No dim lights, muffled tears and stuffy office today. This morning, my therapy is out in the open skies.

I’m riding Eagle.

I blink in the warm rays of sunshine and inhale the cool breeze. A perfect day for flying. My heart flutters in anticipation of what’s to come.

I trust the rider with my life. He knows the way. He knows his beast. I settle comfortably, easily into my role as passenger. I am liberated.

There’s no hesitation. We’re simply gone. My feet leave the ground and I’m gliding, hovering, whooshing past the world. Flying away.

Only my head is sheltered in a protective bubble, and the rest of my body is left to feel the pure exhilaration of the elements. My breath reflects off the clear plastic and warms my face, but my bare arms tingle with the freshness of the air. My body vibrates with the motion of the bird. I am alive. My heart palpitates and I feel the endorphins begin to flow.

Riding Eagle is better than chocolate.

We travel through thickets and forests until … we are there. In the open. The silky blue sky is wisped with white feathers, and now we are a part of it too. I stretch my arms like wings, refusing to surrender to the the wind billowing against them. Instead, I lift the breeze on my shoulders. I welcome it, embrace it. It blows through me, cleanses me. I lift my chin upward and feel it rush into my bosom. Above, a lonely hawk circles. I acknowledge him, respect him, drink him in as well. We are one and the same. Sky-seekers. Free.

Suddenly Eagle swerves, and we bank hard, but my body flows with ease along with the motion. Hips swivel, spine stretches, a deep breath, and we’re speeding forward again over the river now. It glimmers like glass, mirroring the perfection of the day. Boulders and bridges dot the river’s path, but it flows majestically toward the open sea. We leave it to its work and circle through a blanket of green, with just the tiniest hints of color.

Time is passing. Fall is coming. But that is tomorrow. Today we fly.

The rider says something about “all day” and “getting back.” I  know he’s right. The great beast roars once more as we head for home. I close my eyes and try to capture it–the essence of the ride–so I can keep it in my pocket after I’m back: the breath-taking speed, my wind-blown hair, racing heart, sweaty palms, and the wind whipping my skin. I memorize the sensation of flying, of leaving the world behind for a little while.

Eagle is my father’s jet-black Harley.