Romance of war.

Every time I'm on a plane and I'm sitting more towards the rear, I catch myself having a kindred adoration of my fellow passengers in front of me. At any moment they might arise as leaders, fighters, ragers of justice in response to an out of hand hellion on board. That man with his trimmed beard and collared shirt, or that grandpa-santa-claus figure with balding hair. Or maybe that lean super-model type sitting on the aisle with long, loosely tousled brown hair. Or the Dad on his business trip that just got off the phone with his 4-year old daughter before boarding, "I'll be home when you wake up, sweetie." I imagine us waging war together. As fellow comrades. Giving orders. Taking initiative against the enemy. In my daydream the plane has become screams, yells and commotion. People up and about, as if they know what to do, or at best they know what has to be done. Take the bad guy down. All hands on deck.

All of this only makes me revel in the beauty of the human spirit. In the camaraderie we can share in terrible, god-awful times. The camaraderie we can share in lovely, touching and endearingly tender moments. We are one. What I see in others fighting spirit of resilience and valor-- I too see in myself. That spirit of meek vulnerability and softness, I try to deny in myself--I am apt to comfort in another. One is all and all is one...or some variation of that. The beauty of a fragmented mosaic or stained glass window. The fragrance of a full bouquet of varied and different flowers. The delicious taste of a recipe gone perfectly-- all ingredients in tune.
Sometimes I think I would make a good G.I. Jane. A woman of justice. Bravery. Valor. Clear lines. Clear boundaries. Or maybe it's just the romance in me that fancies the romantic in war.