After three snoozes of my KLOCKIS (I believe that is Swedish for ‘multi-purpose alarm clock with colourful backlight’), I rose this morning to assess the day’s weather.
It was cloudy. But the sun had done well to penetrate and colourfully illuminate the layer of Altostratus; the sky’s paddle-pop palette whetting my appetite for tranquillity of thought and a day of deep meditation.
I am lucky to have such a view to enjoy. To my right, the populous hills surrounding Randwick; behind which a constant stream of planes take off, landing gear still retracting, each banking sharply in my direction.
To my left, a virtually uninterrupted view across the tree tops and flats adjacent, to the ocean not a kilometre away. The water appears calmer than previous days; the waves now ripples; their white turbulent peaks buried deep once again.
The air this morning is fresh. But not too fresh that would require me to put clothes on… I stretch my arms into the air and inhale deeply as three birds lost in schizophrenic flight chase one another past my nose in celebration of the morning’s glory.
I am no morning person but surely there is no peaceful a time as now? I pause for a moment to express my gratitude. Then, I open my eyes, returning my gaze to what surrounds. As ever, I search each inanimate object for deep philosophical meaning. Because I like to feel normal…
But today’s deep metaphorical insight comes not from a tree or a passing cloud but from the trio of Rainbow Lorikeets playfully dancing on the ledge of our neighbour’s balcony. I observe them hopping along. It seems that when you’re a bird, walking is pretty, err, lame.
I think to myself how scared I would be if I too were boisterously parading on such precarious ledges. At six-foot-three a fall from such a height would likely result in thousands of dollars in medical bills and months of rehabilitation. Though if I were just fourteen inches tall with toothpicks for bones…
I ponder the meaning contained within and pose the question:
Would we still be afraid of falling if we knew we could fly?
Surely not. For in my travels so far, I am yet to come across a basophobic bird. Nor has one stopped me to ask, ‘What is my purpose here?’. Putting aside the obvious communication difficulties of course…
But I must ask again: Would we still be afraid of falling if we knew we could fly?
Maybe we can fly after all? Maybe we just haven’t figured it out yet? Or maybe, and far more likely, flying for us means something completely different.
And yet in both cases, we are separated by the same thing: A leap of faith.