FlightAt the gate I hold my French roast, nervous not to spill. My view is short and flooded with detail. People surround me. I observe the curious facts of each – the eccentric and the banal. Pretty, plain, plump. Loud. Bold stripes, baggage. Phones … everywhere phones. Intriguing accents. Details, details, all crowding me. Concrete and current.

The goal: get on flight #2116 from LAX to Mpls.

My emotions are tangled strings of struggles to arrive at this moment. I breath deeply into calm. I ground myself in the present. I shed the moody sequelae of all that is misshapen and confusing in my life. I am here now. It is okay.

Soon I am in window seat 32-A. Taking off, I feel my heart rising up over all of it. The magnified messy reality of the gate and this life become small and remote.

The wing of the plane stretches out, pointing to the expanding Pacific coastline. All is transformed as I climb higher and higher. Far below an expansive view emerges.  It shifts into a pattern of sublime intricacy and order. It’s vastness and beauty become more striking each moment. The design becomes clear. An endless beach, Catalina Island, the sprawling City of Angels, layers and layers of mountains.

My perspective changes in seat 32-A.

I rise higher and higher. A new elevation. The world becomes one gorgeous canvas, each piece carefully holding its place and purpose. A larger scheme develops. I sense its order and submit to its calling. I rest in a new clarity.

The tangles unravel. I am spirit, soul, being. No distractions, demands, or itsy-bitsy things tug on me. Life is large. Everything fits.

Released from the mire of the gate I reach an elevation that feels like freedom.

“See over there a created splendor, made by one individual of things residual.”    -Patrick Cavenaugh, poet

“When the bird and the book disagree, always believe the bird.”   -J. Audubon, Pedagogy and Poems


  1. Debbie Cassettari


    • Thanks Deb. Glad you enjoyed this. I never know when the mood will strike these days to write something. A writing teacher Roy Peter Clark calls it “a bolt from the blue.”

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