If you ever wonder where the air around our faces ends and the sky begins,
you can ask any kid. All kids can separate the sky from the air. They can
show you its edges with an assertive crayon, at the top of the page, a blue
ribbon as distinct from the air as the green ground below it.

Since I am no longer a kid, I've lost track of where the sky starts. The
world I'm alive to is a murk of sky and not sky and smells and brightnesses
and darks and hearts and reindeer and rain. I miss having lines in my
thoughts keeping things separate. If I could still detach sky from air, then
I imagine I could also detach dirt from soil from mud from struggle from
striving from freedom from love from solitude from loneliness from loss from
gain. I would grow without my aches bleeding into my joys.

A neat thing about not being a kid is being free to draw more of the sun than
the quarter in the corner, to draw it very big, to see joy shine right back
on aches as the air touches your face. And a reindeer will always smile at a big
purple butterfly, no matter what age you are.

skies drawn by skillful colorers in Patti Chapman's kindergarten