It was last Sunday, as I was on an airplane that taxi-ed for a solid 20 minutes in Honolulu (where, I swear, I didn’t think there was enough runway-supplementing road to support 20 minutes of taxi-ing), that it occurred to me that I might well die soon.
I was on an airplane with the recently defeated Navy football team. Their entire coaching staff was on board as well (along with various significant others, etc.). And I was one of a few dozen non-Navy people filling out the rest of the plane.
It was three days after Thanksgiving.
They are in the NAVY, for fuck’s sake.
And we were able to cross the Pacific in the dark of night.
If a plane was ever destined to go down, it was that one.
Morbid? Yeah. But this is how my mind works, and oddly enough, these thoughts are why I like flying so much: It gives me terrific perspective on what’s truly important (or not) in my life. From taxi-ing on a runway for far too long, or looking down at the world from 35,000 feet and realizing the inane stresses in our life are So. Very. Tiny. … well. These things help me pull back and realize that the big things in life matter; the little things, far less so.
I wish I could’ve had that moment yesterday, when I was 15 minutes into the wort hyperventilation attack I’ve ever had and crying so hard I was missing exits and driving under 65 on the interstate. It was a moment when, for the absolute first time in my life, I actually felt like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if someone broadsided my car and made the pain all go away. I have never been suicidal and that didn’t change yesterday, but I certainly *did* feel like I’d be okay with spending the next decade or so in a coma.
I don’t feel that way anymore, mind you, and that was a pretty awful moment. So don’t worry about me or call out the suicide watch. I love life way too much to be down like that for long.
But I need the clarity that only travel seems to bring, and that’s why I’m oh-so-grateful that, in a couple of weeks, I’ll have this wretched semester behind me and be able to relax and spend some time contemplating my own mortality again.
And maybe, just maybe, if I’m really, really lucky … come home from said travels with the fully weighted 88-key keyboard I (still) hope Santa Norell will bring. Cross your fingers. 😉