When I existed in the other realm with my favorite angel, Michael, I asked him to teach me to fly. His wings were stronger than my small, delicate ones, and he often let me ride with him, stretched out on his back, my head resting softly against the warmth of his neck. But I really wanted to fly the way he did, with wings that stirred the air into a swirl of colors; spectral colors which later would be captured by an artist on earth and lovingly placed on canvas, (for everything which becomes beautiful is first brushed by angel wings).
As we climbed the highest mountain, Michael told me stories. Of human wars and human loves, of the contrasting strength and frailty of the human spirit, of the absence of love which is fear.
"What does fear feel like?" I asked.
"There are a thousand ways I could tell you," Michael answered, "but it is better that you feel it for yourself. Are you ready?"
I saw then that we had reached the summit of the mountain. I nodded.
Michael instructed me to take his hand. "When we leap," he said, "feel the movement of your wings, how they stretch and move and hold you aloft. Focus on the beauty of the smallest thing you can see. Don't look backward to where you were, or forward to where you are going. Only fly."
And we leaped from that great mountain and flew, my hand clutching Michael's hand, his light and energy pouring through my being. I smiled, turned to look at him, and he was gone. Then I faltered; my wings stopped beating. I looked behind me, searching for Michael. I turned and looked before me, searching for Michael. And there was no Michael, only me. Something within me shattered and fell. For a few minutes I tried to move my wings, but they were paralyzed by a feeling I didn't recognize, and soon my body fell with whatever had broken inside of me.
I felt pain when I landed; felt the strange liquid which fell from the corners of my closed eyes. When I opened them, there was Michael's face, looking down at me. The liquid fell from his eyes, too, so I reached up with my hand and touched it.
"They are called tears," Michael told me. "When you go to earth, you will know them again. They will come for one of two reasons: whenever you cannot contain the love that is in you, or whenever you believe that love is absent."
Michael helped me stand and brushed the debris from my being. "What did you think of fear?"
"I didn't like it at all. It made my wings feel frozen, and I stopped flying." Michael nodded.
I thought of something else, and tilted my head as I looked at him. "When you left, you took love with you."
"Only this one time," he said. "So you must forever remember one thing."
"And what is that?"
"No matter how much you may think otherwise, love is always with you."