I commute to work by plane. No, not as a pilot. As a weekly passenger from Arizona to California on Southwest Airlines. It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous because, when I tell people, they stare at me like “Are you out of your mind?!” or they say “Are you out of your mind?!”
I don’t like flying.
Like so many adults, I remember the crazy thrill of airplane trips as a kid. Looking out of the window, amazed by what I saw from way, way, way, up in the air. Lakes and farm grids, mountains and city lights. Flight wasn’t dangerous to my 8 year old self. Being in a little tube in the sky, soaring above the planet, was magical, not maniacal!
Somewhere in my 4th decade, probably when I began to feel existential about life (that I didn’t just have a reproductive clock, I also had a life clock), the idea of soaring above the planet in a tube seemed really stupid…but also essential if one needed to get from geographic Point A to Point B over a long distance and quickly.
I refused to become a neurotic non-flyer, one of those people who never traveled because they were too freaked out to fly. My best solution was to get a window seat so I could control the shades. I would settle into my seat and close the shades, so I didn’t have to deal with the reality of the space between the plane and the earth … otherwise known as death. I could lull myself into temporary denial and even enjoy the free juice and twelve free peanuts.
Today was a typical flight day. I grabbed my window seat, buckled up, popped in my earbuds and set up my Podcasts. I closed the shades and my eyes. Ready to relax. Then, making it’s way through the protective shield of my earbuds, like the distant voice of the nurse waking you from the comfort of twilight sleep after a colonoscopy, I heard: “Excuse me. Ummm. Excuse me.” I opened my eyes, uncorked one ear and opened one eye. “Could you please open the shades? I feel better if I can see the horizon line.”
She was 19 years old, sweet, proper and vocal about the fear we both shared, but with a totally different coping strategy.
I immediately responded like a caring mother and, with total confidence, said, “Oh, of course!” I flipped open the shades with a fake casual flick of the wrist as if I’d made a mistake by closing them. Now we could both gaze out the windows to the horizon line and, from my seat, to the ground way, way, way, below. My fellow traveler sat back with a nervous exhale. I gave her a reassuring smile and a maternal arm squeeze which seemed to say, “I’ll take care of you.”
What was I thinking?! I could hear snotty brain voices firmly refusing her request. “Sorry, I was here first.” “Sorry, I prefer the shades down.” “Sorry, I want to sleep.” “It’s Southwest Airlines, get another seat!” But that’s not me. I’m a habitual helper by default and a therapist by trade. A lethal combo plate. Plus, I had no bad excuse nor good excuse. Shades up or shades down, reality was reality, and a little window wasn’t changing the facts: (1) tube high in the sky (2) earth below.
Flying together towards some certain or uncertain fate, we began to share. (Conversation also kept me from looking out the window.) My companion was just starting out on her journey in life. She was a freshman in college, far from home and just finding her way. She explained that she had long suffered from anxiety but was doing a pretty good job at managing it. Flying, she explained, was scary. (I nodded.) She liked to keep an eye on the horizon line to let her know that things were level, stable, heading in the right direction. No head-in-the-sand style for this kid. She was dealing with her anxiety head on. She was doing exactly what I’d coach any client to do…..step up and face the fear.
We both turned back into our worlds, she to her iPad and games and I to my earbuds. I sat in silence, listening to nothing, just thinking. I thought about centuries of travelers moving toward a destination and guided by the sun, the constellations, by landmarks on a distant horizon line. My little buddy was an able explorer of the outer and inner worlds.
The shades were not coming down, so I looked out, all the way home.