Flying with Owen
Rocketing down the runway a few days ago, I suddenly remembered another flight home from the West Coast many years ago.
I was sitting at my gate, listening to music and absorbed in a book that had been waiting far too long in my “to read” pile. I had several uninterrupted hours ahead of me and intended to enjoy every one of them.
My attention was interrupted only once, when I heard a young boy urging his much younger brother to hurry.
“We’re going to miss the plane!”
Both boys were pulling their own small suitcases and weaving somewhat precariously through the crowd while their mother followed, gently assuring them that they had plenty of time.
I smiled and returned to my reading.
When I boarded the plane, I discovered that the older boy was sitting beside my window seat, engrossed in arranging his book and snacks. I greeted the mom and boy and settled quite contentedly inside the private world I had created with my music and book.
“Excuse me,” the boy said. “Can we switch seats, please?” He wanted the window.
I understood. The window was part of the magic of flying. I agreed to switch, even as my anticipated cocoon of privacy quietly disappeared. The middle seat isn’t my favorite, but I was young once and I do love a good view from the plane.
His mom was genuine in her thanks and I met Owen before his nose was pressed up against the oval window.
Once he was settled beside the window with his seat belt fastened, I returned to my music and book. I was remarkably good at narrowing my attention and tuning out everything around me.
Until a small, persistent movement at the edge of my vision entered my awareness.
Owen’s legs were bouncing.
Sitting cross-legged in his seat, he was practically quivering.
I couldn’t yet tell whether he was anxious or delighted, but he had captured my attention. There is something wonderfully contagious about a child who can barely contain his excitement.
We had begun moving toward the runway. I leaned toward him. “Do you like to fly?”
“I love to fly, especially when we take off.”
Now, here was a boy after my own heart. I immediately became grateful for those bouncing legs. They had reminded me that I was about to fly through the sky inside an enormous metal machine, a marvel in itself. And I had nearly missed it because I was absorbed in someone else’s story.
As the plane taxied, Owen and I discussed where we might be going and how we would know when we had reached the runway.
When we finally arrived, his legs began moving with even greater enthusiasm. A piece of gum suddenly flew through the air and landed in Owen’s lap, surprising both of us. His mother had apparently decided that the moment called for gum. Owen nodded his thanks, began chewing, and turned his full attention back to the window.
“Here we go,” I said as the engines grew louder and the plane began moving down the runway.
“That was the nose lifting off,” Owen declared.
“You think?”
“Yep.”
“Look at the terminal. Is it still there?”
“Oh, it’s still there.”
The plane gathered speed. “Now that was the nose lifting off,” he announced with great authority. Then he noticed that the terminal was still level with the window. “Hmmmn.”
“Tell me when you feel yourself pushed back in your seat and the terminal disappears,” I suggested. A moment later, the plane lifted from the runway and pressed us both back into our seats.
Owen turned to me. “THAT was the nose of the plane lifting up.”
“Yes, Owen. THAT was lift off!”
Together, we leaned toward that little oval and watched the terminal disappear and the landscape grow smaller beneath us. Then Owen returned to his book and I returned to mine.
Throughout the flight, he surfaced only occasionally to share something funny he had read or ask his mother for a snack. By then, I was attuned enough to enjoy him without leaving the world of my book entirely.
I remember feeling grateful that, of all the possible people who might have occupied the seat beside me, I was flying with Owen.
His joyful, jiggling legs had brought me back to the moment I was actually living.
I still love disappearing into a good book. I definitely appreciate a quiet flight and the rare pleasure of uninterrupted time. But sometimes Life arrives at the edge of your carefully narrowed attention and asks you to look up.
Sometimes it even sits beside you, asks for the window seat, and begins to quiver.
Peace be with you and with all. No exceptions.
