It is my hope that this would find you in better spirits, or at least with pinion joints mending. Amazing, is it not, the way a single misstep can undermine a successful run? Too often we judge ourselves more harshly than those who love us would dream of doing, our sins are magnified, our grace diminished, it is an unnecessary burden that keeps us Earth bound when we could be soaring.

As you spoke of Icarus and Daedalus, I was reminded that Daedalus’ saving grace was his determination to dare nothing, that Icarus’ fate was sealed by his father’s fear. Icarus soared alone, he fell alone, Daedalus forever observing in the distance as his son perished. I much rather the tale of Jatayu and Sampati. Like Icarus, Jatayu soared unto the vault of heaven, but when the fire of the sun threatened his wings he did not fall, for Sampati, unlike Daedalus, flew to him and sheltered Jatayu from the burning sun with his own wings. You see, Jatayu was not alone.

As little birds chirping in the bowers of Jetavana we were safe, yet in the surety of the nest there is no real life for us. To live we must stretch our wings. Fledglings do not soar their first time out, nor do their wings have the strength to bear them far even upon subsequent successes. They will fall, feathers torn and pinions broken, yet they will heal in time and, like Jatayu, they will fly again. It does not always seem so. When we are grounded our vision is narrow, we see only the Earth beneath our feet. Road dust blinds us, makes us miss signs, we can wander in circles unsure of the sun overhead, the haze that settles in obscuring things further, blanketing us in misery.

En tout pays, il y a une lieue de mauvais chemin.

It is at those moments when the rough ground beckons that we must step back and consider the path we are on. Ask yourself, how far have I come from the day when I first left the bower? Since the first time I took wing, since the first time I flew, since the first time I fell? When you get up again, are those wings or mere facsimiles? Does it matter when the earth is beneath you? When you are soaring through the morning air? The act of flight is not dependent on the wings, but the bird. Tu n’es pas un faucon, mais tu toujours deve essayer de planer.

Hoping this finds you and yours well,

Robert