Part of the Blogging A to Z Challenge. I’m blogging every day in April, except Sundays, thematically from A to Z. Find out more here.
My husband and I took a hot air balloon ride in late September, 2001, in Stockton, NJ. It was his wedding gift to me. We got to the foggy field at 6:30a.m. for an early morning lift off. If you’ve never risen thousands of feet in the air in a basket, it’s quite the experience. Terror filled me. I dared not move and tip the basket. I knew for sure we’d all fall out. Diving to our death.
I finally succumbed to the wonder of being held by woven wicker. The mist melted away and the sun stretched long and slow across our canvas. We floated over lands, seamless from town to town. A place with no boundaries. Up, up so high. We cruised beside small airplanes, silver bullets flashing in the sun. There in the distance spread the NYC skyline, bereft of its beloved Twin Towers just weeks before.
We soared and dipped, hanging miraculously in the breeze. Silence enveloped us as we floated over lakes and leaves of gold and red. We skimmed the water and rose up again. I could almost touch the trees – and the sky. Heaven and Earth blended into one vista.
And then we fell. Returned to land where feet could be planted firm.
I dream of being a speck in the sky again. Where there’s nothing beneath my feet or over my head. The world is above and below me and dreams are alive.