Somewhere over the Atlantic, there’s a metal tube with wings. Inside, a man sits in a seat called 38F, surrounded by strangers. And the strangest thing of all is the fact that he’s a stranger, too. He doesn’t feel like one, because he knows where he came from and where he’s going and why. He knows someone. He knows the man in 38F. At least, he knows him better than he knows any of the people around him.
But they don’t.
To everyone else, the man in 38F is one more face, with round glasses and a dark beard and who cares about that? Faces like his are common. From behind the glasses, he looks around and remembers that life itself is common. There are people all over the place, living. Living in a world bursting and blooming with life all around them.
Is all this life worth less, for being so common?
Economics might tell us so, but daffodils disagree. Where one daffodil is lovely, a dozen are even more so. Add another hundred, and your eyes will pop. And what is true of grass and geese and sunflowers is also true of people, crafted by the same Artist.
When the stranger in 38F disembarks, no one will notice. They’ll be busy living their own lives. Another crowd will board and the airport will be noisy and the streets and houses will be filled as always with one of the most common things in the world: Life.
Isn’t it beautiful?