writing for self-discovery

It was a long and perilous journey home.

First, there was the 3-hour bus ride from Ferragudo. I’d booked the B & B Airport Hotel for my overnight stay in Lisbon before the morning flight to Philadelphia. I didn’t know what to expect from that choice of lodging but was favorably impressed. It was spotlessly clean, modern, and friendly.

Uber picked me up at 7:30 the next morning and whisked me to Departures. I was at my gate with plenty of time to spare until boarding.

Once on the plane, I found my window seat. There was an empty one between me and the gentleman sitting next to the aisle. The row in front of us had a mother and baby, a little boy in the center, and a chic older woman in front of me by the window.

Note: This will be important later.

We took off on time. In-flight food service began immediately. We were plied with meals three times during the 7 1/2- hour trip over the Atlantic. I watched the movie Conclave because I had just read the book. It followed the plot well.

About an hour before our descent into Philly, the pilot announced that the flight attendants would be collecting all unwanted leftovers and passengers should use the restrooms if needed because in 30 minutes, the seatbelt sign would go on, and we were strongly encouraged to remain in our seats for the remainder of the flight. Some turbulence was expected.

The clouds were serene as we approached our destination.

But as we began to descend through them, the plane went into spasms. It shook and rattled. There was a sickening slide to the left, a jerk upward, a weightless moment as it dropped into a hole in the air, then a slip sideways to the right. Bump, rattle, slip, slide, dodge, dip, repeat. We passengers were like ice cubes in a cocktail shaker damned to an eternity of chaotic mixing. It went on and on and on with no relief.

Just as life-size buildings began to appear indicating we’d almost reached the ground, still shaking furiously, the engines kicked in and roared us skyward, back through the clouds, to impossible calm once again.

The intercom crackled. The pilot spoke. Sorry about the delayed landing, folks. We didn’t like what we saw down there. We’ve been rerouted to a runway better suited to our needs.

After 30 minutes of smooth sailing high above, we started downward again. I wouldn’t have believed it could be worse, but…

We entered the second hell. There was a frantic shuffling search for barf bags followed by the unmistakable stench of people losing their lunch.

All at once, the little boy in the middle of the row in front of me, projectile vomited on his mother and baby brother. Then, swinging his head to the right, he sprayed the backs of the seats in front of him, the TV screens, and finally, the lovely lady by the window.

Keep in mind that we’re still in the cocktail shaker. Flight attendants staggered and stumbled down the aisle with napkins, towels, and garbage bags. Mom, holding baby, tried to mop up the damage. Lady by the window attempted to comfort the distraught little boy while wiping the mess off her clothes. The gentleman in my aisle tucked his nose down his shirt.

Somehow…some way…at some point, the pilots connected with the runway. The plane was like a skier slaloming down a mountain: blown by the wind to one side, overcorrecting and careening to the opposite edge, then skidding back, caught by the wind again. We tore along at hideous speed. Braking to slow down wasn’t an option.

We did finally stop. The shouting and applause sounded like a superbowl touchdown. Worse than drunken sailors, we staggered out of the plane, grateful to be alive.

My email notification was beeping. The connecting flight for that afternoon was canceled. All planes at Philadelphia were grounded.

American Airlines booked me into a hotel and supplied a food voucher, then printed boarding passes that would get me to Minneapolis with a Chicago layover the next morning.

Waiting in the freezing, blustery wind for the hotel shuttle, I had an insightful conversation with a fellow survivor from my flight. He was on leave from his job in Pakistan, going home to see his family. After an hour and two phone calls to the hotel, the shuttle arrived.

The driver barreled down the freeway. The bus, rocked by gale-force winds, went into a skid then recovered. I turned to my new friend. Wouldn’t it be ironic, I began…

…if we survived the plane, but we’re killed in the shuttle bus? he finished. It felt good to laugh.

Now I’m safely home. It’s surreal, like only part of me has arrived, and some significant foundational piece is missing. I’m trying to remember my life here. What do I do? Do I have a purpose? I attempted to craft a grocery list. It was beyond me. 

I’m going to have to let myself be. Do nothing until the scattered pieces have reassembled, and I’m once again firmly earthbound.

I’m embracing this thought from a recent issue of the Magnolia magazine…

What if the response…is to just sit in it, to let ourselves settle into the discomfort of being still, and see what rises to the surface of our (finally) unoccupied minds. And what if…it is really just a chance to slow down, a chance to take a deep breath, and a chance to bring about much-needed clarity in a world that moves so very fast.