Pre-flight

The last time I flew far away from home, I was traveling to Puerto Rico to attend a writing seminar at San Juan's University of the Sacred Heart.  The night before I left, I wrote a poem contemplating the flight.  In the poem, I asked the question (in so many words): have I hurt anyone?  Have I left anyone floating in the sky, gasping in an unfriendly atmosphere, grasping at the nothingness of the air?  I was thinking, what suffering have I caused?

This question comes to my mind every time I fly.  Because flying, to me, is such an unnatural act.  We gamble with technology, weather, and humanity every time we climb up into the sky.  It doesn't seem right to me.    

I don't belong up in the air.  I belong right here on the ground, where I can walk and touch dirt, plant seeds, ride my bike, kiss my son, and bow from the waist.  Flying seems like a sustained fantasy: we're all thinking that everything is totally normal; we're eating, sleeping, talking, daydreaming, reading, praying; meanwhile, the ground is far, far beneath us, and the vehicle we're sitting in is so much a weapon.  If we fall from the sky, we threaten any form of life down there on the ground, innocents who aren't up there.  But flying seems so benign, especially with a lapful of distractions.  Flying doesn't seem like reality to me.  It feels unreal.  

But thankfully, an airplane will take me to the places I yearn to go.  Vietnam, South Africa, New Zealand.  Maybe if I find a home in one of these places -- outside of the city, a simple life, mindful labor and love, reading and writing (all I want for my life) -- I won't fly again.    

Tomorrow, an airplane will take me to Brasil.  Tonight, I contemplate my actions.

Because everything is connected.