Glowing Fluff

There is a Frisbee golf course at the park where I took George and my son this morning. All over the park are signs that warn “This park has a Frisbee golf course!” so that you know that at any moment you could get clocked on the head by a Frisbee. (A good thing to know when you’re out, strolling nonchalantly, enjoying the cool breeze and blue sky.)

I’m getting to be quite an expert at packing for outings. Baby in stroller, extra blanket attached to stroller with clothespins for extra shade, folded blanket to spread on grass, travel dog dish and bottled water, baby toys, bottle and formula, diaper bag, cell phone, sun hat, Starbucks iced chai tea latte, a book for if he’s sleeping. It was a perfect morning, and the Frisbee golfers kept their distance and were entertainment instead of a hazard.

As we walked, the breeze shifted and suddenly the air was filled with fluff – big cotton ball-sized pieces of whatever had been blown off nearby trees. It looked like a soft snowstorm, and I dodged the bigger pieces as we walked, hoping I didn’t get pieces stuck in my hair.

Later on the blanket, I lay on my back and stared at the sky. I should stare at the sky more often – the world is at a different perspective that way, literally and figuratively. The tree we laid under looked different from down there, its branches and leaves reaching up away from me toward the sky. A helicopter flew overhead way up high, far enough that I could barely hear it. Then, hundreds of feet above the treetop, I saw the fluff again. It was flying way up high in the wind, gently flowing with all the high currents, and was lit by the sun like glowing fireflies, or round twinkles in the breeze. I never would have seen them up there if I hadn’t lain on that blanket.

What other beauty am I missing because I don’t look at things from a different angle?