The Avian Fluke

I go up this afternoon. First lesson with new instructor.

I’ve had a couple lessons before. Nothing serious, and never more than two lessons consecutively. It’s a first lesson in what will be a string of them culminating, at minimum, in certification as a private pilot. It quickens my pulse ever so slightly.

I got into this topic with She Who Is So Lovely last night over the phone. And I did a bad job of communicating exactly what I’m feeling here - it goes way beyond the art and science of flying…it’s more like an antidote to something inside me, perhaps poisonous, that I’ve been able to draw a bead on. Something I might be able to eradicate. Therapy would probably be cheaper but not nearly as fun or satisfying.

I’ll revisit this topic later. I’m still having a hard time organizing my thoughts in this realm with any semblance of order. The closest I can come to it is that flying is simply the vehicle, the understandable construct of something less tangible that I have needed for a very, very long time. Something that no one can give me but me. Something which must be earned and which, ultimately, will give me the sense of self that I have lacked for three decades. I know that’s cryptic, and I apologize but it will have to be enough for now.

But my future looks and smells bright…fresh…like springtime is supposed to be. And I suppose that’s something.