It has happened before, the sudden vision
of lanterns in the air.
A rushed morning, the taste of breakfast
still in my mouth, the stress of an impending day as I drove to work would
weigh me down. When all at once a dozen plum headed parakeets would rush out
from nowhere—green-red-blue lanterns swaying to a magical breeze. All the
knotted skeins of thought would unravel as a wingless me reveled in their
flight.
More recently, I sat with my younger
daughter on a park bench. The grey haze that filtered the setting sun was the
unromantic smog, not mist from the mountains. We saw the revolving lights of a
temple dome against the blushing pink of the evening sky. Skeletons of
unfinished construction projects stole the colors of the sunset to cover up
their bleak grays and blacks. Noisy green lanterns raced over our head. On and
on the parrots raced, spilling out in a pandemonium of dozens or more, from
dusty thickets that had guarded these green lights.
It’s hard to be untouched by the power of
their freedom and flight.
Infant 2016 was only a few minutes old. A
few relatives struggled to get their paper lanterns in the air. Either the
paper caught fire or the camphor bits fell apart. Not a single stubborn lantern took flight. I was secretly glad. Who wanted spent lanterns drifting into trees
or landing on sleeping birds or hanging in sad shreds on terraces?
The cold morning breeze reminded us of
warm beds we’d reach in a few minutes. The sound of fireworks and music fell
behind as I looked up. The clearest grey velvet was punctured by stars and a
flock of white cranes winged home. Their silence and fluorescence lit the sky.
When I pointed them out to the others, their upturned faces mirrored the
inexplicable magic of that breathtaking moment.
There is a futility in the launching of man-made
lanterns in the air. I’ve always known that.
