch? Why not try, over and over, noticed or unnoticed, to take flight? Why not fly across the fields and into the rest of the world before we are gone forever?

Regrets

He said that he has no regrets about his life, but I wonder if that can ever really be true for anyone. Or perhaps, I wonder if that should ever really be true for anyone. It seems to be a ubiquitous theme. “Live with no regrets.”

I understand the sentiment. He meant that we make choices and that those choices create us. We wouldn’t be so strong if we hadn’t been forced to fight. We wouldn’t be so wise if we had never made mistakes to learn from. We wouldn’t be so compassionate if we had never hurt or been hurt. We can’t regret our choices because they brought us here.

Still, when he said it, I rolled my eyes. Because I think the truth is, regret has value. I think regret holds us accountable. I think it is a consequence, sometimes the only consequence, that helps us make the right choices for ourselves. Regret creates guilt. And while many argue that guilt is a useless emotion, it can, if we’re wise enough, become action. It can, if we choose to allow it, help us to amend the past and likewise build a better future. It can be important. It can make us better.

We’re told to live in the moment and embrace the “now,” to stop dwelling on the past and worrying about the future. It isn’t bad advice, but it also isn’t entirely practical. We need the past to help us understand the present. We need the future to help us make choices in the “now.” We need the whole scope of the road to appreciate where we are on it.

Yes, we have to keep taking steps whether we want to or not, but we also shouldn’t forget what’s behind us, and we shouldn’t ignore the possibilities before us. We have to reflect and we have to dream. We can’t live moment to moment or those moments become meaningless. We need context. We need perspective. We need time, in order to unveil, no matter how slowly, the substance of our choices.

We need regret and we need guilt, at least to some degree. We need to remember how and why we hurt others. We need to remember how and why we were hurt. We need to embrace our mistakes. We need to apologize and we need to forgive. And we can’t learn how to do either without understanding what it means to suffer. We can’t move forward stronger or wiser or more compassionate without ever looking back. We can’t exist entirely in the present because there is so much more than this moment, right now.

Our stories aren’t simple. They are layered and intricate and complex. They have a history and a present and a future. They are filled with joys and accomplishments and dreams and regrets. And all of that makes them important. All of that makes them worth telling. All of that gives them depth.

Without the low points, we are shallow. Without the regrets, our roads remain flat. Without the worry, we can never discover how strong and brave we truly are.

And that is a lesson worth learning, no matter how many mistakes we must make to get there. I understand that this is what he meant. Those mistakes teach us things. They allow us to grow. They are necessary.

Still, it’s okay to regret them, if only as a way of ensuring you never forget them. It’s okay not to feel like you can live with no regrets. It’s okay not to feel like you’re living in the moment. It’s okay to carry it all with you on the long trek of your life. It doesn’t make you foolish. It doesn’t make you less. It adds weight to your existence.

And yes, sometimes that weight feels too heavy. Sometimes it feels as though you cannot take another step. But then somehow, you do. And with each burdensome step you realize, if you’re wise enough, that sometimes – most of the time – you are stronger and more powerful than anyone could guess.

Break

At the car wash she tells me to “put it in neutral and step off the brake.” I’m certain that she says it no less than a hundred times a day. She’s tired of saying it by the time I get there, twenty minutes before closing. She’s counting the cars in line behind me, because behind them, waiting patiently, is her freedom. She’s said these words over and over. She’s reached her quota for the day. She’s bored by these simple instructions.

But I’m not. I’m thrilled to put the car in neutral and step off the brake and glide along a conveyer belt without having to think. I love how it feels to take my hands off the wheel and just let go, if only for a few moments. It’s liberating. It’s freeing. It’s sometimes the best thing I can do for myself at the end of a long week. There’s a lesson to be learned here. Sometimes I just need to let go.

My life has become dependent upon control. I like to have a sense of power over the course of things. I like being able to change the things that need changing. Nothing brings me greater angst or frustration than not having that control. I hate that there are problems that I have no solutions for. I hate that there are people that I cannot help fix. I hate that I carry so much of that around with me instead of accepting it and leaving it behind. I hate that I spend so much of my time in drive or park, and so little of it in neutral. There is something to be said for just floating along.

Because when you come out the other side, you look like new. You’ve washed away what’s been clinging to you, all of life’s dirt and grime that you’ve passed through. You’re refreshed. You’re shiny. You’re ready to start all over again.

And as lame as this metaphor might be, for those few moments when your feet are off the pedals and your hands are off the wheel, you know you should feel anxious and frustrated and frightened, but you don’t. You feel safe. You feel light. You feel like you can breathe.

Letting go is like that. It’s scary. It takes every bit of strength to loosen your grip, but once your hands are open, you wonder what it was you were so afraid of. You realize that it’s easier and different than you had expected. You realize that it feels good. You look at your open hands and see all of the possibility held there.

We cling to things because we’re terrified of empty space. We surrounded ourselves with possessions because we feel like we need them to help us express who we are. We hold on to people because we’re afraid of being alone. We carry around our sadness because we would rather feel something than nothing. We try to fill our emptiness with whatever we can.

But sometimes that emptiness is necessary and beautiful. It’s the space left for possibility and hope. It’s what keeps us striving and searching and wondering. It’s what spurs us on.

And it’s important to honor it. It’s important to leave space for that emptiness in our hearts and heads and lives. It’s important to leave room for the future. It’s important to sometimes wipe the slate clean, so that we can begin again, all shiny and new.

The sun was waiting for me at the end of the conveyer belt, making its way down the slope of the sky. A friendly sign told me to go, and have a nice day. I put my foot back on the brake and my hands back on the wheel. I put the car in drive. I pulled out of the parking lot and looked back at the girl ushering in the last few cars, her face alight with her approaching freedom. I smiled. I returned my gaze to the road ahead of me, so open and long and possible. And then I drove away, shining.