Today, I was reluctantly waiting to turn Left at a red traffic light, irritated about how slow the driver before me had been and how I wouldn't be sitting there if he had moved a little faster, that dud. Then, beyond the red light I saw a huge tree with it's leaffull branches swaying gently and delicately, leaves fluttering and reflecting the sunlight. Beyond the tree I saw the deep blue canvas of the day's sky scattered with whispy cotton tendril clouds moving almost indiscernibly eastward. I smiled. Silently, I thanked the slow driver for creating this circumstance.
How often we must look at the sky during the course of one day - driving around in our four wheeled boxes, walking here, going there off in a hurry, looking out the window for a split second, maybe. How often do we really see the sky - perceive the changes in the hue of blue, grey, indigo, orange, lavender, and pink. How often do we notice the texture, depth, and dimension of the clouds or contemplate that they are merely solidified water floating through the sky.
One day, I will no longer be. My eyes will not perceive the sky, or notice the inching of the clouds. My skin will not feel the oppressiveness of 91 degrees on a humid day in Nashville. The water from my flesh will evaporate and probably into one of those clouds. For now, I will see the sky, feel the heat. At least, I will try.