Window Seat

The approach into Lisbon is rough.

As the aircraft swings out over the ocean, a rising gust turns to turbulence

and

for a moment the plane is weightless and

drops -- inspiring an instinctive reckoning with mortality and

an awareness of where I am

in relation to the ground.

It’s s a feeling or

the echo

of a feeling experienced not much earlier as I read a line by Norman

MacCaig, which,

centred in the space between gull and sunshaft, stated simply that

these things are there to be noticed.

This too kickstarted the tangle of neurons in the heart, which sparked,

and for less than the smallest second I was aware

of the infinite space between synapses and

the light on the ocean seemed brighter.

There are things to be seen even when you are not looking.

The mind is its own place after all.

But visited by disparate voices can be comforted and

can make a heaven of hell.

Indeed,

the writing of some

can carry you over

the many things that claw and tear.

And go further still to

form a bulwark against the ephemeral nature of existence,

or remind that

there is still beauty in the world, and maybe even

that it is in the majority by

some distance,

an antidote perhaps to chaos.

The runway grows in size until it

is everything.

The wheels touch down.

Some of the passengers are moved to applaud while I

recall a line by Sebald, who was reminded, once, by a male voice choir of

just how far I had come, meanwhile, from my place of origin.

And knowing that I was not the first to feel this way

was reassured, somewhat.