The freedom of spiritual healing

It was late in September. As the Boeing 747 approached the Denver airport, I put aside my work and looked out at the prairie land below. From about three thousand feet above the ground, the checkerboard of brown and buff and sand-colored wheat fields rested warmly in the mind's eye. There was something about the simple order and subtle shades of color stretching to the horizon that was comforting, tangibly peaceful.

Then the beauty really struck. Directly below, a flock of white cranes came gliding eastward over the fields. Their pure whites floating in the air, the shadows that their wings threw on the land, the warm tones of the earth beneath them—the wonder of it stopped my breath in that single moment. I felt absolutely quiet, and free with the birds themselves.

February 3, 1997

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