I was 30,000 feet above...
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Lori
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Cing
I was 30,000 feet above the chatter, above meal preparation and harried city dwellers arriving home from work. Soccer practices, train whistles – all nearly impossible to imagine this high.
I am reset. I have taken the appropriate measures to assure insulation. Ear buds, book, iPad, slightly aloof countenance that shouts, “If you are bleeding, I will help you. If not, stay in your lane. …You.” Truly, this is not my daily fare. I have a Midwestern mindset that has not been shaken in spite of decades of constant rain on my plains. I look hard for opportunities to leap to service. I know my power and though I could be content alone in a bomb shelter, I come out and I am ready to play. “Put me in coach.” Literally.
I am reset. Nonplussed after the beautifully tatted gangbanger in the waiting area asked me, “Are you cool?” alerting me to the fact that my general vapid stare must have swept across some sleight of hand. There is no Witness Protection kiosk in the Chicago airport to my knowledge. I shrugged and said, “I’m cool if you’re cool!”
Now, I am seated and potentially on my way. Granted, I realize there is no act of God that will get me from The Miracle Mile to my destination in time to catch my connecting flight. The slow motion and coughing around me seems distant. I am somewhat content. I will be strapped on this carnival ride for a couple of hours. I am a cigarette in a pack. I am a sheep in a pen, grateful for Coke and pretzels.
I am watching two middle-aged men diagonally across from me lean forward and spill into the narrow aisle to watch the exhausted flight attendant’s gluteus maximus. (Is this term really better than ‘ass’? Is it really?) As they elbow each other like Guido chums, a small harried man wearing a slight grin and no eye contact deposits a small human in the seat beside me, then disappears.
You see, the above is not the story - this grayness and hustle and bustle. Not by a longshot. This is a story of manna, Baby, pure manna.
The little person beside me has smooth brown peg legs that poke out straight in front of her. She has little light-up shoes and tiny painted fingernails that look like iridescent opals. I smile at her, but the propensity to avoid eye contact must run in her family. She is quite still. Perhaps approximately 1400 days old, she has no tools to help her through this ride. Not a crayon or book in sight. No stuffed animal.
The inevitable bursts forward, and she begins rocking very hard and kicking the seat in front of her. She is master of an imaginary world, this nearly new baby girl. A gentleman peers through the seat and scowls at me. I grin slightly. Life is just a series of bizarre interactions and odd social morays, if you think about it. You might as well just skip over what doesn’t matter.
The engines start and this is exciting, “Oh!” she says and laughs. I ask if she’s been on an airplane before, and she dives into her imaginary world far, far away from me. Her sister from a few rows down calls out to her in what I assume to be Vietnamese. Perhaps she speaks no English. I get out my iPad and put in my earbuds.
Death and taxes aside, there is one additional constant; a preoccupied adult is a brightly colored lure to pint-sized people. She begins to court me through a series of wiggles and bonks. I pull out the airline magazine and hand it to her, along with a pen. She carefully draws hearts. Her small hand lands on my arm, and I ooh and aah over her creation. I ask her to draw an ice cream cone. She draws several. We talk about her favorite flavors. I draw a star and we practice together.
All thoughts of autonomy abandoned, I open a wooden block game on my iPad, play it in front of her, and then fold both of our trays down so we share it in the middle. Soon, she has figured it out and is really impressive in her abilities.
I am the mother of a grown son. I’ve spent those moments watching the fine hair of boyhood fly as he ran. I memorized every feature as a work of art - over and over again. This is a moment. A chance to recapture the awe that is humanity, boiled down to simplicity, soaring upward with potential, budding in the present, and reflecting in the smooth black coating on this sprite’s little curious head.
Her name is Cing. We speak of her short life and discover I’ve the same name as one of her best friends at school. That really throws her for a loop and bonds her to me to the extent she chatters down the rows to her sister my name. Her sister smiles and waves. Cing wonders if I could really be her friend, but only grown up. I assure her there are a few of us out there with the same name.
So this little gem of a karma creeper weaves her magic and wins my heart 30,000 feet above a world wrapped in turmoil. Turmoil that would cease the instant any player internalized the beauty of humanity – the exquisite design of a child. The base of who we are all meant to be.
The pilot mumbles instructions over the intercom like an accomplished student of Charlie Brown’s teacher. Cing declares she loves my bracelets. Oh, and my eyelashes. Oh, and my lips. Our time together is waning through the layers of clouds, until we are on the good green earth. I help Cing with her seat belt and high five her, then she disappears into the bowels of the airplane as I take my place in the aisle.
The Guido Bros, in a moment of chivalry, motion me ahead of them. Though I’m late, I’m late for a very important date, I politely decline.
Later, after what seems like miles of gray carpet, I am testing gestures to get the soap to dispense in the Women’s Restroom (yes, laugh you friends across the pond - laugh on…), my legs are suddenly embraced and a small head rests on my hip. Cing & Co. are leaving. I smile and wave. Cing’s mother glances at me.
I won’t elaborate about the next flight that got redirected due to weather, where my nervous seatmate kept slamming his thighs into mine, open/shut…open/shut…open/shut. There was not a Cing in sight. Only a full-grown man with the accumulative damage of his days on display. We landed just in time…before I saw a little gray monster on the wing tip. Before I nearly William Shatnered.
~ S.L.
I was 30,000 feet above the chatter, above meal preparation and harried city dwellers arriving home from work. Soccer practices, train whistles – all nearly impossible to imagine this high.
I am reset. I have taken the appropriate measures to assure insulation. Ear buds, book, iPad, slightly aloof countenance that shouts, “If you are bleeding, I will help you. If not, stay in your lane. …You.” Truly, this is not my daily fare. I have a Midwestern mindset that has not been shaken in spite of decades of constant rain on my plains. I look hard for opportunities to leap to service. I know my power and though I could be content alone in a bomb shelter, I come out and I am ready to play. “Put me in coach.” Literally.
I am reset. Nonplussed after the beautifully tatted gangbanger in the waiting area asked me, “Are you cool?” alerting me to the fact that my general vapid stare must have swept across some sleight of hand. There is no Witness Protection kiosk in the Chicago airport to my knowledge. I shrugged and said, “I’m cool if you’re cool!”
Now, I am seated and potentially on my way. Granted, I realize there is no act of God that will get me from The Miracle Mile to my destination in time to catch my connecting flight. The slow motion and coughing around me seems distant. I am somewhat content. I will be strapped on this carnival ride for a couple of hours. I am a cigarette in a pack. I am a sheep in a pen, grateful for Coke and pretzels.
I am watching two middle-aged men diagonally across from me lean forward and spill into the narrow aisle to watch the exhausted flight attendant’s gluteus maximus. (Is this term really better than ‘ass’? Is it really?) As they elbow each other like Guido chums, a small harried man wearing a slight grin and no eye contact deposits a small human in the seat beside me, then disappears.
You see, the above is not the story - this grayness and hustle and bustle. Not by a longshot. This is a story of manna, Baby, pure manna.
The little person beside me has smooth brown peg legs that poke out straight in front of her. She has little light-up shoes and tiny painted fingernails that look like iridescent opals. I smile at her, but the propensity to avoid eye contact must run in her family. She is quite still. Perhaps approximately 1400 days old, she has no tools to help her through this ride. Not a crayon or book in sight. No stuffed animal.
The inevitable bursts forward, and she begins rocking very hard and kicking the seat in front of her. She is master of an imaginary world, this nearly new baby girl. A gentleman peers through the seat and scowls at me. I grin slightly. Life is just a series of bizarre interactions and odd social morays, if you think about it. You might as well just skip over what doesn’t matter.
The engines start and this is exciting, “Oh!” she says and laughs. I ask if she’s been on an airplane before, and she dives into her imaginary world far, far away from me. Her sister from a few rows down calls out to her in what I assume to be Vietnamese. Perhaps she speaks no English. I get out my iPad and put in my earbuds.
Death and taxes aside, there is one additional constant; a preoccupied adult is a brightly colored lure to pint-sized people. She begins to court me through a series of wiggles and bonks. I pull out the airline magazine and hand it to her, along with a pen. She carefully draws hearts. Her small hand lands on my arm, and I ooh and aah over her creation. I ask her to draw an ice cream cone. She draws several. We talk about her favorite flavors. I draw a star and we practice together.
All thoughts of autonomy abandoned, I open a wooden block game on my iPad, play it in front of her, and then fold both of our trays down so we share it in the middle. Soon, she has figured it out and is really impressive in her abilities.
I am the mother of a grown son. I’ve spent those moments watching the fine hair of boyhood fly as he ran. I memorized every feature as a work of art - over and over again. This is a moment. A chance to recapture the awe that is humanity, boiled down to simplicity, soaring upward with potential, budding in the present, and reflecting in the smooth black coating on this sprite’s little curious head.
Her name is Cing. We speak of her short life and discover I’ve the same name as one of her best friends at school. That really throws her for a loop and bonds her to me to the extent she chatters down the rows to her sister my name. Her sister smiles and waves. Cing wonders if I could really be her friend, but only grown up. I assure her there are a few of us out there with the same name.
So this little gem of a karma creeper weaves her magic and wins my heart 30,000 feet above a world wrapped in turmoil. Turmoil that would cease the instant any player internalized the beauty of humanity – the exquisite design of a child. The base of who we are all meant to be.
The pilot mumbles instructions over the intercom like an accomplished student of Charlie Brown’s teacher. Cing declares she loves my bracelets. Oh, and my eyelashes. Oh, and my lips. Our time together is waning through the layers of clouds, until we are on the good green earth. I help Cing with her seat belt and high five her, then she disappears into the bowels of the airplane as I take my place in the aisle.
The Guido Bros, in a moment of chivalry, motion me ahead of them. Though I’m late, I’m late for a very important date, I politely decline.
Later, after what seems like miles of gray carpet, I am testing gestures to get the soap to dispense in the Women’s Restroom (yes, laugh you friends across the pond - laugh on…), my legs are suddenly embraced and a small head rests on my hip. Cing & Co. are leaving. I smile and wave. Cing’s mother glances at me.
I won’t elaborate about the next flight that got redirected due to weather, where my nervous seatmate kept slamming his thighs into mine, open/shut…open/shut…open/shut. There was not a Cing in sight. Only a full-grown man with the accumulative damage of his days on display. We landed just in time…before I saw a little gray monster on the wing tip. Before I nearly William Shatnered.
~ S.L.
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Dee
- Site Admin
- Posts: 11028
- Joined: Mon Jul 10, 2017 12:52 pm
That was such an enjoyable read, Lori. You paint pictures with words so brilliantly, of what it feels like to be in transit, 30,000 feet above, how the internal mother in us can spring to new life at a pluck of a string, how unexpected connections can take us to unexpected places. You describe the wonder of a child so beautifully. How lucky that sweet little sprite was to be planted into the seat next to you. And how lucky you were to be gifted with her, way beyond the couple of hours you've spent together.
The end of your story keeps me wondering. About the fully grown man sitting next to you, with the nervous leg movements. How that's different, yet not all that different from lil' Cing rocking in her seat, and without any malice, kicking the back of the seat in front of her. How this fully grown man might have been shocked too, to realise that once he had a friend with the same name as yours, and could that be a sign? How he too might have enjoyed sharing a game on your iPad or just grateful for the distraction. Yet, how much harder it is to reach out to a fully grown man with nervous legs than to a wriggling child. How it's practically impossible to do that within the span of a couple of hours flight. And how sad that is, when you think about it.
I know you feel Cing's been a gift to you, but you've been a such a gift to her too. To be the centre of undivided attention of a friendly grownup, that's everything to a child. Perhaps the guy with the nervous legs have not had the good fortune to meet people like you in his formative years. It's fascinating how we all carry the child we once were nested inside us. Though some tucked away deeper than others for sure.
A lovely story, Lori. One to come back to from time to time.
The end of your story keeps me wondering. About the fully grown man sitting next to you, with the nervous leg movements. How that's different, yet not all that different from lil' Cing rocking in her seat, and without any malice, kicking the back of the seat in front of her. How this fully grown man might have been shocked too, to realise that once he had a friend with the same name as yours, and could that be a sign? How he too might have enjoyed sharing a game on your iPad or just grateful for the distraction. Yet, how much harder it is to reach out to a fully grown man with nervous legs than to a wriggling child. How it's practically impossible to do that within the span of a couple of hours flight. And how sad that is, when you think about it.
I know you feel Cing's been a gift to you, but you've been a such a gift to her too. To be the centre of undivided attention of a friendly grownup, that's everything to a child. Perhaps the guy with the nervous legs have not had the good fortune to meet people like you in his formative years. It's fascinating how we all carry the child we once were nested inside us. Though some tucked away deeper than others for sure.
A lovely story, Lori. One to come back to from time to time.
Best euphemism ever. Yet with so much truth. What a gift it is to have that legitimate escape available to us all, for a little timeout.-
Moonchime
- Posts: 1453
- Joined: Wed Jul 26, 2017 5:17 am
Yes I really enjoyed reading this as well. There is so much that I could envisage from your description Lori. I love the way Cing thought you might be her friend grown up -what a compliment; you clearly impressed her hugely.
I do think children show us the best of what human nature can be, but I also think they can show us the worst; we just forgive it more easily -they're still learning. They say childhood lasts forever - but I think it is the wounded child that so often stays with us and, in adult life, emerges at all the wrong times. Apparently when having difficulties with other people, we should always stroke the child in them. It just so hard to do sometimes!
Personally I have to admit I try hard to avoid children on flights and so I have nothing but admiration for you. I will try harder in future.
I do think children show us the best of what human nature can be, but I also think they can show us the worst; we just forgive it more easily -they're still learning. They say childhood lasts forever - but I think it is the wounded child that so often stays with us and, in adult life, emerges at all the wrong times. Apparently when having difficulties with other people, we should always stroke the child in them. It just so hard to do sometimes!
Personally I have to admit I try hard to avoid children on flights and so I have nothing but admiration for you. I will try harder in future.
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Dee
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- Joined: Mon Jul 10, 2017 12:52 pm
30,000 feet above is the only time I pray
A few words whispered into the clouds
To no one in particular
As we speed away from home
It's a simple prayer I can never resist
A little plea with the universe
And the engine of the plane
"If it's gonna happen
Let it happen on the way home
Please let me have this one last trip"
~ A.P.
A few words whispered into the clouds
To no one in particular
As we speed away from home
It's a simple prayer I can never resist
A little plea with the universe
And the engine of the plane
"If it's gonna happen
Let it happen on the way home
Please let me have this one last trip"
~ A.P.
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Moonchime
- Posts: 1453
- Joined: Wed Jul 26, 2017 5:17 am
I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed reading that little ditty Dee - and I never said so.
In fact it was really lovely to re-visit this page altogether; it almost stopped me from posting a description of a recent memory before we rose to the 30,000 feet above.
As I wrote it I realised how much of the detail I have forgotten so it lacks the vibrancy it once generated; maybe that will teach me not to delay before I write something. I could have written it in Life - but I felt like venturing into this forgotten corner despite the mundane nature of the contribution.
We were flying from Auckland in the North Island to Christchurch in South Island and our flight had been delayed. Sigh. Sit back down again. The waiting area was busy with most seats occupied, and we were sat opposite a Maori family with 3 children. The youngest girl was about 18 months old, the second one about 6 and the eldest, a boy of about 7. One thing I discovered about those of Maori origin was that they are quite commonly of some stature – and the parents both had significant presence; the father was particularly beautiful, muscular, tall, dark and with a striking sense of presence and power. Maybe the time would pass more quickly than I thought.
The mother spent some time feeding the youngest, while the middle girl danced around with a permanent look of mischief on her face, big liquid eyes boring right through you. The boy was just the opposite, incredibly serious, carrying out requests for his mother and accompanying his giddy younger sister to the waste bin as if guarding her from a terrible monster, slowing her rushed pace to the slow stride he’d observed in his father. Proud to be her protector.
They all had the mops of dark hair, the boy a crown of curls, the girls straight, with big brown eyes and glowing skin.
When the father eventually sat down, the two girls crawled onto his lap and began to mess with his hair and face. The middle one found a big pair of sunglasses and messed around putting them on her own face and then on her dad’s, giggling all the while, constantly looking for some new torture to put him through. The little one explored his head, poking, prodding, squashing as he held her. He was incredibly calm throughout his thorough mauling and the three of them made the most stunning picture. I would loved to have taken a photograph, but I wasn’t confident my request would be taken in the right spirit, so I just sat, mesmerised for the time it took for our plane to be called. They just made such a beautiful picture.
In fact it was really lovely to re-visit this page altogether; it almost stopped me from posting a description of a recent memory before we rose to the 30,000 feet above.
As I wrote it I realised how much of the detail I have forgotten so it lacks the vibrancy it once generated; maybe that will teach me not to delay before I write something. I could have written it in Life - but I felt like venturing into this forgotten corner despite the mundane nature of the contribution.
We were flying from Auckland in the North Island to Christchurch in South Island and our flight had been delayed. Sigh. Sit back down again. The waiting area was busy with most seats occupied, and we were sat opposite a Maori family with 3 children. The youngest girl was about 18 months old, the second one about 6 and the eldest, a boy of about 7. One thing I discovered about those of Maori origin was that they are quite commonly of some stature – and the parents both had significant presence; the father was particularly beautiful, muscular, tall, dark and with a striking sense of presence and power. Maybe the time would pass more quickly than I thought.
The mother spent some time feeding the youngest, while the middle girl danced around with a permanent look of mischief on her face, big liquid eyes boring right through you. The boy was just the opposite, incredibly serious, carrying out requests for his mother and accompanying his giddy younger sister to the waste bin as if guarding her from a terrible monster, slowing her rushed pace to the slow stride he’d observed in his father. Proud to be her protector.
They all had the mops of dark hair, the boy a crown of curls, the girls straight, with big brown eyes and glowing skin.
When the father eventually sat down, the two girls crawled onto his lap and began to mess with his hair and face. The middle one found a big pair of sunglasses and messed around putting them on her own face and then on her dad’s, giggling all the while, constantly looking for some new torture to put him through. The little one explored his head, poking, prodding, squashing as he held her. He was incredibly calm throughout his thorough mauling and the three of them made the most stunning picture. I would loved to have taken a photograph, but I wasn’t confident my request would be taken in the right spirit, so I just sat, mesmerised for the time it took for our plane to be called. They just made such a beautiful picture.
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Dee
- Site Admin
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- Joined: Mon Jul 10, 2017 12:52 pm
That was such an enjoyable description, Mz K. I was practically there with you smiling at the joyous sight of this family.
Do you guys ever catch yourselves actually staring at people? With the best intentions and full of heart, yet still staring?
It's nice though when your eyes catch theirs and share a smile, because that somehow makes it ok.
Thanks for sharing, Mz K.
Nice to be in this corner of the forum again. Perhaps we should set up camp again?
Do you guys ever catch yourselves actually staring at people? With the best intentions and full of heart, yet still staring?
It's nice though when your eyes catch theirs and share a smile, because that somehow makes it ok.
Thanks for sharing, Mz K.
Nice to be in this corner of the forum again. Perhaps we should set up camp again?
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Lori
- Site Admin
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- Joined: Sun Jul 09, 2017 11:08 pm
Sorry I missed this delightful glimpse into that single moment where a prayer leaves your lips! I love "let it happen on the way home". You are a master of enjoying the moments. Love this!Dee wrote: ↑Sat Aug 19, 2017 10:33 am30,000 feet above is the only time I pray
A few words whispered into the clouds
To no one in particular
As we speed away from home
It's a simple prayer I can never resist
A little plea with the universe
And the engine of the plane
"If it's gonna happen
Let it happen on the way home
Please let me have this one last trip"
~ A.P.
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Lori
- Site Admin
- Posts: 5552
- Joined: Sun Jul 09, 2017 11:08 pm
MC - thank you for the smile. What a beautiful moment. You took me to the moment with your writing. I also wish you could have photographed the little family affair. There is just something about a caring man with his kids. The fact they were a stunning unit makes it even more awesome. No doubt it would have been worthy of Life magazine.
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Moonchime
- Posts: 1453
- Joined: Wed Jul 26, 2017 5:17 am
Dee said People just think I am an old fart staring into the middle distance of tedium. I am, however, a genius of the sneak look, a sly eye glider, an alchemist of the odd glance that darts beyond and around to confuse the object of my fascination - !!!!
Life would have just loved it...Ah...if only... 
Yes I frequently catch myself staring at people - it is something I have to be very careful about. In that particular case they all seemed blissfully unaware of my infatuation.Do you guys ever catch yourselves actually staring at people? With the best intentions and full of heart, yet still staring?
People just think I am an old fart staring into the middle distance of tedium. I am, however, a genius of the sneak look, a sly eye glider, an alchemist of the odd glance that darts beyond and around to confuse the object of my fascination - !!!!
Spoiler:
Oh yeah Lori - too right
Life would have just loved it...Ah...if only... -
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