Flying after the storm

Every now and then something happens that I have a hard time not taking as a metaphor.

Yesterday morning I thought the sound of thunder and heavy rain meant the end of a plan to fly before the annual meeting, but radar showed a well-defined region of rain and airports to the north were reporting only light rain, so I high-tailed it up to the airport to wait. I sat in the plane for fifteen minutes for the rain to stop, and then I flew to the north into New Hampshire and Maine under a shelf of eleven thousand foot overcast in air so calm and smooth north of Manchester that I wanted to put my feet up on the control panel and let the plane fly itself. Approaching Sanford, I flew among a few tiny puffs of clouds at 700 feet looking like a diorama an imaginative kid makes in grade school. Approaching Lawrence, I turned downwind to base over a field filled with seven thousand little kids playing soccer in wild chaos.

Later at home, my four-year-old son was annoying my wife. They were going at it. I decided they had to work this out on their own, and went off by myself. Eventually, my son came in and I proposed going to the local beach to swim. He was so riled that it took him a moment to realize I was proposing fun. We had a great time.

The metaphor?

Sometimes you have to wait for the storm to pass, so you can be in the right place at the right time for something wonderful to happen.

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