The Late Flight
I am lucky enough to chase the sun in January and so because of that, I am writing this as I sit in an airplane on a tarmac. According to the pilot, just as we were about to pull back from the gate, a warning light came on. Maintenance was called, solved the issue and now, an hour later than planned, we begin our journey. I have no need to rush, no connecting flight to make. After months of barely writing, I am oddly content to be tucked into this small space with nowhere to be but here, my travel journal and pencil in hand.
It feels symbolic, this delay. Today is the first day of our escape from the cold and snow of an Ohio January to the warmth and sunshine of Arizona. We will get there, but we will be a little late. It is also the first day I have committed, once again, to turn towards writing instead of casting it aside. It is one of the many constants in my life, this push and pull of the writing life. I have all good intentions of full devotion, but, like this inconvenient maintenance issue, life randomly keeps lobbing interruptions that stand in my path. I will get there, but I am a little late.
We queue up on the runway. Before we know it we are cleared for takeoff and we hear the engines roar. That momentum as we gain speed for lift off seems a bit too fast, a bit too impossible. I look around the cabin as I feel that momentary, barely there pit in my stomach during lift off. How do we all keep that bored look on our faces as we experience this miracle of flight as if it is just another morning in a string of uneventful mornings? We are airbound. We inexplicably appear weightless. There are a few minor bumps but they simply remind us that we are in mid-flight and not on the ground.
In a matter of minutes we burst through the gloom that often accompanies a Midwest January morning. The air seems thick and impenetrable until it is not. We burst through the cloud ceiling that was keeping us from seeing the expanse of the bright, blue sky. All of a sudden, brilliant sunshine dances and bounces off of our chariot with wings. It’s too much, the intensity of that sun, and the people around me close their window blinds to it.
I’d like to be able to see where I’m going, watch this adventure unfold, but I can only feel the sensation of it now in the hum of the engines and the occasional bounce of bumpy air. The flight tracker on the screen in front of me shows me that we are indeed headed in the direction we want to go and I have no reason not to believe it. The flight attendant provides me with a cup of tea to warm me for my journey. A bubble of hope wells up inside of me.
I look around at all the people I am sharing this small space with. We are all, whether we pay attention or not, whether we even long to see it or not, are hurtling towards something. All those goals and resolutions we so intently make at this time of year is our annual attempt to rise above the clouds and begin again. On this, one of the very first mornings of a new year, in our own ways big and small we are each claiming our piece of the sky and chasing the sun.