We have mastered the art of running, only to be transported to a world where flight is the norm. It has turned us into full-grown babies, grasping at the talons of our elders, the majestic eagles.
As soon as we find ourselves suddenly airborne, we stutter and fall, betrayed by our own immature, half-formed wings. Ours, too, may develop into mighty propellers someday, if only we let them; if only we permit ourselves once more to be ignorant, infantile, and renounce, at least for a period, our independence – and not a moment sooner.
Because if we are content to be perpetual sprinters, if we cannot suffer humiliation long enough to become teachable once again, we will pound the earth with our soles until our dying days, while those we have often considered beneath us, the guileless youth, elegantly and effortlessly conquer the sky.