Enjoying a birthday ice cream cone in Florida, 1975
March 24, 1997
It’s my B-day. As I lay in bed this morning in the Bungalows “Maria Cristina” on Pie de la Cuesta Beach, MX I thought about how I’m four years away from being thirty. Then I thought about the negative ideas that statement implies…is thirty old? I am happier and more experienced and somehow less confused after each phase of my life. And what a beautiful life I lead-despite my small problems which of course aren’t so small to me but life-affirming in their own way. On my past birthdays I have been in California, Florida, Missouri, Arizona, Massachusetts, Bequia Island in the West Indies, a monastery in Nepal, and now I’m on a beach in Mexico. Important to realize my gratitude and happiness in my life at this moment. Lilac told me that a man from Kenya in her class doesn’t know his birthday or how old he is, and I wonder why we Americans emphasize age as a number so very much when it’s really all about experience, or lack of it, and learning. Watching these stooped-over older men selling baskets on the beach and the kind-eyed ladies who cook in the restaurant downstairs makes me think of my own dad and mom. I can’t help comparing these individual lives to my own family. I stand in awe of the opportunity and privilege I have. My parents are rare jewels. Downstairs at the open-air restaurant last night (during the full eclipse of the moon) a family of four people–mom and dad, late teens daughter and son, all drinking lots. First the daughter broke down crying to the father, then the son began sobbing into his arms on the table. The parents virtually turned away from the kids, obviously not addressing their needs. Why am I the one sitting at the next table, able to write about their sorrows in my journal? Did the eclipse draw it out of them? Where will that daughter and son be a year from now when I write my next birthday letter? Where will I be, who will I be?
Sit right down and contemplate.
Above is an excerpt from the first birthday letter I remember writing to myself, while swinging in a hammock on a sizzling Mexican beach. I don’t think I’ve missed out on this annual practice since, although a few letters have been lost to the sands of time and broken laptops.
When I wrote this letter I didn’t foresee that over the next few years my life would change drastically. I would move across the country and begin anew in a new city, start a fresh career, meet my future partner, lose my mother.
The practice of writing oneself a letter is a fascinating exercise, but it isn’t until years later that the effort pays off—the words become a gift to your future self and an opportunity to understand how, and how far, you have traveled.
Mexican bird considers her life, and her breakfast.
I’ve been thinking about our conversation and decided to write you a letter to share ideas about how I successfully stopped drinking and why I’ve stayed sober for four years.
I imagine you find it hard to believe that on the other side of hangovers, bitterness, and self-loathing you can be free as a bird at sunset, soaring over the shimmering ocean that is your beautiful life.
Not everybody who drinks alcohol has a problem but in my opinion if you think you have a problem with alcohol, you do. I sense that you sincerely want to be free of the depressing cycle and there is no doubt in my mind that focusing with honestyon your deep desire to be sober is the best place to begin.
Cultivate the strength of a tree..upright, whole and free despite influence, annoyances and harsh weather.
I’m thinking back to my days of early sobriety four years ago when I quit cold turkey after one particularly bad night. I started drinking in the afternoon and then later that evening, after leaving a neighborhood party, I walked home in frigid temps, tripped, and fell down an embankment, badly hurting my shoulder.
When I woke up that next morning, unsure about what happened the previous evening, deeply embarrassed, injured, hungover, and sour in body and spirit, I thought “I am treating myself terribly, I am abusing myself. What would I say to someone who was being treated this way by another? I think I would tell them to leave.”
So, consider this letter an encouragement to follow a new path and allow to yourself leave an abusive relationship.
The soft sandy sober path leads to freedom and blue skies.
That cringe-inducing night turned out to be one of the most important in my life so far. My drinking career had started at age 13 and there I was at age 48, with the intervening 35 muddy middle years of (mostly, minus pregnancies and the occasional dry stretches) imbibing whenever and wherever I wished to. Even though I grasped long ago that there was a problem I continued to drink, often daily. I failed at modifying my intake, I failed at drinking only one type of alcohol, I failed at anything that had to do with ending my tendency to use something that was poisoning me from within and without.
I also did the dishes, parented, wifed, worked, and lived a life that may have appeared to many as a full, happy, connected one. But I was an expert at living a compartmentalized life, a less than truthful one–this was uncomfortably familiar ground.
I needed that final low, that rusty nail in the coffin of my lengthy drinking career, to look my glaring imperfections in the eye and to see my actions for what they were, self-defeating, injurious, and below me.
The light shines on those who lean toward it.
Here is the part I wish I’d figured out years earlier: In my fresh sobriety I could treat myself as I would a cherished friend. Setting relentless judgment and failures aside, I clutched onto the glimmers of my goodness. At first, those glimmers seemed minor…I considered the way I am (generally) loving to others, the way I take care of animals, the way I make tea for myself in the morning, and the way I feel when I am hiking in the woods. I brush my teeth twice a day! I wear a bike helmet! I thought about how there were people in my life that seemed to like me…if they saw good in me there must be something loveable there.
I created a loop of these fresh and positive ideas in my thought process, I wrote good things about myself in my journal instead of paragraphs of self-doubt. For a brain accustomed to a whole lot of self-criticism and judgment, this was an unfamiliar approach but the more I flexed it the easier (and stronger) the “treat yourself as a cherished friend” muscle became.
Try creating an arsenal of good thoughts for yourself. Ask people close to you what they love about you and put their comments together in a place you can access when you need a lift. The Notes section of your phone or a piece of paper taped to the fridge or the bathroom mirror or used as a bookmark. Try a meditation where you view yourself through the eyes of someone who deeply loves you. What do you imagine they love about you? Consider those qualities in your meditation. There is never going to be another you. What will you do with the gift of you? Strengthen the muscle of your loving self-acceptance.
Take the path to self-acceptance. Your imperfections can be your superpowers.
Stay tuned, part two of my letter covers strengthening the will to be sober, ideas for what to do with all the money you’ll save not buying alcohol, asking and answering the hard questions for yourself, savoring present moments, thriving instead of wilting through stressful situations, and evolving/improving/letting go of relationships through sobriety.
Understand that there is a massive industry built on the back of your addiction. Don’t allow your well-deserved peace and happiness to be stolen by a poisonous substance used to power jets.
Cherish yourself and be your own champion–no one else can do it for you. I urge you to take this path because on the other side of sobriety you will find self-acceptance, joy, and clarity, the beauty of which you can only imagine.
A few years ago I read that one of the healthiest things we can do for ourselves is to take a walk with a friend. Good for the soul, good for the body, good for the earth, and a little free therapy for everyone involved.
Each week I try to fit a walk or hike into my schedule. There are trails close to my house that have stolen my heart, and others further afield. One local favorite winds through a small island of fiercely protected land nestled so close to the local shopping mall that in the winter you can see the side entrance to Target from the creek. Park next to the dumpster, veer around the side of an apartment building and enter a hushed forest where old-growth trees tower quietly above.
This magical trail sits just a few hundred yards from a busy mall.
A few years ago, to mark a notable birthday I thought about what it was that I really wanted (besides complete peace on earth and a woman’s right to make all decisions for herself). What I yearned for was time in nature, with people I love… so I rented a cabin in some nearby woods. The first night my family joined me and the second two girlfriends extracted themselves from their busy lives so that we could laugh and stroll and soak in the hot tub. It was one of the best gifts I’ve ever given myself.
Cake and flowers enjoyed at the cabin.
This year, with another birthday looming I decided to head to one of our glorious Indiana state parks and invited some friends to join me. Saturday dawned sunny and crisp, with just enough coolness in the air that clothing layers could be added and subtracted as needed.
Frequent stairways save hillsides from erosion and add strength (and soreness) to calves.
The arrival of my four friends ended up being staggered throughout the day so we took a series of hikes. Walking together along paths lined with bare trees, we noted clusters of white sycamore trunks flashing against the dark hillsides, wildflowers peeking through layers of leaf rot, and waterfalls swollen with spring rain.
Spring rains tumble over beds of limestone. Walk too quickly and you’ll miss the flowers. Mini waterfalls along McCormick’s Creek. Trees and moss, the ideal companions.
Later we gathered fireside at the inn (seven Indiana State Parks feature rustically designed inns, each with a common room where people gather around a glowing hearth, play games and spend time connecting). We laughed, discussed our lives, and savored the delicious mocktails with grapefruit syrup and Humboldt Fog cheese gifted to me by my friends. Sighing with contentment in my rocking chair, I reminded myself that quality friendship and time outside are the most valuable of gifts.
I will admit that a family trip to Disney was not at the top of my bucket list. I imagined taking the (by no means insignificant) amount of money spent on a Disney vacation and putting that toward airplane tickets. How about a European destination, or somewhere in Central America where we could experience a different culture and show our young kids unique parts of the world?
I was outvoted.
Gazing at the (artificial, yet impressive) Tree of Life in Disney’s Animal Kingdom park.
This is how, last spring I found myself trudging around Florida’s Magic Kingdom, zipping from park to park on the Skyliner, waiting in the longest lines I’ve experienced since traveling in India, and having a surprising amount of fun.
And as my family focused on reservations for rides, Star Wars and Buzz Lightyear, sweet snacks, and roller coaster speed estimations I hunted for…trees. Other flora and fauna caught my eye, as did some artificial trees. It’s Disney, after all.
I’m fascinated by how certain trees (and wildlife) survive in the middle of human traffic and chaos, and there are few places with as much human traffic and chaos as Disney.
The Liberty Tree Elm in The Magic Kingdom. The original Elm growing in this spot played a real part in history, shading pre-Revolutionary activities under its branches. The Swiss Family Treehouse “ride” was built in 1971 and still entertains today, concrete trunk and all. Late afternoon view of Tomorrowland, as seen through plastic foliage. Keeping watch over the croquet lawn near Disney’s Boardwalk area. Viewing the trees and wildlife at Disney’s Animal Kingdom Lodge. Tree installations at Sanaa restaurant in the Animal Kingdom Lodge. A fake Baobab tree is better than no Baobab tree. Is a fake redwood better than a real one? Not so much. Can you spot the wildlife in “Cars” village? The “It’s A Small World (After All)” ride even offers trees. Night falls on trees, pagodas, and tired park visitors.
View from the boat, Grand Canyon, AZ. Photo credit Hether Bearinger
If you ask me to do something on Friday, June 4, 2027, I can’t. I’m busy.
And you’ll never imagine what I’m going to be doing.
Unless you are a highly sought after meeting or wedding planner, your 2027 calendar is likely wiiide open. Mine sure was, until just the other day when I added some dates to a post-it note and then created a manila file for said post-it note because let’s be honest, there is zero chance I’m going to keep track of a small purple post-it for four entire years.
I named the file “Grand Canyon Reservations.”
As incredible as it is to have plans four years hence it is almost equally incredible that twenty-two years ago I walked into a post office in San Francisco’s South of Market neighborhood and mailed a check to the National Park Service. That $100 check earned me a spot on an exclusive waitlist, a list of people who hope to travel down the Colorado River via boat as it winds its way through the 277-mile-long ancient geological formation that is Arizona’s Grand Canyon.
I first saw the Grand Canyon at age five in the 1970s as my mom and I drove across the US in our red VW Beetle but somehow, I hardly remember it. The next time I visited the Canyon I was in my early twenties and the experience was unforgettable. After a long day of driving my friend Hether pulled our 1984 white Jetta up to a rest stop on the South Rim. Stepping out, I couldn’t see much other than a few people congregating at a low stone wall and a vast expanse of concrete for parking. Suddenly, I had the impulse to be alone, so I walked toward one end of the rest area. Approaching slowly, I realized the barrier was positioned exactly on the rim of the Canyon.
I waited until reaching the wall to lift my eyes, and there it was. A vast, shimmering painting in reds and pinks and browns and blues unfurled before me, a space so great my brain had trouble registering the size at first. What to take in, the rim across from me, so far away I wasn’t sure I could make it out, or the immense curvature of the canyon, cutting to my left and right, wisps of clouds visible at the far ends? Or were those even ends at all? And waaay down, difficult to make out, a glint of what looked like a thin strip of silver, ahh, the Colorado River. In those first few seconds, I began to understand the power of water, able to carve a canyon so deep, so beautiful, so mind-blowingly gigantic. Overcome, I allowed the tears to stream down my cheeks.
There’s a reason they call it Grand. Photo credit Hether Bearinger.
Remembering that sacred moment helped me maintain my spot on the Grand Canyon waitlist for the next twenty or so years, informing the Park Service of address changes, dutifully responding to their periodic inquiries…did I still want a river trip, did I want to keep my spot? Yes, I did. Always keeping in mind a space on my nebulous future trip for that same friend, Hether, now an experienced river guide with multiple trips through the Grand Canyon under her belt.
And then, this January I received an email from the Park Service offering me, as one who has been on the list for a predetermined amount of time, a chance to enter a one-time lottery for a launch date. They asked for my top twenty launch dates, and $400. I complied.
A few days later, an email. “You WON!” Incredibly, I got my first requested launch date (probably helped that it was four years from now), and a guaranteed life-changing river trip.
Will it be worth the twenty-six-year wait? There’s no doubt in my mind.
A friend who was facing cancer once spoke of her gratitude for a dirty gas station toilet to throw up in. I’ve never forgotten that image because it is a stark reminder of how easy it is to focus on what is not going right in your life rather than the simple gifts hiding in plain sight. Incredibly, needs are being met, even in the middle of chaos and challenge. A chair to sit in, the roof over your head, a pen between your fingers, a tree providing shade, the soothing purr of a cat.
A few years ago, as I was in the throes of parenting young kids through a pandemic and caregiving for my ailing father, I began to wonder if I was running out of love. My patience had grown razor-thin, and I felt like I was failing at parenting AND caregiving. Oh, and I was also thrashing through early sobriety. Panic attacks and hot flashes became daily occurrences, yet I hardly recognized the symptoms. I thought I was somehow immune to those lows, too strong to fail at such deceptively simple life demands. Every morning I would tell myself I wasn’t going to raise my voice at my kids that day, get frustrated with my father’s memory loss, or become short with my husband.
Mostly, I failed. Day after day after day.
Love comes naturally and easily to kids.
Out of desperation, I started pondering love, my favorite subject. Love has been a constant in my life, showered unconditionally on me since I was a child. Keenly aware of the rare gift I’ve been given, I have long practiced conscious gratitude. But love itself was beginning to feel less tangible, and I wondered if my capacity to love had been capped since it had gotten harder to give and receive.
Also, the larger world and many around me seemed to be in a constant state of panic, fear, and anger. Was the world’s love somehow running out? Could there be an end to love?
It’s not as if there is a central LOVE checking account, I reasoned, out of which we all draw funds, the balance getting lower and lower until, nope…sorry, all gone, the account is overdrawn and no more love available to you, over spender.
Love also comes easily to most animals.
If love is without end, eternal (and I believe it is), and life-giving, I didn’t need to manufacture it, to force my will on it. Instead, I needed to stop turning away from a source of goodness and holding fiercely to what was clearly not working. I softened my expectations, my reactions, and most of all my judgment of myself and my loved ones. Instead of trying to prove that I was capable! I could handle this! I tested love and allowed it to seep into the broken places, the cracks I was trying so hard to fill with plans, answers, discipline, daily caretaking, and schedules. Trusting that love was true and powerful, I handed over the controls.
My new approach didn’t work immediately (and in all honesty, I continue to be a work in progress), but gradually I stopped feeling panicked and judgmental, and alone. I began to reach out to friends and the sober community, to take more walks and hikes, and to allow my children to be themselves instead of constantly directing them. My sense of humor returned, even to the point of gently joking with my dad about the hallucinations he was having because of a reaction to medication. Holy cow, I can elevate the dialog with my family rather than drag it into the mud of conflict! There was no getting out of bed in the morning unless I’d thought of five things to be grateful for, even as simple as having a bed in the first place (I highly recommend this practice; it sets a great tone for the coming day).
Goldfish’s hurt tail bandaged by preschool nursing team.
Perhaps it comes down to simply realizing you are worthy of love, even with all your imperfections and failures and daily yelling (OK, I’ll admit it was daily screaming for a little while there). And if you are worthy, isn’t everyone else? Loving yourself does not have to be tied to ego, or forced, it’s more of a willingness, an opening. Allowing love takes strength, but so do rejection and judgment, and which of those two paths is more fun, anyway?
Nine years ago, I was touring a local preschool when the Director told me something I’d heard before: “Kids learn through play.”
Standing in a bright hallway wallpapered with swaths of white construction paper dancing with small purple and blue handprints, I thought of my sixteen-month-old at home and another baby growing in my belly.
The words were no longer hollow, heard in passing, academic. This time, I listened.
I wanted my child to learn, and I also wanted him to play. Could one really lead to the other? Or should I seek out a school that would offer a “leg up” and ready my offspring for an imaginary future, a foundation that would ensure they avoided the pitfalls and difficulties I faced in my own (at times not-so-illustrious) academic career?
Welcome to parenting, mama.
Yesterday, I assisted in a Kindergarten classroom at that very same preschool I toured all those years ago. The preschool both my children attended and thrived in. The same preschool where I now teach.
It’s pretty simple, kids DO learn through play, they just need an environment that ENCOURAGES and makes space for play. Oh, and children also need to be listened to, respected, and slathered in unconditional love and acceptance.
Around the world, children are having their childhoods and their right to play ripped from them due to all manner of conflicts, natural disasters, and economic hardships. Adults are failing those kids. We, the adults in charge, should be doing everything we can to protect every child and their sacred right to something so simple and so easily taken for granted.
With a few brief years of teaching under my belt I’ve concluded that if we can get our adult selves, full of our own burdens and shortcomings and dashed expectations out of the way, the children themselves will guide us and show us how we can best help them grow, learn and play.
The teachers at the elementary school my kids attend now have told me they can spot the students who came from our preschool. “They know how to navigate conflict, they have life skills, and they truly listen to their friends and teachers.”
Did the kids learn all that because they were simply given the space and encouragement to play? It appears to be true.
…and can you really call it “work” when you get to hang on a playground with kiddos while they splash in puddles and listen to the strums of an acoustic guitar?
In the six or so years before my children were in school full-time, we visited local parks on a daily basis. My active kids needed to move their little bodies and yell their little (and big) yells and I needed sanity-saving space and fresh air.
One of our favorite spots featured a well-stocked Little Free Library (LFL) that housed books for kids and adults and everyone in between. Because of that LFL I rediscovered Ramona Quimby and Judy Blume and my children learned about talking chickens and Fly Guy and added even more Dr. Seuss to their already overflowing collection. Fresh discoveries awaited us every time we unhooked the pleasing latch on the library’s little front door.
If you’ve never seen a LFL before you might stop short–at first glance it appears to be a small house balanced on a pole. And in some respects, it is a house, except that no tiny people are living tiny lives inside. Instead, there are books. Free books, nestled on a shelf or two. Patiently waiting for a future reader to stroll by, open the door, and make a new friend (or a new reader…and aren’t they almost the same thing?).
A few years ago, it seemed as if a new LFL was cropping up on practically every street corner in my midsized Midwest city. Local LFL builders were part of a national (and now global) movement that began in Wisconsin when the son of a teacher built a small house in his front yard, mounted it on a post, and filled it with books as a tribute to his late and much admired book-loving mother. I would argue that the mere sight of a LFL can cause a surge of happiness and a decrease in blood pressure.
Recently, an exciting development! A LFL appeared in our very own neighborhood, close to the main entrance, easily spotted by anyone driving or walking by.
It turns out the structure was built by a neighbor friend who saw a LFL in another neighborhood close by and decided ours needed one too.
In his words:
“We thought it might help bring a stronger sense of community…and would be seen by everyone driving through. It was a family project [my kids] helped with a tape measure, clipboard, paper and pencil and made a diagram of another LFL, taking measurements and writing them down, with emphasis on measure twice, write once. After that, I did the building, but my kids both helped paint and chose the outside artwork. [In the future] I would like to see a mix of adult and children’s books, but then also announcements of neighborhood events and/or maybe even a celebrations page of achievements in the neighborhood, birthdays coming up, lemonade stands, flyers for lawn mowing. It would also be fun to re-paint the sides of the library every year and have different families add their own artwork.”
-Chaz Sinn, LFL Builder and Owner of Guys and Dollies and Stir Cold Brew Coffee (sold at Bloomingfoods & Bloomington Bagel Company)
Construction (and artwork) by Chaz Sinn and family.
Recently, I asked my kids to gather up some books they have outgrown so that we can stock our new hyper-local LFL with titles. I promised I’d add some of my own (a minor solution to major book-hoarding tendencies, bonus!). After all, donating books is the least we can do after years of benefiting from the literary generosity of others.
Who would expect that behind such a small front door would live the big power of new ideas, industrious neighbors, and books?
Elementary school library books about the climate crisis.
The Library at My Kid’s Elementary School
I volunteer here most weeks when my two children’s classes are visiting during their library times. Sure, the groups can be loud and boisterous (they’re KIDS after all), and listening skills are ever-developing… but oh the joy of watching them discovering books, reading on benches, searching for titles on the computer, and bemoaning the fact that the graphic novel they so desperately want has already been checked out.
There is also an entire shelf devoted to books on climate change and how to cope with it which is alternately hopeful and heartbreaking. My volunteer time allows me to hug my kids during their school day, listen to their classmate’s entertaining and enlightening chatter, shelve books, and admire the librarian’s patience.
The Graphic Novel section is a hotbed of activity.
Tea and a Healthy Breakfast
Full disclosure: there were times, especially during my citified corporate days, when TWO Venti-sized coffees would fuel my sunrise to sunset. This approach worked for a long time, but that excess of caffeine also fueled anxiety, a racing heart rate, digestive issues, and a restless sleep cycle. The food complement to this ill-advised start to my day was usually a croissant or pastry.
These days, my mornings begin with tea. Specifically, a Chai variety or, more recently, a lavender tea. The soothing yet invigorating liquid invites contemplation and encourages vigor, and the tea tags are usually surprisingly prescient.
Food-wise, a bowl with oatmeal or yogurt is piled with berries and other fruit, chopped nuts, and granola, and topped off by foamed oat milk.
What starts well tends to end well and a day is no exception.
A handful of blueberries a day helps keep memory loss at bay. Tea tags of note.
Sunsets and Sunrises
In all honesty, I catch sunsets more frequently than sunrises. Our house faces West and often, as the day comes to a close, I’ll notice a faint pink glow lighting up the walls opposite the front bay window. That’s when I know the sunset is particularly brilliant and that it’s time to drop everything and savor the view. It’s tempting to talk oneself out of going outside (oh just a few more dishes and you’ll be done…it’s so hot/cold out there..but I can see it from the couch!).
This is when I remind myself of three close friends my age who died far too young (Shubana Zwicker, Amy Wagner, and Chris Van Bebber). I consider how each of these friends lived and embraced every moment of their lives and how (I assume) they are no longer able to see the sun offering its glory each day, but I sure am.
I walk outside to accept the artistry in the sky.
Trees and sky, collaborating on the sunset. A stop sign with a view. Backyard sunrise.
A Pair of Green Crocs
Sometimes, it’s as simple as a good pair of shoes. I’ve endured some teasing about them through the years, but my indoor shoes are nothing but comfortable. I adore their bright green shade and the pie charm is an homage to my pie-making grandmother.
What’s on your list of things that offer hope and joy?
It was in March 2022 that I realized how much the United States had changed.
Our family of four is taking our first airplane flight in three and a half years. The pandemic and financial considerations have conspired to keep us close to home. Oh, who am I kidding, we weren’t just “close” to home, we wereat home, for an entire year.
Online school, work, life, and three daily meals, all conducted under the same roof with the same four people, day in and day out. We have stayed healthy (a different story for many, including other family members and friends). We are grateful for our solid, safe house but it has been a long, trying stretch. Now that spring has arrived, we are more than ready for a change of scenery.
The pandemic, however, cares not that we are going stir-crazy and continues to rage. Traveling by air feels unfamiliar and somewhat dangerous. From the vantage point of my insulated daily life in a mid-sized midwestern city, it is hard to imagine the transformations the United States has undergone in the approximately two years since I last crossed state lines.
Any moment a child rests on an airplane is a win.
My eight and nine-year-olds are giddy with excitement as we board the plane, chattering throughout the process, asking frequent questions, and pointing in every direction “Is that the pilot? How many helpers (stewards and stewardesses) are there? “It’s cold in here! (the jetway). “Can I have my snack yet? (umm, we just sat down). Son and husband sit together, and my daughter and I settle in across the aisle.
Despite decades of flying under my belt I too feel excitement about take-off, as well as a renewed appreciation for the ability to travel at all. The months spent at home have helped me realize how much I took for granted the familiarity of airports, the invigorating bustle of humanity, and the thrill of jetting off to new places.
As we get comfortable, I become aware of a commotion a few rows ahead. Glancing over the seat backs I spot a man in his forties gesturing in a frustrated way. The attendants have asked him to put his oversized bag into an overhead compartment and he does not agree with their request. He feels inconvenienced and lets everyone around him know “Those son-of-a bitches in Washington” he says, loud enough for all of us in surrounding rows to hear, “They were supposed to lift the mask mandate but now they aren’t.” He thumps down out of view, but his mutterings are still audible.
A stewardess happens by on her way down the aisle and requests politely “Please put your mask on, sir.” A few minutes pass and another flight attendant delivers the same appeal. Both pleas go unheeded.
By now we have pushed off from the jetway and passengers all around are intent on their screens, books, phones, and laps. My daughter and I investigate seat-back screens and unpack water bottles and treats. I notice that no one offers opinions or gets involved with the uppity passenger in the way they might have three years ago. More time passes and we are now sitting on the runway. Didn’t the pilot just say we were about to get in line for take-off? Cabin lights dim and my daughter asks for the eighth time if we are in the air yet. She was so young when the pandemic began that she doesn’t remember the sequence of events involved in flying or what a full-body experience it can be when a flight takes off.
The voice of the man three rows ahead rises again, and I feel a tightening in my chest. It sounds as if his voice is being forced out of his throat, the stream of discontented words floating above our seats. I know man, I want to say. We’re all tired of this. This destruction, this frustration, this upending of our lives. Why not wear an uncomfortable mask for a few hours to offer help to your fellow humans–to avoid someone carrying something home to their kids/elders, into their weak immune system, or worse?
I check myself and decide to refuse anger. I take the example of the patient flight attendants tending to this man. They treat him with firm respect. The first was a tall willowy Black stewardess with a kind, direct gaze. Minutes tick forward, the plane continues to idle in place. My daughter doesn’t mind, she realizes the screen in the seat back is hers and hers alone! She can choose a movie for herself!
Suddenly, the pilot’s disembodied voice rings out through the cabin “Ladies and gentlemen, to let you know the reason for our delay, we had a passenger who was unwilling to comply with our mask rule, and we were planning to return to the runway. The passenger has now decided to comply. We want you to know that we don’t necessarily enjoy these rules either but we have them in place for our passenger’s safety.”
Mid-flight, somewhere over the state of Tennessee, I wonder at the foundations of our democracy and whether the current political climate in the United States will ever allow for a thoughtful discussion of the roots of inequality and true injustice. My daughter watches “Encanto” (the fifth time she has seen it).
Outside our tin capsule, the sun has risen. My daughter points out a constellation of tiny reflections glinting off the pink ruby in my wedding ring. “The sun did it just for us!” she says.
A small marvel at 35,000 feet.
“We apologize for being late but we are making up as much time as we can” announces the pilot as we begin to descend to the Atlanta airport. A few passengers will miss their connections due to our late take-off, an entirely avoidable inconvenience. Is it too late for my country, I wonder, can we make up for all the time we spend judging, disagreeing, and complaining?
Maybe the fact that no one got outwardly angry at this man, that he eventually complied with the airline’s request, that the flight took off at all, is a win. Life (and flights) move forward whether or not we agree with the messy details.
A week later, on the plane ride home, one of my preschool students happens to be in the seat one row in front of me. The excited four-year-old is in awe that his teacher is there, on the same plane as him! He can see me through the crack between the two seats ahead of my son and me. “I want to tell you a secret,” he says, and I lean my head forward so that his voice is funneled directly into my waiting ear “Do you know…do you know” he splutters sweetly “this plane is going to fly in the air!”
His pure excitement is a reminder that astonishment can exist next door to cynicism. One human leans toward bitterness and contempt and another is innocent and enchanted. Wonder can be a seatmate to dissolution and they are both here, crammed into one cabin and one country, together.
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