Traveling is a funny thing. Everyone rushes around, stressed about getting where they need to go. Hurry up! Hurry up!
Wait in traffic.
Wait in the airport security line.
Wait at the gate.
Wait to get to your seat.
Wait for the family whose late and trying to sit together on a Southwest flight when there are only middle seats left.
Wait for the shuffling to end so that at least the three kids can sit together (so much for rushing to get here early to pick my seat … of course I moved).
Then we disconnect from our electronics, take flight and in a way it feels as if time stands still. Nothing to do now but wait while we’re in-between here and there.
Everyone down below, they are doing their thing. Sleeping, eating, working, running, doing. But me? I wait to arrive … and while I wait I feel out of time. Not like I’ve run out of time, but outside of it. I have a few hours where I can focus and write. Put ear buds in, don’t talk to anyone and just write.
Others read, sleep, the kids play their Nintendo DS games. I write. It’s always been my favorite time and place unless someone sitting next to me is set on asking me questions or peering down on my journal page. Today I’m lucky, she’s sound asleep.
We’re above the clouds. Sun splashes in through the windows, bathing my skin in warmth, racing shadows on the airplane wall. It’s always sunny and blue skies above the clouds.
And though time ticks by as we travel forward, it doesn’t feel that way until we land. Then the rush begins again:
Rush to the shuttle.
Rush to the hotel.
Rush to my room to change.
Rush to my conference to present.
After that I can relax a little and enjoy being at the conference for my job. I’ll squeeze in more writing in the evenings, in the mornings and especially on the flight back home, when I’ll be in-between there and here again.