When I was riding back home from work in Portland yesterday, I saw a ladybug land on the outside of the max. It simply landed there for a few seconds and then flew away and my eyes followed it until it disappeared from view. It made me wonder: why did it do that? Why do lady bugs land on max trains or animals decide to run across the road only when cars come or cranes stay with one partner during their lifetime when humans have such a hard time doing that? Why do things do the things they do? Why do we love one person and not another? It's so beautiful that things are the way they are; there are so many inner workings of humans and animals and, though I wonder why a lady bug would land on a max train, I like not knowing. I like seeing little things that awe me and being able to appreciate them--because I don't know. Somethings become more beautiful and wondrous the more you know about them, but, on the other hand, somethings remain more beautiful and wondrous when they are left unknown. So I guess I will never know why that ladybug landed on the max train instead of a flower or a blade of grass, but maybe it just felt like doing something different. Or maybe it envied the silent people, except for the lady that wouldn't stop sneezing, sitting inside, though that wouldn't make sense because the ladybug is the one that gets to fly around and not worry about things. Sometimes I think it would be nice to be a ladybug or a bird or a bat--anything that can fly away.
Do you know what feeling I immensely love? Well, other than back rubs, of course, I have this thing of really enjoying sitting at the bottom of a pool and looking up; there's something so peaceful and relaxing in the way the water moves, how, though water is easily penetrated, the surface of the water acts as a barrier that cuts off all the cares and noise of the regular world--and I don't mind if it burns my eyes a little. My biggest problem is that I can't hold my breath long enough to take everything in to the degree that I wish I could. I guess on top of flying, it would be nice to be able to breath underwater.
I'm making things sound terrible, though, as if I would rather be either be above the ground or somewhere below and just not on it like I am now. But I would be lying if I didn't admit that there are some wonderful things to partake of here on the ground. If I were only able to fly or swim underwater, I'm certain I would miss walking along the path near my house that conjures of memories of last summer, rubbing my feet together when I'm under two blankets in bed and dancing in my room by myself. Yes, I think it's much better to be on the ground, but it would be something, wouldn't it, if we could experience all three?
