"Grandma, look! Do you see those ghost clouds in the sky?" My four-year old grandson excitedly pointed out the white puffy clouds lying over the mountains as we drove towards our home in Provo. "They are talking to me!"
"Really Will? What are they saying?"
"They are saying, 'Don't go to Will's house, go to grandma's house.'"
I suppose in one way that's a clever way of saying I'd rather go to your house right now Grandma. However, I've had an extra measure of time to ponder on clouds this past fortnight (that's how they say it in England). I've flown under them, over them, all around and through them. I've watched clouds hang dark and low over the London skies and then I tried to hide under an umbrella as heavy clouds literally dumped two years worth of rain on us in two short days!
There is a familiar feeling I get each time I fly across the ocean. The very first time I snuggled my four month old son next to my chest as we headed out on a brand new, year-long adventure to the Middle East. Perhaps the white puffy clouds blanketing the sky then were trying to tell me something, but I was slow to hear.
I don't remember seeing the sky or the clouds as we left our homeland just a few short years later. This time with three more children on board. No clouds, no sky, no time to ponder, just a bumpy, busy, chaotic plane ride, and that same gnawing feeling.
Two months later though, I saw it. This time I heard it, loud and clear. Like Will, those ghost clouds talked to me all the way back home as I flew over the ocean to see my dad one last time.
These are photos from a blog post that I just happened upon two days ago, one that I had begun four years ago and never finished.
Ironic, I think, that as I stare at these photos and remember that long flight on the way home to see my dad for the last time. He died nearly 28 years ago. Tonight, I looked up in the corner of the computer and see that his birthday is in just five days.
September 20th, my dad would turn 83 years old. My mom is 81. She has lived a long time without him. He died when he was only 55 years old.
September 20th is also the day my daughter Gretchen will be flying over
the Atlantic on her way to study at Cambridge. She and I are alike in so many ways. I wonder if it's the same for her when she climbs up into that bit of heaven in the sky, where space and time become soundless out there in the vast nowhere. I wonder if she really listen then, if the clouds won't talk to her, too.
Maybe if you're a child like Will, you hear them right where you are.
Up above those clouds I've watched the sun rise somehow through the small oval window of the 747. Suddenly it's there, making it's way through those clouds, and what seemed like night, turns to day.
There's no escape when you're up that high.
There's no turning back.
Funny, because that's what I tell my children. Well I tried to, when they were children.
They are now adults, and so together we all move forward.
I grew up somewhere out there. In that timeless, clouded space where what we see is light. We see light for living. We see it differently than any other person can or will ever see it.
When I really take the time to listen to my grandson, Will, as he tells me what he sees, or what he hears, or what he thinks, I am amazed at the light that illuminates his thoughts.
When we see what no one else sees, I think that is bioluminescence.
...this was where the blog just dropped off 4 years ago. However:
The one thing I've learned in these past four years, and now 8 grandchildren later, is this:
If bioluminescence is defined as an organism's ability to produce light, then children are some of the brightest organisms I know.
They not only bring light to my life, they enlighten my mind, lighten my sometimes heavy heart--and emanate warmth to every space they fill.
Imagination is "Bioluminescence," is it not?
--Linnea Belnap
"Really Will? What are they saying?"
"They are saying, 'Don't go to Will's house, go to grandma's house.'"
I suppose in one way that's a clever way of saying I'd rather go to your house right now Grandma. However, I've had an extra measure of time to ponder on clouds this past fortnight (that's how they say it in England). I've flown under them, over them, all around and through them. I've watched clouds hang dark and low over the London skies and then I tried to hide under an umbrella as heavy clouds literally dumped two years worth of rain on us in two short days!
There is a familiar feeling I get each time I fly across the ocean. The very first time I snuggled my four month old son next to my chest as we headed out on a brand new, year-long adventure to the Middle East. Perhaps the white puffy clouds blanketing the sky then were trying to tell me something, but I was slow to hear.
I don't remember seeing the sky or the clouds as we left our homeland just a few short years later. This time with three more children on board. No clouds, no sky, no time to ponder, just a bumpy, busy, chaotic plane ride, and that same gnawing feeling.
Two months later though, I saw it. This time I heard it, loud and clear. Like Will, those ghost clouds talked to me all the way back home as I flew over the ocean to see my dad one last time.
September 20th, my dad would turn 83 years old. My mom is 81. She has lived a long time without him. He died when he was only 55 years old.
Maybe if you're a child like Will, you hear them right where you are.
Up above those clouds I've watched the sun rise somehow through the small oval window of the 747. Suddenly it's there, making it's way through those clouds, and what seemed like night, turns to day.
There's no escape when you're up that high.
There's no turning back.
Funny, because that's what I tell my children. Well I tried to, when they were children.
They are now adults, and so together we all move forward.
I grew up somewhere out there. In that timeless, clouded space where what we see is light. We see light for living. We see it differently than any other person can or will ever see it.
When I really take the time to listen to my grandson, Will, as he tells me what he sees, or what he hears, or what he thinks, I am amazed at the light that illuminates his thoughts.
When we see what no one else sees, I think that is bioluminescence.
...this was where the blog just dropped off 4 years ago. However:
The one thing I've learned in these past four years, and now 8 grandchildren later, is this:
If bioluminescence is defined as an organism's ability to produce light, then children are some of the brightest organisms I know.
They not only bring light to my life, they enlighten my mind, lighten my sometimes heavy heart--and emanate warmth to every space they fill.
Just today, there was a post on Instagram. Anderson, one of my 4 year-old grandsons, wondered aloud to his uncle Evan, "How do I make her laugh?"And then pointed to his new little cousin, Olivia. "Maybe tell her a joke?" was the advice his uncle gave him. His whole countenance beamed as he lowered his gruff little voice, leaned down next to her ear, and with his deep dimples shining, told her one of his favorite jokes, one of the many he just comes up with on the fly.
 |
| Anderson and Olivia |
Imagination is "Bioluminescence," is it not?
--Linnea Belnap
