Seems like this lesson I keep learning over and over the more I live, the more I grow up, that endings are usually sad. Beginnings are comprised of both excitement and fear. But it's the middles that are the best parts. That's the good stuff, the moments to remember.
This is what I was writing when:
I noticed a little girl in a pink dress with white flowers making a puppet out of her purple polka dotted sock, which reminded me that I forgot to put socks in my carry on. I always get cold feet when I fly- literally. And as I watched her playfully swinging back and forth in a black leather seat, it was all I could do to park my divine sadness right next to her innocent happiness and just sit. I don't think I'd ever been so sad to step on an airplane in my entire life. I'd stepped on them feeling happiness, even fear, but not such supreme sadness.
It's like getting caught in gnarly surf, a giant wave engulfing you. It sees and claims you for no good reason at all except to violently enclose you in deep blue salt.
Pulling you down.
Stealing your breath.
Smacking you in the face.
It's all you can do to finally emerge toward light, gasping for air, eyes burning, completely drenched.
And so it was at gate 18, sitting in the terminal watching this little girl that I gasped for air, for anything to hold onto to just feel better.
FUTILE.
I found myself seated next to a man on the airplane with a severe fear of flying. Row 18. His long yet slightly knobby knees rebounded off of mine. He took carefully calculated breaths. He crossed himself several times before resting his face in his hands whispering to himself. He eventually turned to me with these sad puppy dog eyes and the voice of a young boy on a first date: "Do you fly often? What's the worst part?"
Needless to say, I spent the better majority of the next 5 hours talking to this man if for nothing more than to settle his fears and refocus his attention.
This man is from Pittsburgh. A landscaper. A tall, built, scruffy looking type. We talked about our fears, our hopes, our plans- like his, to move to Sacramento and begin a new chapter in his life. He is sweet, funny, and a gentleman. He turns off the air when seeing I'm cold and offers his shoulder if I should later need a head rest. We talk about playing the lottery, 2012 and Aztec prophecies, traveling abroad, and taking grand leaps of faith.
I wish I had asked him his name.
We're both fading in and out of sleep, our heads tilted toward one another, our shoulders touching. I don't know if he noticed. Eventually our forearms and the tips of our fingers are touching. I can feel the heat of his skin through my shirt and breathe contently in sharing this tiny moment, feeling like maybe we both just needed a little human contact. Maybe we both just needed to not feel so alone. We both wake up smiling. He hands my trash to the flight attendant and makes sure I'm warm enough as we make our final descent.
I smile as we land declaring, "You made it!"
He smiles, "Nah, we made it."
He leans over to look out the window and I breath him in. He smells of tobacco and peppermint and I am reminded of that scene from "The Parent Trap" where she makes a memory of her grandfather who smells this way. I desperately wanted to make a memory of him. I wanted to frame his face with my hands and take a mental picture. I wanted to hold onto this stranger and his kindness, his smile, his piercing green eyes and the intricate tattoo making a sleeve on his right arm. I wanted to hold onto his doubly pierced ears, his laugh, and the warmth of his skin... how he genuinely wanted to hear about playing ukulele, travels through Europe, surfing in Hawaii, and taking risks in life- at any time.
It was like opening little windows into one an other's souls for that brief moment in time, cruising above the clouds with a full moon in sight. We stepped off the plane and back into our own separate lives, but not before exchanging final words of luck and gratitude for sharing the flight, for making it out alive, and for keeping each other warm.
I wish I had asked him his name.
But now every time I think of Pittsburgh I will think of my landscaping friend. I will send him love and light and then drop it and move on, like Liz Gilbert says. But, Mr. Pittsburgh, if you're out there somewhere reading this, drop me a line. I'm thinking maybe we should be friends.
Now, can we also, just for a moment, talk about flight attendants and this whole routine they perform? Noting the information card in the seat back pocket? Pointing toward the exits? Demonstrating how to fasten my seat belt? It's like some strange little dance. A funny ritual of sorts really providing little to no actual assistance. How odd.
And can I also just mention how you have to pay for everything on flights now? Luggage. Food. Headphones. You can't even get a blanket for free. But maybe that's okay...perhaps it leads to more impromptu snuggling with sweet, scruffy strangers. And really, I'm okay with that.
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