Flying

An Act and a Metaphor

This week marks a significant anniversary. Fifteen years ago Captain Sully Sullenberger performed the miracle landing of Flight 1549, a passenger plane loaded to capacity, on the Hudson River in New York City.  Many eyes were glued to television screens as every single passenger on that flight was rescued and there were only minor injuries. I got to view the unfolding drama on a tv screen positioned on the headrest of the seat in front of me. I was at the time on a flight to… New York City.

I have mentioned before that I am a terrible airline passenger, and that didn’t help me feel any better, even though I realized that the likelihood of that occurring twice in one day was rather unlikely. And the most interesting thing about the weekend spent in New York was how uncharacteristically friendly and jubilant everyone was, even with snow on the ground and frigid temperatures. It was like we had all just been through something miraculous together and we were celebrating as a family.

My house in Belmont is just about as close to the Charlotte Douglas Airport as you can get. On numerous occasions, and particularly before I am going to take a trip, I pull over on Old Dowd Road and watch airplanes take off and land successfully. Never seen a crash or even a shaky landing. Yet the physics of a heavy metal object flying through the air or floating on a river holding hundreds of people and ridiculous amounts of unnecessary luggage still befuddles me.

I’ve been on a plane that took birds into an engine at takeoff and had to silently glide above the trees to circle back for a memorably rough landing. I was on a rather turbulent flight from Las Vegas back to Seattle and was serendipitously seated beside a commercial pilot who explained everything that was happening to me when he noticed my white knuckles gripping the armrest between us. Or maybe he heard me singing under my breath R. Kelly’s song “I Believe I Can Fly.” He said something that has always stuck with me. Planes want to fly. They were designed to fly. They don’t mind a little bumpy air. Turbulence keeps the plane from getting bored.

I think that is true of people too. People were designed to fly. We just forget sometimes that we have that metaphorical ability. Or maybe we know we can fly but we are afraid that our wings will give out or we’ll forget how to fly mid-flight and we’ll come crashing down to the ground without a safety net. Or without someone there to catch us. I have a fear of falling, but as I look back on my life I’ve never had a fear of failing. But turbulence can be frightening. Or challenging. Or exciting.

I do feel like I failed my Dad. When my father passed away, all I wanted was to hear at his funeral was Alan Jackson’s rendition of “I’ll Fly Away.” We talked about it when he was reaching the end and he wanted that too. He sang it with me.

I'll fly away, Oh Glory

I'll fly away; (in the morning)

When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,

I'll fly away (I'll fly away).

But alas it didn’t happen, so I just play it on the piano often in his memory, as well as “Go Rest High on That Mountain.” Dad, I love you. And I’ll always be your girl.

What does flying look like to you? Escape? Releasing something to see if it comes back?  Soaring above the bullshit that is happening on this earth? Accomplishment beyond your wildest dreams? I don’t think it is ironic that FLY = First Love Yourself.

When I watch birds, which I could do for hours, flying seems so effortless. Like it would never occur to their tiny little birdbrains that they could not fly. They seem so free. Free from burdens, not tied to a place, just driven by instinct. Winged nomads. But they always have a nest. Somewhere they call home, even for a while.

These words from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem “The Skylark” resonate:

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from Heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

This brings to mind the image of a Phoenix rising from the ashes. That mythical and mysterious immortal bird of Egyptian origins that dives into the flames to emerge smarter. Stronger. More powerful. Renewed and transformed. Ready for a new start. But sometimes that takes courage that we can’t always quite find.

Due to weather or unforeseen circumstances course corrections are sometimes necessary, and often in stormy times planes and even ships need guidance. As humans, on those occasions, as the captain of our own vessels our eyes and even our hearts can’t provide that. We need instruments and people who can see what we can’t in a given moment to get us to our destination or at least beyond the storm. We need someone else to help us make decisions. And that is perfectly OK. Then we get to be that beacon for somebody at another time.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise. ~ The Beatles

When you perchance to spread your found wings… put your phone in airplane mode and forget about everything that is weighing you down. The wind will carry you. Possibly to places you could not have imagined in an unknown sky of possibilities. Flying can be your superpower. Make it so and I’ll see you in the clouds illuminated by a brilliant sun or a shining moon.