Flying Writer

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.

Howdy from Kentucky!

What does a Catholic writers' literary pilgrimage to the south look like? In the next few blog posts, I will attempt to share some of the spirit of our road trip with ya'll. 

Two northerners from Wisconsin drove down yesterday and arrived in Springfield, Kentucky, to meet up with our North Dakota friend and a southern belle. Most of us had never seen each other in person before, having met through an online group, and so it was wonderful to finally give hugs all around and see each other face to face.

We gathered in the kitchen as our very own Beth Dotson Brown cooked a delicious meal for us from homegrown fresh vegetables. Beth loves to cook and I must say we were spoiled with her generosity!

 After our meal, we took a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood.

The historic downtown is lined with old fashioned barbershops, attorney offices, judicial buildings and statues of Abraham Lincoln. It is like stepping back into the 1800s.

Finally, we ended up at this outdoor patio restaurant where we talked about writing and our travels (two of my favorites subjects!) over wine, and I was inspired to dream big. I think we all were encouraged by being in each other's company.

 

People are so friendly here! I believe it must have something to do with all the front porches and rocking chairs that bring out the friendliness in people. Unlike us northerners who have decks in the back of the house, here neighbors sit outside watching the world go by.

As the four of us walked up the hill on High Street, some folks sitting on their front porch wicker chairs greeted us and called out, “You’re walking fast for going uphill!” Ha! Yes, that's why I love the south. Always reminding me to slow down and smell the roses! 

...which is how we spent this very evening...

From the porch swing, Roxane reads aloud to us excerpts from The Habit of Being, the collected, personal letters of Flannery O’Connor. I have my journal open in my lap for writing, and Karen rocks in her chair with her Kindle open to reading The Habit of Being. It is in these letters that we have gotten to know and admire Flannery; for she's a bold writer, fiercely witty, devoutly Catholic, peculiar about peacocks, and she's dying of lupus yet making the most out of her life with a deep sense of purpose and passion.

As it grows darker, fireflies dance and light up the night around us, until I decide it is time to go in; and then a few hours later, after writing, it is finally time to go to bed.

Cat Whiskers and Tales

Trying to teach a 13-year-old cat new tricks takes a lot of patience. I got it in my head this winter that I should try taking Ginger outdoors for walks when it warms up – in an effort to help her shed the extra pounds she put on since fall. When I adopted her in August, I received a harness along with her things from the previous owner, so I assumed that she was used to taking walks, or at least had gotten out once in a while. In fact, I also heard that she used to be an outdoor/indoor cat and that's why she still had her claws. All of that information sounded like the perfect recipe for taking her out-of-doors for exploration around the city neighborhood.

Yesterday the temps reached the 40s, so I got Ginger into her harness and attached the leash. Mind you, this took probably 20 minutes, coaxing her, chasing her and giving her treats so she’d let me put the thing on her. You’d think I was torturing her. When I had finally strapped her in, she glued herself to the wall in a bundle of fur, refusing to budge. Apparently, she thinks the harness is a strait jacket and her limbs are paralyzed in it. I decided to just pick her up and take her outside. 

We went down the stairs, opened the front door and stepped out into the fresh air and sunshine. Oh did it feel great! But Ginger leaned back against me, her eyes wide, her heart beating hard against my hand and her nostrils flaring in and out with all the smells. She shivered, whether it was from fear or cold, I would guess the former. In an instant, I had become, not her torturer, but her fortress of safety, from whose arms she could dare to peak out at the world. I didn’t have to worry about having her on a harness and leash – she wasn’t going to be doing any leaping out of my arms. Finally, I set her down beside me on the front steps, praising her for being such a brave girl. But she instantly turned back to me, putting her paws on my knee and then on my shoulder, begging to come “up” again. And then, when that wasn't good enough, she turned back to the door, reared up on her hind legs and heaved herself, arms and paws, against the door, letting out a whelping “meoooooowww.”

Ah, well. Maybe she just needs a few more times of "getting outside of her skin" to acquire a new habit and pastime, as I need to re-acquire that little, old writing habit of discipline. Putting on that old habit again scratches on the skin, like a rough wool robe, but once I've worn it a few times again, it will get easier to put on, just a part of me, grounding in a way. As for Ginger, I will extend her mercy and wait for spring and warmer days before teaching her those lessons.

In the meantime, she's sharing some sage life advice with me: 

Don't be embarrassed to take long and frequent naps. They're good for you.

Foster curiosity. It keeps life interesting!

Love one another.

Hm, what's this? "Shorter Christian Prayer..."

You weren't praying it, Mom, so I thought I would!

Resting in the spirit

(Honestly, I did not stage these pictures. I found Ginger curled up with this Liturgy of the Hours prayer book on the day I pulled it out to remind myself to get back into that habit.)

Obviously, I couldn't do it without her.