Flights of Fancy

posted by request, from my journal, feb 2002

The colors are muted today, a thick lint blanket cuddling the mountain in white, finally snow for them. The landscape has taken on the colors of a faded painting, the adobe beige of the city mirrored in a yellow fog clinging to the horizon. The charm of traveling is fading, too, and I feel a need to be productive. I wish I could see the sun once more before I leave here though.

Sunday morning found us out on the dessert....learning to crew for a hot air balloon. A little like crewing for a sailboat, but all we really did was help to "fill" the balloon, and then fold it into it's bag when the trip was over. It was cold, and interesting, not like flying up as much as it is like the earth slipping away... (plagiarized unabashedly from the literature) until we were aloft. Then it was more like being on top of a tall building... but floating with the gentle breezes. I expected to be nervous, but the only scary part was trying to figure out exactly who thought it was okay to give me a boost into the five foot high basket. No one I knew was still on the ground behind me.

The sun was already up by the time we got the thing filled and launched, and by the time we came down, folded the balloon and were back in the van, coffee would have been very nice. But tradition required champagne. It seems balloonists used to have problems landing on foreign soil and being considered... well... foreign, so they began carrying a bottle of wine with them on each trip. The theory was that sharing local vintage with the inhabitants would convince them of the friendly nature of the balloonists, even without being able to speak the language. A little wine goes a long way for friendliness.

It was Sunday morning, and we finished our little ceremony with this Irish prayer:

The winds have welcomed you with softness.
The sun has blessed you with his warm hands.
You have flown so high and so well that
God has joined us together in laughter and set us
gently back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.


I realized when I got to the airport that this trip had really been a flight of fancy for me. A recognition that I was not afraid of the mountain, or the sky, or the planes. It was a time to set free the anxiety that has hovered over my mind since September, and reclaim some of the spirit that I have grown into. As I wandered the airport waiting for my flight, I heard a man speaking to another passenger, and was enchanted by his voice. It was deep and resonant and overwhelmingly sensual. I took my book and sat a few rows from him, just so I could listen to him speak. I wasn't eavesdropping, couldn't even tell you the subject of his conversation, but his tones were lyrical, and magnetic. When it was time to board, I was among the first "thirty" passengers, so got on the plane first. I made eye contact with him because I wanted to see the eyes of that voice, and smiled. He was traveling with a woman, but carried a book titled Annulment, and his gestures indicated that it was the subject of their conversation.

Deep brown by the way. The color of polished walnut. Dark black hair, thick and straight, cut to frame his face. Features carved from the tinted palette of the southwest, clearly native American. He was tall, I would guess six foot four, though I confess that I am not tall enough for most men not to seem tall to me. He had an athletic build, and was dressed completely in black... turtleneck, slacks, shoes. Gorgeous. At least my age, perhaps a few years older. When he smiled back, I noticed his teeth were not quite straight, one of those little imperfections that makes a handsome man easy to like. I felt like it was a perfect ending to the trip, and promised myself to write him into a story.

I took my seat by the window, arranged my notebooks and paraphernalia, and was writing that description as I waited for the plane to take off.

Guess who sat next to me?

So much for reading. Or writing.

I tried for a while, as he was finishing his book on Annulment. Now I don't know about you, but I've never seen anyone read a book on annulment before, and couldn't resist the comment.

Turns out he studied to be a priest. Decided he wasn't cut out to be celibate (proof that there is a God) and married. Had two daughters and a son, in their twenties. But his wife died, 17 months, 29 days and 4 hours from the time we were speaking.

It also turned out that a lot of people wanted him to date. Them. (Imagine that.) (I quickly crumpled up the piece of paper with the names of all my single friends.) He is a devout Catholic, and didn't want to do anything "wrong." (shhh! I was good!) Seems there are a lot of women in "our age group" that are not quite as picky. He was glad to learn from his book that the church was even more liberal than he.

But the really fascinating part of this man was what he does for a living.

He is an Ethics Officer for a nuclear weapons facility.

I was surprised that there was such a thing.

I think I feel a little safer in the world knowing someone like him holds the position.

I'll try not to hold the fact that he wanted to know where to go Country Western dancing against him. Nobody's perfect.

The airport in Albuquerque has a beautiful bronze statue by Lincoln Fox of a Native American taking flight on the heels of an eagle. The inscription on the bronze Dream of Flight reminded me, once more, not to fear flying.

The dream of flight is born within the heart of
man, embracing the desire to be free from the
confines of the earth's surface.

Hopefully the dream includes the possibility
of freedom from limiting thought and action.

As our imagination is freed to receive greater
truths, the fears, closed thinking and poverty
of spirit will be left behind ... far below.

It was good to be close to the sun.

Dawn on the Sandia Mountains

Another day