This week's Sunday Scribbling: soar or sore
This word, this verb: to soar. It holds no attraction to me. Nietzche says, “The higher we soar, the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly.” Blake says, "No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings." All these eagles flying, all this soaring above the clouds. All these wings spread in flight.
I have never been one to soar. I never see animals in clouds or wonder what it would be like to walk on the moon. I don't marvel at flight; I don't watch the planes take off and land. Birds, though lovely, do not mesmerize me with their flight. It is the way it should be.
Give me not wings, but great scoops of earth. I wish not to soar but to lie in warm earth, or to rub red clay against my skin. I was the child searching for wild strawberries while the others spun in circles and jumped from the roof. Would I like to jump out of an airplane? No. I will be on the ground, warming my legs in the sun and watching for you.
I am small enough already.