By Larry Bleiberg
20 October 2015
As
adults, we often forget the magic of flying. But what it brings to our
lives, our perspectives and our outlooks is undeniably the stuff of
dreams.
One hectic morning, early in my marriage,
I was driving my father-in-law to the airport. While navigating the
snarling highway traffic, my mind looped through to-do lists,
calculating how long it would take to drop him off, say goodbye and make
it cross-town to the office. Then a jet glided silently over the road
like a giant heron, about to touch down at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport.
"It's magic,” my father-in-law said, interrupting my restless thoughts. I looked at him, confused.
Here was a doctor who lectured at colleges and had visited more than 100 countries. He understood better than I the
Bernoulli principle that
keeps planes in the air; how the miracle of flight is actually no
miracle at all but a simple physics equation. It definitely wasn’t
magic.
But thinking back now, I realise he was at least partially
right. While flying might not be magic, it’s certainly magical. What it
brings to our lives, our perspectives and our outlooks is undeniably the
stuff of dreams.
But too often, we – I – forget.
I read a tweet a few months ago that struck a little too close to home.
“You know you’re grown-up,” it said, “when you no longer want a window seat.”
You know you’re grown-up when you no longer want a window seat.
And
too often in recent years, I've found myself sweet-talking gate agents
to land a coveted aisle seat on the exit row, forgetting the wonders
travelling at near the speed of sound. But occasionally, when the
wi-fi’s out or my laptop battery is depleted, I remember to look.
One
night sticks out to me. I was heading home from California and
connecting in Texas after a challenging work trip. Delay piled up on
delay as storms marched across the region. When we finally took off,
hours late, it was pushing midnight. The crew dimmed the cabin lights
and most of my fellow passengers were asleep in minutes (or at least
closing their eyes and wishing they were).
I was about to follow
suit when a flash of light caught my attention. The thunderstorm that
had snarled air traffic that night still had some life. Our pilot had
routed us 100 miles to the north of the weather system, providing
bleacher seats for the performance.
Clouds sparkled as they shot silent bolts of
lightning to the ground. They glowed like lanterns, popping with colours
in a cosmic light show. I stared into the darkness and noticed the
flight attendant had kneeled next to my bulkhead seat to watch the show.
I’m invariably rewarded when I remember to look.
For
the next half-hour we were riveted, not saying a word as we sailed
through the night. How many hundreds of thousands of miles had she
flown? I didn't ask. But she could still appreciate the wondrous moment –
and on that night, so could I.
I’m invariably rewarded when I
remember to look. The world seems to make more sense from up high.
Seeing the great expanse of the Earth divided into neat patterns –
fields checkerboarding the landscape and roads racing to the horizon –
brings symmetry to the messiness of everyday life.
I've leaned past snoozing seatmates to marvel at
snow-covered mountain peaks gliding past the window, and been
hypnotized by a glowing Los Angeles night, the undulating topography
sparkling like a star-studded cape. Then there's the unexpected glory of
a sunrise that arrives hours too early when you fly overseas, the
majestic rays illuminating the horizon of another continent. This moment
of discovery unfolds every dawn for tens of thousands of passengers,
but few, I would venture, ever stop to think about it.
To be honest, I usually don't either.
I
recall another time when I was leaving on what was supposed to be a
family vacation, and once again, my mind was on the office and
unfinished projects left behind.
The clouds! ... Look at the clouds!
Moments
after take-off from Chicago, I dove into work. But a passenger behind
me wouldn't stop talking. “The clouds!” he kept saying, “Look at the
clouds!”
I turned to glare, and saw two men, one who appeared to
be in his 70s and the other much younger. I felt sorry for the
travelling companion, whom I imagined was the unlucky son tasked to join
his aging father on the trip. The chatter continued for 20 minutes
until, in frustration, I looked up from my glowing computer screen and
opened the window shade.
The clouds!
He was right. We were floating through giant
balls of cotton, soft and fluffy, each as different as a snowflake and
seemingly close enough to touch. The afternoon sun provided a shifting
palette of colours: pink and salmon, red and raspberry, crimson and
ivory, all set off against a royal blue sky. I closed my laptop and
stared at them for the rest of the flight.
I don't remember the work I felt compelled to complete that afternoon. But I've never forgotten those clouds.
AFP
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