Cloud Breaks
When I was five I lay on my back on the grass and looked to the sky. I’d see animals and imagine them fighting as they swirled and changed, rearranging themselves into other things so fast I could no longer tell what they were or what they were going to be. Staying still and quiet, I’d breathe in and out mesmerized by fluffy clouds.
Underwater in the swimming pool, I’d strain my neck looking at the sky. See the sun’s rays filtered; see the shadow of fat clouds on the water, wriggling in the small waves I’d created. I’d be happy, looking at the cumulonimbus from my silent haven. Really elated, holding my breath until I couldn’t hold it anymore, before bursting through the surface and taking a whopping gulp of air.
It was a blue sky day; the deepest of rich summer blues. I told my first boyfriend how there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. We were swinging on swings in the park, taking turns to push each other higher. We tried to move in tandem on side by side swings; failing because we were still holding hands in the middle. There were wobbly seats, sweaty palms, giggling words and luscious, newly kissable lips. Then he told me that you can always find some small cloud somewhere. And we looked, and there it was, a tiny blob of pale cotton over tall trees near the fence.
On an aeroplane flying to Europe, I implored the air hostess for pen and paper. I sounded urgent and she looked confused. The people next to me squirmed as if I’d asked for too much, my request too strange four hours in. The flight attendant brought them anyway and I wrote and wrote until my eyes blurred. I scribbled on both sides of the small pages, then sideways along the edges using all the space.
The stream of consciousness poetry flowed. Fully formed phrases marched out of my hands about bumpy cotton wool clouds pillowing over the curved earth; about only seeing snatches of blue ocean, steel cities or green spaces where those bobbly clouds were mist thin. Afterwards, I slept, ink filled pages still piled in my lap; resting for six hours straight. It marked the first time I needed to write as much as I needed to breathe.
On my wedding day, my husband of ninety minutes told me that the mares tail clouds above us meant it would rain in 3 days. We were photographed on a clifftop of green, green grass overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The vast light blue sky was littered with wisps of white that matched my dress. Clouds like hair, like floss, like the tails of horses, see-through clouds wafting inland on a sea breeze. I looked at my man, I looked at the photographer, and I kept looking up at those glorious bits of almost there clouds. I smelled the salty sea and wondered if the rain would come. It did, as he predicted, flying out of Sydney Airport to the Marshall Islands 3 days later.
I was hiking up the mountain when storm clouds peeked over the brim. They were grey, green, black and awesome. The sky turned a sick yellow; the farm went dark. Mean clouds bustled in, bullying for position like an army. I rushed down the mountain, pelted with fat raindrops from clouds that merged faster than oil on water. I should have watched my footing, but those tormented demented clouds held my gaze too long. I fell for the sight of them.
About to give birth, when close contractions made me frantic and frightened, the midwife told me to imagine the pain was a dark cloud to pant and push away. I breathed through those murky clouds of agony; clouds moving swiftly in the wind of forced exhalations. Cloud thoughts calmed me; the daughter I’d always wanted arrived minutes later.
2005, I spun around, twirling in New York’s Central Park, watching wishy-washy white clouds move above high trees and in between skyscrapers; dotting and decorating the brilliant skyline; elated to be in the Big Apple.
After surgery, I’m taken home from hospital, my husband driving too slowly to avoid jolting me. I gazed out the window at boring, nothing, colourless clouds that matched my sour mood. No cute bunnies formed in the sky that day. There was only pain, pain and wishing for a soft cloud pillow to press against my stitches for support.
Driving home from school teaching, I saw sunset clouds tinged with golden edges. It seems too beautiful, too pink, too perfect. By the time I’ve stopped beside the road to snap a phone photo, the clouds have moved, the shades deepened. Now burnt orange, now purplish brown. Eternal changes, every minute different, every glimpse spectacular in itself.
My home is a mountaintop with 360-degree views. My husband built our house with a pyramid glass roof in the centre. I can even see the clouds when I’m inside. I still search for the one cloud in an all blue sky and often find several. I still lie on my back watching dragons turn to lizards turn to tongues and forks and back to clouds again. I still watch clouds blowing from one side of my vision to the other. I’m transfixed by grey-green storm clouds that spell hail in a mostly dark sky. Grey cloudy days make me feel like napping, like we did on rainy weekends early on in our marriage, before the kids. Mares tail clouds remind me of our wedding.
Wherever I go in the world I remember to look at the clouds.
Whenever I’m at work, home or out, I try to remember to look at the clouds.
It’s worth doing for the splendour, for the cloud break from being me.
I’m not good at relaxing; I love being busy. Now and then though, when I need some respite, I cloud watch. I look up at that phenomenal sky canvas taking in a whimsical dance of insubstantial substance.
I love it all, all the clouds I’ve ever seen.
Simultaneously real and surreal.