I’ve traveled to nearly all 50 states, down south to the Virgin Islands, across the Atlantic to Europe, as far north as Finland, and as far east as Okinawa, Japan. Yet, if I go more than a few months in between flights, it’s like my memory bank flushes all of the sensations of flying entirely, like the gray marbles in Inside Out growing dim. Sure, I know how to buy my ticket, check-in, board, and all of that jazz, but it’s the actual sensory experience. Poof. Gone. Like it never even happened. Now, if I was a thrill-seeker, I might approach it like a child going on an adventure. But the thing is, I’m really more of a home body who thrives in layers of cozy creature comforts. So if it’s been a while since I’ve been on a plane, I feel a form of primitive anxiety that traces back to, well I guess, the first time I ever flew into the complete unknown.
I’m actually on a flight right now, my first since February. In months, that’s eight too many of having my feet firmly on the ground. Did I mention I live at sea level? So, yeah, I don’t even have altitude going for me. Maybe that’s why it feels so completely unnatural to be hurtling through the air at a zillion miles per hour (I mean, does 500 mph really translate all that well to ground speed?).
I should also mention that I may have been a sun worshipper in a past life or a moon cycle hippie – okay, not really, I’m way too Episcopalian for all that. But I do have an uncanny appreciation for the sky: the stars, planets, moon and sun. If there is a sunset happening, I simply can’t look away. It feels as if anything less than unblinking, in-the-moment presence is utter sacrilege. There is this unbelievably insane beauty unfolding right there – like RIGHT THERE – begging for someone, anyone to notice, yet so few pause and look up from their screens, to-do lists and lives to even take note. Maybe I’m compelled to do all the taking note for those who aren’t. Or maybe the sky’s just really pretty, which is reason enough for me.
So here I am in said sky that I love, among the clouds, watching the sun set. I feel so grateful, truly. I think about my gentle, saint of a grandmother who, when she was alive, adored flying. I’m talking an ear-to-ear grin from wheels up to wheels down, completely lost in a marvel of modernity. Or so she said as she narrated photo albums from Switzerland, Israel, Ireland, and all the faraway places she visited in her golden years. (Most likely there was some slack-jawed snoozing and snoring somewhere in between all that awe, but you get the point.) When Gran was getting up in age, and I had begun traveling far and wide, I used to confide to her that I wasn’t a comfortable flyer. She would urge me, in those fearful moments, to think of her and how much she wished she could be on that plane with me.
I do my best to keep Gran close to my heart each time I fly. But, I gotta tell you, from the moment we back away from the gate, journey through the slow twists, turns and straightaways of the various runways, and when the flight attendants make their announcement about the beverage service and demonstrate the security protocols, followed by the brief stop for the pilots to check the wing flaps control and countless other thingamabobs on their cockpit dash, and then that moment when the engine comes fully to life and our backs press into our seats, all the way through the springing leap the plane seems to make when the back wheels lift and we fly into the sky, and then up up and away we go, banking until we reach our flight path and level off and the flight attendants come on the mic again to share that welcome phrase that we’ve reached 10,000 feet and can now turn on our electronic devices (which always has such a classic ring to it)…. Until that moment, I’m a nervous wreck.
And then I can relax, order my in-flight beverage and zone out with a movie or show. But in that 15 minutes between the gate and the 10,000 feet, I do all the self-care things to try and tamp down the anxiety: play soothing songs, ponder aviation safety statistics, conduct meditative body scans, say prayers, take deep breaths, and each time, I’m still a mess. I don’t even want to imagine what it would be like if I didn’t go through this routine.
But, therein lies the underlying issue, right? I’ve realized through my years-long struggle with anxiety that the fear often disguises itself as the comfort zone. The vicious cycle of calm-to-nervous-to-full-on-freak-out-to-I-made-it-I’m-alive-to-I-can-now-be-calm again is at least a pattern I recognize and strangely find comfort in purely because it’s familiar. I think that’s why for many anxiety sufferers, we tend to believe (even if we don’t admit it) that the chronic worrying is the very thing that keeps the bad thing from happening. That’s the dirty underbelly of III an intelligent mind – that our brains are creative enough to believe the completely made-up fallacy that if we just do the anxious song and dance steps consistently every time, we’ll keep arriving at the safe and secure place where we get to have that brilliant moment of clarity and reflect back on the chaos and see from a safety distance that we needn’t ever have slipped on our dancing shoes in the first place, or for that matter, ever taken them out of their box.
Yet, inevitably, when that “next time” rolls around and we’re faced with an unknown or a familiar fear, we’re like, Yeah, remember that great nugget of wisdom we picked up back there about not needing to freak out in order to keep ourselves safe? Hey, why don’t YOU go on ahead and demonstrate that for us. Don’t mind me. I’ll just be back here not being the one to take the chance, because you know, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, am I right? And then it’s off to the races, knees bobbing, feet shaking, breaths shallowing, and heart racing all the way down the freaking runway.
Where I get into trouble is when I try to wedge the illusion of control into reality – that, as Oprah says, we are spiritual beings having a human experience. That we are not in control, even for a second. I always say, if I was the type to ever get a tattoo (and maybe I will be one day), it would be this phrase:
Find freedom in the boundaries of your domain. I’m going to ask you to read that one again: Find freedom in the boundaries of your domain.
I’ve given a lot of thought to why I love these words. I think it’s because they perform some kind of literary alchemy, making juxtaposing concepts – freedom and boundaries – two equal and equally necessary parts of the equation for peace. It reminds me that I can’t have one without the other. Freedom and boundaries are in a symbiotic relationship and need each other to exist, so who am I to try to break up their happy marriage?
I think I also love this phrase because it gives me a proverbial sandbox that’s all mine to play in. Inside that sandbox, I can throw sand and dig holes, and make smooth surfaces, build castles, knock them down, and even invite my friends inside to play. The one thing I can’t do is make the sandbox larger, smaller, longer, or thinner. I can’t make it anything other than what it is – my lovely, boundaried sandbox where I can be me. Where I can be free.
As I look out of the airplane window, I can see that the sun has now gone all the way down. White, yellow, blue, green and red lights dot the cities below, situated between large swaths of darkness. Maybe it’s the classical music playing in my ears, or the shot of Jack Daniel’s I had at the bar before takeoff, or the numbing whir of the background noise lulling me into this peaceful state. Honestly, I think it’s none of those things at all, but rather this. Right here. This transformation of the whirling, fearful thoughts into visible pixels and linear sentences that can be revisited and reflected upon at every “next time”.
That’s the secret ingredient that’s urging me to trust the process. That’s the ending I am going to choose. That I will become more and more at ease in the anticipation of the unknown and evolve into a peaceful, confident flyer, like my Gran. Mesmerized by the wonder of air travel as I fly somewhere exciting, magically crossing states in a matter of hours and hovering above oceans, making my way to some distant shore. Boundaried and free.
swimming toward the shark 