On my plane ride home from Roanoke, I couldn’t help but admire how beautiful the clouds were. From far away, they can look like they have super defined edges; you can tell where clouds stop and sky begins. On our descent though, as we made our way into the amorphous fluff, I couldn’t identify any single moment as being the moment that we crossed over from the clear sky to the obscure innards of the cloud. The closer you get to the clouds the less defined that border becomes. As it it with most things. From 35,000 feet, everything seems simple and clear-cut, but the closer we get the more we realize the world is not organized into straight lines, or any lines at all, and we’re all just floating around in a giant bowl of metaphorical chowder that has no bowl.
