Below The Jet Stream

Life below the jet stream is really very pleas­ant. A few miles North and you start run­ning into cold air. It is more than a line on a weather map that snakes from Seat­tle to Char­lotte to Wash­ing­ton D.C. It is also serves as a metaphor in my mind. We, in this part of the South, feel par­tic­u­larly blessed by being just out of reach from the snow and cold winds. While oth­ers bun­dle up and brace them­selves for the chill, we go about in shirt sleeves in per­pet­ual Autumn. This is not Florida. We get some cold and rainy days every now and then, but this is not Wis­con­sin either. In fact, it is, by jet stream prov­i­dence and the grace of God, a very long ways from frozen tun­dra and cari­bou.
Do not get me wrong, this is not a state­ment about the com­pe­ti­tions of North and South. I am not thumb­ing my nose at the “upper part” of the nation. It is some­thing I pon­der any­time I am on the edge between two worlds. As a sort of self-styled Chris­t­ian mys­tic, I often feel like I am on the out­side look­ing in or on a moun­tain­top look­ing down. There is a peace­ful per­fect place within that coun­ters what­ever seems to be going on around me. It is like liv­ing just below the jet stream. Not far from that peace­ful cen­ter is a world of chaos and con­flict — on-going storms of life. I see them from a dis­tance and learn from them, but avoid get­ting sucked into the whirl­winds of pet­ti­ness and power-plays (though with­out a per­fect record on this score).
I like a good storm once in a while. I like wak­ing up to freshly fallen snow. There is some bless­ing to be embraced by any act of nature. I used to live in Lub­bock, Texas. On more than one occa­sion, that was thirty miles below the jet stream. On a sunny Winter’s day you could drive North to Plain­view and hit snow — and lots more of it by the time you got to Amar­illo. In a thirty minute drive, you could change sea­sons.
This small town is below the “jet stream” of urban sprawl and jammed Inter­states. Two hours can get you to Atlanta — the sec­ond worst traf­fic in the nation (sec­ond only to Wash­ing­ton D.C.). On a map, it is only a stone’s throw away. In terms of peace­ful­ness, it is a mil­lion miles. In my soul, there are maps too. I have my inner jet streams and storms. How­ever, I have learned to live out­side of them. They have their inter­est­ing and intense moments, but are con­fus­ing and exhaust­ing. I pre­fer the peace­ful wis­dom on this side of the line.