It's the Monday after Thanksgiving. The first day of December, to be even more precise. I am sitting at JFK airport, waiting for my connecting flight to Boston. It has already been delayed over an hour (note: it eventually turned into a three hour delay, but who's counting?) This, after a delayed departure from Portland, Oregon made me miss my original connecting flight. Actually, we landed just in time to watch that shuttle to Boston pull away from the gate. I had a fleeting image of my empty seat, soaring off into the sky, landing in Boston just in time for dinner. Had we landed a mere two minutes earlier, I could have made it. Alas, the one time you pray for a delay, the plane leaves bang on time.
Yes, there was a spot of trouble on the logistical side of things, but I was treated to some rather exquisite natural wonders on both coasts, and on opposite sides of the day. First of all, I experienced the happy coincidence to be reading the following passage from the Magician's Nephew, just as we were taking off (for those who have yet to read it, this part doesn't give much away at all):
Look out for the valleys, the green places, and fly through them. There will always be a way through. And now, be gone with my blessing.
So, with His blessing we lifted into the air, and flying out of Portland afforded me a spectacular view of (I think?) Mt. St. Helen's and a few other significant-looking mountains. After a few moments, I looked again at my book, and it was rather surreal to be reading a surprisingly accurate description of what I was seeing outside (even though Narnia isn't anywhere near Portland...or maybe it's so close that we sometimes miss it...):
All Narnia, many-coloured with lawns and rocks and heather and different sorts of trees, lay spread out below them, the river winding through it like a ribbon of quicksilver...On their left the mountains were much higher, but every now and then there was a gap when you could see, between steep pine woods, a glimpse of the southern lands that lay beyond them, looking blue and far away...
One sandwich, three cokes, and a movie later, we flew over New York City. I was not the only one who noticed that it was clear we had perhaps made a wrong turn and passed the airport. The pilot, in his wonderfully bored voice which could soothe the nerves of the most nervous flyer, informed us that we were going to circle for a little while, until it was our turn to land. Never one to argue with air traffic control, I sat back and pondered how late we were going to be, and how much it would cost to take a taxi to LaGuardia, and why we hadn't discovered ways to "beam up" people when we had already clearly surpassed much of the technology on the original Star Trek.
All those thoughts were quickly redirected to the back of my mind when I looked out the window and saw the sunset. I've written of this before, but it doesn't seem to get old: I know flying is not always the most pleasant way to spend most of one's day, but I am still convinced that the world looks exceedingly beautiful from many feet up in the air. It makes me wonder how God sees creation, and if He sees (eternally) what I get to see for just a few moments, no wonder that joy is His nature and that He hasn't stopped smiling since the Beginning.
The orange and pink light filled the seats around me, dancing on the walls, as if playfully daring the frustrated passengers to delight in the evening's wonder. The light in the cabin drew our gaze to the landscape below and around us. It was breathtaking. The only thing better than the ocean is an ocean under the influence of the setting sun. Everything looked as though it had been carefully painted onto the surface of the earth, by an artist more concerned with the authenticity of his creation than with how much he would get for it or how long it would take the average audience to interpret it. My eyes took in the blue of the water, sharply contrasted with the uneven, white contours of the shoreline. All around the aircraft, the clouds adopted a crisp, orange outline, a phenomenon which lasted just seconds. For we plunged into a colourless cloud, and by the time we pulled out of it, the splendour had faded, and the roofs and roads resumed their ordinary disguises.
So we landed. And I have been wandering the area around Gate 19A, waiting for flight 6798 to board. Dragging my luggage with me every where I go, I reflect on the last week, filled with happy memories, and reasons to smile to myself. I could, of course, get a bit frustrated right now, given the various travel delays (in spite of very good weather conditions) and a growing sense of fatigue (I have, after all, been awake since 4 am...Pacific Time, maybe, but still, it feels like a long day...) But this kind of weariness gives rise to other thoughts as well: first of all, these present circumstances are entirely out of my own control, and I am confident that the airline is doing its best to accommodate us. So scowling at them will a) not speed things up and b) not make the staff, fellow passengers, or me any more cheerful. And cheerlessness makes a long wait feel exponentially longer.
Actually, this all makes for quite a good exercise in the art of surrender. The kind which translates into the acceptance that nothing I can do can alter all these external variables that would appear to be creating some sort of perfect storm of personal misfortune. But the universe is not carrying out some vendetta against me, no matter how annoying the situation may be. And as tiring as being tired can be, I can do little more than just sit still and wait. It is these moments of in-between-ness that airports seem to be masters of. Time is somewhat suspended in the anticipation of boarding. And we are asked to do nothing else but wait. It is as though the threads of the day are pulled apart a little, and as they loosen, we finally see what is in the spaces between all that we try to achieve in a day, a week, or even a year.
Which brings me to another (random) thought: why so many climactic scenes in movies and television episodes occur in airports. I know you see what I mean: the man, upon realizing his true feelings for a woman in his life, frantically navigates his way through rush hour traffic, leaps from the car, into the terminal, tears his way through the crowds (the likes of which I have never personally witnessed, but then again, I have never been so desperately in love that any kind of crowd feels like the whole world is somehow closing in, leaving all to Providence, Fate, and Destiny), and then he spots his Beloved. With an incomparable look of relief and joy etched on his face, he struggles to get her attention as she puts her security-cleared shoes back on, with a slightly melancholic look around her eyes, and makes her way to the designated gate. Alas! She is gone before he has a moment to cry out her name above the din of the (immense) crowd and the (shouting) voice of the loudspeaker, which asks us if anyone has put any strange objects into our luggage and to be aware that only 3 ounces of liquids are allowed in a Ziploc bag.
Our man then rushes over to the ticket counter (where, suspiciously, there are no crowds), and tries to buy a ticket, expressing his willingness to spend a small fortune , not even considering for a moment if he has his passport, or if he has watered his plants, or even turned off the gas stove in his haste to reach The Girl He Just Realized He is in Love With....
On the surface, airports and planes don't seem like places which ooze romance, but one could argue that an air (no pun intended) of romance lingers in those sterile corridors and formless waiting areas. They can be places of last chance goodbyes, joyful reunions, and have a way of opening and closing chapters of human lives. And if everything works out okay, the happy couple could always celebrate by feasting on a fourteen dollar sandwich and an equally overpriced brownie, both of which are tempting options over near Gate 20.
