The flying fish have been our constant companions. At first I thought they were birds and wondered how the little things managed to get way out to the middle of the ocean. Okay, I was no sailor. But now I am. These little fish shoot out of the water and spread their dorsal fins, which look for all the world like wings and they soar along the surface of the water for great lengths. Often half a dozen or so take to the air at the same time. Flying fish.
I wish for world peace. I wish to make good decisions. I wish to die knowing for sure that I lived. And, of course, this adventure is on the "oh how I have lived side of the scale." Back to world peace. I don't want to just wish for it, but to imagine with clarity and focus, to hold it in my heart in spite of the vulnerability of such radical hope, to work for it with my words, with my hands. World peace. "Imagine all the people living life in peace. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one." This was our closing song at convocation tonight.
Kay Widdows, who gave the faculty address, described a series of Faure songs that express the sentiments of a young man who lives in a port town and watches the tall ships and tries to convince himself he wants to live a safe and familiar life on shore. But in the last song he knows "that I have great departures inside of me." In the morning I arrive home, having circumnavigated the planet. But that arrival is a departure from this life, this ship, this journey. And Elizabeth and I have more great departures in the very near future. That, I suppose is how adventures start, with great departures.
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