Notes From An Aeroplane

It is strange for me to realize just now that my two primary modes of transportation, plane and train, allow only a lateral view of the landscape. There is no possibility of seeing what is coming ahead before you get there, unless it is looking down during the holding pattern before the final descent, or when the track curves around a stream or some farmer’s small, dusty plot. Observation can only happen at the moment of experience – no foreshadowing of what the future holds, no isolation and dissection of the past. And then you arrive at your destination. I don’t know if this is expressly a metaphor that carries deeply in any way, but I think there might be something to it.

I’m so glad they took the pains to tell us on our in-flight map screen that we flew right over Kuujjuick! Wow!

There are a good number of things to which I am thankful to be returning – cheeseburgers from the grill, that sort of thing. What I am not anticipating with a light heart is the rampant consumerism of American culture. Stepping foot on this plane was like entering a small America again; immediately, screens flicked on and it was announced that there would be a cinematic smorgasbord spread in front of us. Just from my seat I could see several people actively flipping through channels, changing from movie to movie. It’s surprising to me that the foreign, slow, soundtrackless film Gomorrah was played at all. But good thing there were seven other options for those without the attention span for that (and this was just in economy seating!). The couple sitting to my right asked several times if there was any cran-apple juice on board – the apple, orange, and tomato juices, not to mention the several sodas and water, were just not good enough. My four months of reduced options and a context of appreciation for the fresh and the handmade have made me healthy, fit, in more ways than the simple matter of physique. I pray that I will successfully fight the urge to accept the glut of manufacture and unlimited choice that so defines the American context I am about to reenter.

I am exhausted; two hours of sleep the night before, a 5 am wake-up call, a long and arduous path through security (but none of my bags were overweight! Wonder of wonders!) and then a nine-hour flight – and sleeping on planes is difficult enough, but the daytime flight just further complicated things. A two-hour layover in Dulles, a short flight to Philly, and then into the arms of my beloved, waiting family.

I’ve used this time to listen to the Arvo Part and Philip Glass recordings Matt gave me. Perfect for introspection.

Saying goodbye just now was a bitter joy. All good things come to an end, and this is good because the temporal has value; a significant aspect of love would be lost without separation. Part of, maybe even inherent to this is the implied promise of reunion.

Flying over Pennsylvania around dusk is a special thing. The earth lies in a layered cloth, corduroy furrows in one part, the metallic sheen of water in another. All through it are the twisting, organic strings of roads and waterways, filled and dry. When you look out toward the fading haze of the horizon, the yellow patches of cultivation among the interstices of blue green forest begin to mirror the sky above it; eventually the illusion is complete, and they are no longer pieces of earth but clouds floating (even above the actual clouds). This is hard to explain, the non-horizon line that is only able to be seen in the air. This, and how time seems to stand still because nothing moves around you.

And now I am home.