A Third Dimension

To get off the ground has always been difficult.

Since mankind first learned to run and move and understand,

We have envied the creatures that have claimed the freedom of a third dimension.

We have longed to map our potential in spheres instead of circles,

And to breach that upwards that eludes us.

I love airports and the hours they hold all bottled up within them.

I love the tacky news stores with racks of candy and the long, wide corridors.

On a plane a feeling of suspension – not of gravity, but of time – pervades my senses

And suddenly it seems my minutes are so meaningless I can waste them how I choose.

I love the way the plane noses up into an angle surely steeper than Everest,

And watching the miniaturized landscape spread out below you, unobtainable, distant.

There is a weightlessness that comes with swinging, when the arms are long enough.

The air-cutting movement form one end to the next is exhilarating,

But the true freedom comes right at the edge of the arc as the seat goes out instead of up,

When you feel like you could just keep going forward, just slide off the cusp of your seat,

And never land again.

I was never good at climbing trees, I was always too afraid of the uncertainty.

I was always too aware that I could fall at any moment, my foot could slip so simply,

And the earth would rise up to meet me in a rush of air.

But there was something about struggling higher, always reaching one branch up,

Feeling the subtly changing sway of the trunk beside me,

Feeling the branch made for grabbing – its width, its bark made for holding on to;

And I wanted to reach higher, I wanted to make it to the crest of the evergreen

But I never could.

So often man describes lightness, freedom, tranquilty as “like flying” –

As if that action should require no work and give only reward, the vast skies;

As if once man can lift himself off of the ground, all the worries of every day

Will fade behind him, indistinguishable from the land.

Sometimes I stand on the pedals of my bike and pump my feet like I am sprinting,

And I rush across the pavement faster than my eyes can track my progress.

Sometimes everything on the ground – this unknowable web of connections –

Is simply too tangled; sometimes I want to leave it below me until it becomes obsolete.

Sometimes when my eyes well up and I don’t want to feel my own tears fall,

I just push through those pedals like my feet are meant to go all the way to the ground.

And sometimes that isn’t enough, I just can’t go fast enough. I have to go up.

Sometimes when the air starts to eddy off me and stir through my hair, I pretend

That each push of my foot to the ground is also a tiny push upwards,

Every time my pedal comes around is another propeller turn to take me up,

I pretend that the click of my gears is the slats deploying and my wings are extending out,

And maybe if I keep pushing, keep going forever, someday I’ll lift away from the earth.

To get off the ground has always been difficult.

But I’m willing to try,

If only one more time.


XXX--