TruGlobalist

The ubiquitous nature of reality, that often robs us of our childhood intrigues, can also lead us to cynicism. As adults we shun the ethereal and abstract for the physical and tangible. This journey, often undertaken to satisfy the orthodoxy of doubt, is unoriginal and stale. The limitless sphere that is faith, is supplanted for the shifting sands of skepticism and presumed rationality. It is here where we loose true logic and accept presumed intellectualism.

On occasion, as a writer, I like to dig deep into past memories, and bring forth the creative spark, that is found in the ethereal and abstract. This is my attempt at sidestepping cynicism. Hence the following memory, written by me, awhile back, as a tribute to innocent intrigues.

CLOUD HOPPING

In an instant I was flying; soaring between time and space. My heart beat so fast I thought it would burst. My hands were clammy and my arms were numb from nervousness. For the first time in my life I was on a plane.

I can’t believe This, I thought to myself. I’m actually going to see clouds. I may even see where God lives.

Perhaps it’s not normal for a nine year old boy to be fascinated with clouds. But I was. I remember lying on the grass on warm cloudy days counting them. They appealed to me. They looked funny. Their shape, their color and their size. Their ability to hide from the moon intrigued me.

Who made them? I would often ask myself. Where do they go when it’s nighttime? What are they made of?

This love affair with clouds sometimes got me in trouble. I often talked about them at school. And sometimes other kids called me “Cloud boy”. At first I found this humorous. But after awhile I hated the name calling. So I decided never  to speak of them again. Not to anyone at school, anyway.

I try to pinpoint the moment this fascination with clouds started. It seems it was always there. From the moment I saw them I loved them.

One day I asked my uncle about them. Where do clouds get their water for rain? My uncle’s response was classic. It still resonates in my head. Clouds wait for everybody to go to sleep, He said. And when no body is looking, they come down and get water in the river. Wow, I thought to myself. Clouds are smart.

Another day I asked my Sunday school teacher about them. Don’t you know? She asked. God made them and he squeezes them like a towel when he wants it to rain. I still picture God’s giant hands tightly squeezing them when it’s raining.

Having these ideas about clouds made me want to get closer. I wanted to touch them. Even taste them. They probably taste like wet toilet paper, I often thought. They probably taste bad.

I didn’t sleep a wink the night before the flight. I was too anxious and nervous. My father wanted my siblings and me to visit his native country, the Dominican Republic.

I tossed and turned the whole night until the sunlight greeted me. Throughout the night, I imagined myself hopping from one cloud to another. I knew the time had come. Soon, I would be flying next to the clouds.

The plane was long and narrow like a metal pipe. It looked like two school buses lined up one after the other. It was cold inside the plane. The air conditioner was blowing full blast. My arms were sprayed with goose pimples as a result. But I didn’t care. I wanted to fly.

Racing down the runway at full speed scared me. I held on to my seat as tightly as I could. I thought breathing heavily would tip the plane over. So I held my breath until my lungs begged me to breathe again. But fear was a minor inconvenience. I was looking forward to meeting the sky.

The roar of the engine tussled under my seat. I could hardly hear what my sister was telling me. Without warning she lifted the window covering. And there they were. Clouds.

I leaned forward towards the oval shaped window. I peeked out. They were everywhere. They surrounded us like an ocean of white, fluffy pillows. I wanted to open the door and walk on them. They looked strong enough to hold me. Some were large chunks of cotton ice burgs, scattered, throughout. Others were irregular shaped clovers, dangling, on the outer fringes of the sky. They were majestic and humble.

This fascination with clouds has disappeared. The trials of life can deflate innocent intrigues. But sometimes, when the sky is blue, I lookup and remember. When I was aware of clouds. When I loved them.