The sky has taught me so much. Not in a pushy sort of way, forcing its knowledge upon me with an air of superiority. But more like the way a wise friend might speak to you, gently imparting wisdom without you even realizing until afterwards.
Tonight, I walked down a cobble-stoned street and turned left at the end of the road. I was on my way to pick up Chinese food and the sky was dusty blue. It was cold; it might snow. Or maybe not. Sometimes, it’s okay to not know how you feel.
And when the weather sharply changes from rain, to sun, to rain…I learned that it’s okay to feel two things at once, maybe even more. Because if the sky is allowed to be temperamental, then so are human hearts.
And what about crying? Really, truly crying? Great, heaping, buckets of tears that clash against the window and make a pitter-patter sound on the roof. Yes, it’s okay to cry. The sky taught me that too.
From the clouds, I learned gentleness. The pink ones that Daisy wants to push Gatsby around in; the white ones that look like cotton; the wispy ones that seem to float like swan feathers. Such tender reminders of how much softness there is in the world. And how much exists within us as well.
I’ve felt the confusion of a foggy day, experienced the turbulent emotion of a thunderstorm; basked in the clarity of a perfect sunrise. It seems the sky can get pretty complicated. So can life. So can I.
And when evening comes and with it, the darkness, the sky reminds me to rest. It speaks of serenity and stillness, calming anguish with a gentle hush. Enough for now, says the sky. Tomorrow is another day.
The dawn, with its delicate hues, brings hope. It brings all the promise of a clear day – that is, until the afternoon when it starts to shower. Because rarely does anything stay the same; rarely does anything go according to plan; and very often do promises get broken.
The sky taught me the importance of perspective. For the expanse of clouds can often make the world seem vast and endless, and yet, how small it appears when you’re thousands of miles in the air, looking at it from another view.
And how can the sky be dark for me but light for my family when we’re both looking at the same thing? I guess because life is funny like that. And because there’s often more than one truth.
But what I learned most from the sky – from rainbows, from thunder, from darkness, from light – is that what we have is fleeting, and precious, never to be experienced in the same way again. I’ve stared at many sunsets, watching the colours deepen and then fade. Wishing things didn’t have to end; feeling empty when they inevitably do.
And so I’ve learned to appreciate what is, knowing that for better or for worse, things will shift and change, ebb and flow. Yes, the sky taught me that too.