It's a strange thing that we get new perspective from our altitude.
When flying in a plane, we traverse over many things.
Our eyes continue to look over land, homes, buildings, structures, trees, and rivers as if they have no meaning.
We glance past life changing events. We don't think about the monuments people had in the places we passed. We overlook where people were born, where death took individuals, and every event in between.
People fly over your home, not knowing the spectrum of joy, to agony you might have felt there.
Memories made on family farms, summers spent running through fields where the high grass grazes your knees. The smell of the home on the edge of the lake, with the dock stretching over the calm, rippling water. The hill where the grass grows in the direction of the earth, and the sound of its crunching leaves was the sign that autumn had arrived. To people flying high above, the sound of the leaves replaced by the roaring of the plane. To them, that is merely land being overlooked below.
The struggles you continue to face are simply the fields, trees, and civilizations you fly over to get to your location. They're the acute details that end up forming your final destination.
