On a whim I’d decided to upgrade to Mint class, JetBlue’s First Class equivalent, for the flight from JFK to SFO, the whimsical first-time-decision made easier when I discovered that if the change in status occurred last minute at the gate—I’d save forty percent on the seating change.
“The last row window seat is available,” said the gate attendant, “five-F, is that okay?”
“Yes,” I replied, paid the add-on cost, thanked him, and boarded flight #415 to San Francisco.
Vanessa and Jason, the two flight attendants serving Mint-class passengers introduced themselves while I unpacked and stuffed reading and writing materials into the seat-back pocket for easy in-flight accessibility.
The twelve-day West Coast trip would involve attending a family wedding, visits with friends and family, as well as meeting Southern California clients with whom I’d maintained a professional relationship by Skype sessions, phone calls, and yearly return trips since moving to Vermont in 2006. Though ready for a brief “change of scenery,” a heaviness weighed on me. My troubled marriage, inescapable aging—I’d turn seventy-four a week after my return—and concerns about the next phase of my life occupied my thoughts as I stretched out and sought respite in the comfortable seat.
Journaling my immediate thoughts as a way of jettisoning the shroud of gloom and cloudiness that weighed me down appealed to me, but not as much as escaping altogether into the sports pages of the New York Times and USA Today or even the front page articles and Op-Ed pieces that recounted gloomy days and chaos far worse than my laments.
Once finished with the newspapers, I accepted Vanessa’s offer of food and drink. A few minutes later she returned with the screwdriver and assorted delicacies I’d requested, paused briefly to glance at the image on my T-shirt but said nothing, and then turned her attention to other passengers’ needs. As she moved up the aisle I looked at the image on my shirt wondering what she’d seen or been thinking. She’s just doing her job, I thought, and doing it well.
When I travel coast to coast, or fly anywhere for that matter, I rarely get out of my seat, preferring to concentrate on whatever books I’m reading—in this case Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens–or scribblings about writing ideas, and endless ruminations about God’s existence, life’s meaning and purpose—none of the latter two ever amounting to anything much more than other questions. Mid-flight I decided to stretch my legs and use the restroom.
“That’s a colorful T-shirt you’re wearing,” greeted me as I exited the confining space of the restroom, “do you know anything about Edvard Munch’s paintings?”
Consumed in thought and caught off guard, I turned toward the speaker to find Vanessa again looking at the imprint of Munch’s painting, The Scream, on the front of my long-sleeved black shirt. The interruption made me smile and I replied that I didn’t know much about him, just that I liked this particular painting and that he was Norwegian like my ancestors.
She returned my smile.
“I love going to galleries and museums,” she continued, her enthusiasm filling the galley’s cramped space and rescuing me from the mind-numbing paralysis of ruminating on unanswered questions from my “real” life. Perhaps sensing my obvious surprise and relief she continued, “I can spend hours looking at artists’ work. Recently Munch had an exhibit at MOMA,” she paused to look closely at the artwork on my shirt, “but the colors on your shirt are brighter than those of the original painting.”
The breadth of her knowledge surprised me. As we shared thoughts about the works of artists whose paintings left impressions on us, her contagious enthusiasm lifted my spirits and the doldrums dissipated. She turned on her cell phone to show me Jean-Honore Fragonard’s The Swing and said, “The Rococo era captures my attention like no other, and this masterpiece is my favorite painting! Doesn’t it look like the woman and the two men are enjoying themselves?”
“Yes, it does,” I replied.
Once buckled-up and settled back into my seat I opened Owen’s novel to where I’d book-marked the page ten minutes earlier. Several paragraphs in I paused to look out the window, picked up my pen and wrote on the cocktail napkin I’d retrieved from the seat-back pocket—”and just like that the clouds parted.”
After we’d taxied to the gate at SFO, and I’d retrieved my bag from the overhead bin, I thanked Vanessa for engaging me in the unexpected and joy-filled conversation. She smiled, wrote down her JetBlue e-mail address, then thanked me when I mentioned that I’d write a blog-post about our art exchange and forward it and a letter of commendation to her at JetBlue.
Whenever I allow The Great Mystery, The Divine to unfold on it’s own terms, free of my orchestrations, I’m gifted with wonder. Almost to the day, one year ago, I’d written a short piece about finding the holy in unexpected places, Palmer’s Sugarhouse in rural Vermont, and now thirty-five thousand feet above Iowa I’d discovered the holy again.
by 
LIght breaks in and sometimes we “get it”.
Kim,
Yes, in unexpected places, and then to “get it” even for a small patch of time!
Thanks for reading and commenting,
Roger
Wonderful post, Roger. So thought-filled, grabbing that holy moment on paper that happens to us all yet sometimes can’t be seen. I would bet she was as uplifted as you were and maybe as pleasantly surprised. It’s amazing how just a few words can create an instant connection with a stranger. Those moments have the power to lift one above a hovering cloud, if allowed. Thank you for reminding me to not be afraid of interacting with a kind stranger. A wondrous moment can be waiting right around the corner.
JoAnne,
Thank you, JoAnne. We may not have the power to part the clouds, but we do have the choice to keep seeking the cracks between them where the light shines through–thank you Leonard Cohen!
Roger
What a great reminder to try new things and just keep moving one foot in front of the other when under that “cloud”! One never knows what is around the next corner. Especially important as one ages. Delightful story. Thanks.
Dona,
Thanks for reading and then commenting. One foot in front of the other, a mantra I heard decades ago, has more meaning to me now as I’m grateful for each step toward the known, unknown, and unexpected.
Roger
I enjoyed this commentary. The “holy” is everywhere. I often find it in the natural world. Keep the faith.
Terry,
Thank you for reading and commenting. Now, as I type, outside my office window miracles orchestrated by the holy are unfolding!
Roger
Roger…..bet there will be more “light” this coming Saturday, at the Men’s Breakfast, 7:30 a.m. at the North Ferrisburgh United Methodist Church. Jed Hornung
Jed,
Looking forward to the “light,” this time I’ll trust that, and leave my flashlight at home!
Thanks for reading and commenting,
Roger
(From a friend)
“The Scream” has always been a favorite painting of mine, and not because of any beauty in the piece. After countless efforts to “get it” there are times when I still want to scream, and then sometime later, pray–both make sense to me. Although I’ve not read Eugene O’Neill’s plays I relate with two quotes of his: “Man is born broken, he lives by mending. The Grace of God is glue.” “There is no present or future–only the past happening over and over–now.”
For me that scream defines that I’ve had enough even though I understand the past and try, when able, to not let it happen over and over again. Oh, I so want to learn how to receive the promised peace. “My peace I give you,” But, “God I’m not getting it–teach me.” Maybe a t-shirt emblazoned with “The Scream” will help me on the way, right?
Thank you for this comment, my friend, and we are in good company on this journey of screams, prayers, and [occasionally] getting it!
Roger
Ah, yes, indeed, I’ve come to accept that the holy whole of all that is in us and around us, always, and in all ways, from the mundane to the miraculous, from simple truths to the inexplicable mysterious…….the wonder of the universe at work.
How fortunate that you were able to relax into your comfortable first class seat and enjoy the ride and the conversation, allowing yourself a brief respite from the gloomy clouds inside your head , as you flew above the clouds below you. Your story of this trip reminded me of the only time I flew first class on a coast to coast trip while training as a reservationist with TWA many years ago. It is one of life’s pleasures to relax into our current experiences, knowing we cannot control or understand all that is given to us in this gift of our life. May you continue to enjoy your ride, as you write on and share such moments .
Colette,
Thank you for this comment, your appreciation for “the wonder of the universe at work,” and encouragement.
Roger
As a frequent flier, I readily identify with the opportunity to cocoon and / or connect.
I love being unplugged and hunkered down with good reading . Also, trust that I am open to serendipitous moments of connection.
Surprising interactions are uplifting and encouraging.
Thanks for sharing your experience.
Alan,
Thanks for this input as a frequent flyer–cocooning and being “open to serendipitous moments” is perhaps a skill that you’ve honed, but one I’m mostly oblivious to unless stared in the face by it. I’m going to “book more flights” into serendipitous moments of connections.
Roger