After months of gloomy Midwest winter followed by spring showers showing up in the form of killer tornados, thunderstorms, hail and flooding, it seemed the sun had walked off the job, just quit without notice. Serial gray days had turned into serial gray weeks. Where, oh where, I wondered loudly to anyone who would listen, was the sun? I admit, I was starting to panic. And obsess. And fret.
So when the opportunity for a little escape to the Southwest presented itself, we jumped at it. Our airport, which was nearly destroyed by a Good Friday tornado, was miraculously fully functional. Driving through torrents of rain to get to the airport, we wondered if we would be socked in due to low visibility.
Our flight was indeed on time, and upon takeoff we were delightfully serenaded to “Fly Me to the Moon” by our crooning captain. We passengers cheered wildly as we taxied down the runway. Were we cheering for the captain's surprise vocal performance, or were we all just so darned happy to be escaping the grip of yet another gray day?
Beautiful voice notwithstanding, I just wanted the captain to fly me to the sun. And, sure enough, we made it to Phoenix just in time to witness the fiery orange ball tuck itself in for the night behind a steely mountain range. Feeling my spirits soar just knowing that the sun was alive and well, I couldn't wait for sunrise.
Morning brought the most perfect blue skies and yes, the sun reappeared in all its glory. I vowed to spend every waking moment outdoors plugging into all my favorite energy sources: fresh air, blue skies and, of course, the sun. Dining outdoors made the food taste amazing. Nice long, leisurely walks, plenty of pool time, and a couple of “just for the fun of it” books made each day perfect. We were only there for a few days, but it somehow felt longer. Like a long summer vacation away from school felt when I was a kid.
We returned renewed, rejuvenated and ready to face down more gray days knowing that they too would pass.
