Home is not so much a place as a feeling of belonging, and we belong most where we live our best times. Home may be sailing for some, or an evening with family for others. I do not sail, and I have no family of my own. Lately I have felt that skydiving is a place to belong.

How can we describe it? How can we describe the flying that we share? I can say what it is for me. It is the feeling that if I die tomorrow, still, I have _lived_. The raw rush is like the glory of outer space must be. God, it is _living_!!

It is a very sheer edge. It's a brief moment feeling life like a hand feels a cheek, without a glove-- it takes life's glove off. An odd metaphor, but how else to say it? It takes off life's glove, life's dark glasses, pulls the wool from our ears, mouth and nose--

It is a feast of ozone and quicksilver wine. It is freedom, and flight. It is Muse, and song. And in the words of a poet, it is fire green as grass.

It is splendid poison from a crystal cup, transmuted to water by an aeromantic art.

It is the kiss of eternity, the breath of forever and now. And as we offer up our mortality to the Infinite, it is redemption, and salvation.

It is nobility, and sacrifice. It is expiation. It is respite, and it is home.