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.
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.