Glad You Could Make It

57.

Efficient, utilitarian, sleek technologies have always pleased me. The combination of art, science, necessity and even mythology creates a healthy faith that despite our propensity to do otherwise, our collective future is bright. Some call this a romantic and outdated approach; one where the universe is seen as an ally ready to assist in any way providing that a few simple criteria are first met as prerequisites. The criteria are intent, purpose, tactics and truth. One must be, riffing on this thread, one hundred percent committed to the cause. It also helps, experience has demonstrated, to have an honest appreciation for — and respect of — anyone or anything that might hold an alternative viewpoint. Beauty can be, as is often quoted, in the eye of the beholder, but truth lives in the heart.  And the ‘bigger picture’ purpose in the head. 

I am considering the challenge a poet (or songwriter) might feel as she scribbles rhyming couplets on a banana leaf. Or how the philosopher might spend a thousand sleepless nights in classification of a hierarchy of needs (or sleep aids). What color best suits the emotions of my truth? What turn of phrase or mathematical theorem solves this mystery of hope? What is the sound of fear? 

Since TOM did not specify any great urgency, I am enjoying the short drive with Ruby to the usual spot. She is, after all, at least partially responsible for this four-wheel segue across the philosophers cobble stones. I use the voice command to ask her to play some Rossini in the hope of sneaking in one final movement of relaxation, an overture with an inspiring crescendo. 

We arrive at the air strip where another marvel of technology patiently waits, the company Gulfstream G280. I had the rare luxury of making a quick stop at the cabin en route to properly pack so I grab my backpack, toss the keys on the driver’s seat and sing Ruby a ta-ta to the waning notes of The Thieving Magpie. 

Once aboard, seated in the fore situation room, backpack stowed properly beneath my cushy Lazy-Boy task chair, I take one final deep breath of freedom’s finest and with a snap of a finger (hearing Rossini’s finale), put my game face on. 

In a quick sequence of events, I do love the drama of takeoff, I am pushed by invisible g-forces back into my seat, informed that we are at cruising at altitude and offered a choice of a sandwich or a veggie roll with my pot of high-octane Arabica. 

I suppose after all these years I shouldn’t be so surprised at the dramatic change a successful rest and recovery period provides. With me it has always been more pronounced at the emotional level, but I can feel a powerful surge of vitality along with a more refined picture of what my meaning is. The purpose of me. My utility. My service. My mission. This is, I accept, who I am. And this is, for better or for worse, what I do. And I am ready to do. 

The giant video screen snaps to attention with a jarring bolt of light and I see TOM looking at me, or rather right through me. He makes a point by looking at his Breitling Aviator wristwatch before addressing me verbally.

“Glad you could make it.”