You never know who you’re going to be seated beside on an
airplane, especially when traveling alone. I’ve met all types of interesting
sorts, but once in a while, there is someone who really stands out in your
mind, someone who seems placed there for a reason. Over two years have passed
since I met Claudia but it seems fitting that I share her story now.
April 2013 – I am unsettled. I’m floating thousands of feet
up in the air on a plane, not only lifted off the ground but torn somewhere
between east and west, between home and the wild, untamed wonder of my dreams.
This trip has been different from other vacations in that it has stirred up so
much of dreams and desires and made me re-evaluate everything. I’m somewhere in
the middle, suspended, waiting, wondering. Maybe that’s why it’s hard to write,
hard to know just what it is I want to communicate.
It’s a bright, clear day for flying, and we go soaring in
and out of the cumulous, billowy clouds. I have to admit I love the feeling as
the plane lifts off the ground, the engine roaring and my stomach leaping. I
make the sign of the cross and my heart beats fast, like a dozen butterflies
beating their wings rapidly as we lift off the ground for adventure. Out of my
window, I see wide, stretching mountain ranges in Nevada. Unlike snowcapped Mt.
Rainier I had just beheld in Washington, these mountains are rugged, craggy,
and painted in layers of deep brown with orange and gold, sandy stripes.
But as I write this, the reality of descending back into the
normality of life in my Midwestern Wisconsin town is confronting me. At 5:25
p.m. Central Standard Time to be exact, these wheels will hit the ground back
home and the plane will vibrate as it comes to a sudden halt. I don’t
know where I shall go then, for this trip has sparked a longing for new
beginnings.
The passenger next to me has long wavy hair, equal parts
silver and gold, and wise, twinkling eyes that make her look like she is
frequently laughing even though she tells me, she’s a widow.
She opens her heart to tell me about herself and her house
in the hills, somewhere off the coast of Washington. No surprise she was a
florist in her younger days (which brought back to my mind the large tulip
fields I’d just seen in Skagit Valley), and now she works to care for the
developmentally disabled and enrich their lives by taking them to the opera in
Seattle and doing fun activities with them. Looking at her, I think, How
beautiful! I want to be that kind of woman when I grow old. And already, I
sense a kindred spirit, one who has risen through grief and loss with hope and
passion and purpose.
She is thrilled to hear I work as a freelance writer.
Divulging some of my hopes and the possibilities before me, she says she has no
doubt I will do well.
“Most importantly, you have a passion for it,” she says. “It
is in your heart. I can see it in your eyes.”
Moments before this woman was a perfect stranger but here
she was believing in me and having me believe that I would be back here in the
west one day, pursuing my dreams.
When she gets up to leave, I ask her what her name is.
Claudia. And tell her mine. This exchange before we part cements her
personality deep into my mind, and as she turns to walk down the aisle and off
the plane, she says, “Have a wonderful life, hon.”
That’s when I realize deep down why I love flying.
We may never meet again, the folks who have shared passenger
seats with me while suspended in the air. But for a moment, there we are, fellow
pilgrims, bumped and jostled together from different walks of life, every one
of us on the same epic, upward journey.
