The view from the top of a Ferris wheel is different from the one at the bottom.

 

At the apex, you can peer across the carnival, taking in the whole scene. In that upward swing where you are almost weightless you are poised for a moment, brushing the floor of heaven. In less time than it takes to talk about it, you can feel as if you are launched into the expanse.

 

Then you propel downwards again, where the mass of people and popcorn is so thick it seems impossible that there is a crack big enough for this rickety cart carrying you. You are immersed in a thicket of people, and noise and trinkets. The crowd presses against your eyes and ears, with a thousand glitzy details all grabbing for your attention: the cones of hot pink cotton candy, the ticket seller yelling to customers, the baby crying in a stroller, the blinking lights.

 

Abruptly the chains clank under the strain and pull you back up to the clouds, where every detail fades, all crowds are shushed, and you are transported again into the big wide sky. You can see across the throngs, and their power to overwhelm you falls away. There is only you, and the person you are riding with to absorb the beauty.

 

But the chains pull you down again, and the mire swallows you.

 

Round and round you ride, between two worlds.

 

My life feels like that. I recall when John and I would have a peak experience entertaining friends. The meal was delightful, the conversations were lofty, the partnership between us was at its height.  We served and smiled, buoyed up by our shared desire to make these people happy. Then the guests waved goodbye and as the door swung shut we were thrust into the piles of dishes, and garbage, and uneaten food. Suddenly we scrabbled with the details and annoyance of cleaning up the remains. Our company had barely started their car before we were entrenched again in the hot pink feelings and the cries of neglected children.

 

Once our small girl even asked, "Are the customers gone?"

 

Other times we worked hard to create an event, such as church or a small group. One Easter we worked for weeks making a hundred fluttering butterflies on straws and strings, and a dozen costumes for children. We hammered at the details of buying live butterflies online, and dealt with the litter of paper across the table as we cut out Painted Ladies. Then as the service began, we were lifted above the particulars, and into the magic of all those pieces taking off. The room was carried up with the wonder of dancing children, noiseless butterflies, and the miracle that is Easter. 

 

Up and down, around and back again we whirl with yanking speed. Is the feeling of euphoria real if it disappears so quickly? Perhaps I would be wiser to ask if the mundane emotions are substantial. Their reign is short lived too, and more likely to evaporate over time. Even now I can conjure up the thrill of  those butterflies, and the lively dinners.

 

But the paper scraps and leftovers are somewhere beneath my heels.