The land is starting to rise and fall, ever so slightly as we move from the plains of Indiana west. The clouds line up 5,000 feet below this metal bird filled with precious cargo. The lives present far exceeding the number of bodies that fill the seats. We all face west – we have no choice – the designers of this space lacked the funds to create. Yet, it feels right, providing order in this foreign mode of transportation that otherwise only exists in a dreaming state: Flight.
We travel through the air, exceeding 400 miles per hour, 38,000 feet above the ground. Flying is humbling, faced with no choice but to “sit back and enjoy the ride.” And yet, it is grounding to have this ability to sit still and gain or lose time – west or east – in a semi-dreamlike state. A sense of calm as I look down at fields filled with soy, corn; mountains will appear in an hour or two. Rivers starting to divide and define the landscape and I find that the mountains are calling me, calming me. A sense of homeward movement: rise up and pull me on.
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