The Art of

WholeHearted Living

Stories, Strategies and Surprises

The Descent

plane

The plane had begun its slow fall toward the earth when a sharp ache pierced my ears.

Half-dozing, half-aware, I surfaced into the moment just as the toddler in front of me woke with a scream that broke her open. The sound wasn’t defiance or misbehavior. It was pain.

I felt her small body struggling to make sense of something she couldn’t name.

Her mother bent over her with the tenderness of someone trying very hard to be a good parent. But her soothing came dressed in urgency, in the quiet pressure to behave, to use words, to be okay, to not disturb those seated around her.

Her voice shook with the effort of managing her child’s distress and her own rising shame.

The father leaned in for a moment. Then he settled back into his seat, AirPods in, phone in hand. Whether he was giving space or simply unsure what to do, I couldn’t know.

So the mother carried the weight alone.

The toddler writhed, buckled, flailing against the seatbelt she could not tolerate. From where I sat, it seemed her little nervous system was overwhelmed by the simple truth of ear pain and sudden awakening.



The mother redirected and redirected again.

“Stop it. Sit still. Look out the window, try your words, watch the video.” She made a gallant effort without realizing her daughter was too young to orient and too overwhelmed to anchor on anything.

The flight attendant called out to make sure the toddler remained on the mother’s lap. 

The mom’s voice got louder. Her distress seeping through her words as they became harsher, more desperate to quiet her child.

I felt how desperately she wanted to help her daughter. Trying so hard to be a good mother, yet overwhelmed by a thrashing screaming little body and a plane filled with silence. 



The woman beside me began offering commentary, her tone gentle but misplaced, unaware that her attention tightened the field even more.

Another voice, another witness, another layer of pressure.



“Look outside… see the lights… almost there…” she called softly, trying to help the situation. The entire row vibrated with tension.

The Mother began to say “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” To her child, to the flight attendant, to the plane.

Sometimes the kindest thing we can offer is one less person trying to change the moment.

So I closed my eyes and let myself drop into my own body. Into the steadiness beneath the moment.

Into that inner quiet that knows how to hold a field without trying to change anything. My breath widened. My body calmed. The space around us softened.

I became the still point in the middle of someone else’s storm.

And then a single tear slid from the corner of my right eye, unnoticed by anyone but me. Not for the noise or the inconvenience. An acknowledgment of the pain of that family, yet it was larger than that.

It was for my awareness of how often we miss each other. For all the ways human beings miss one another despite loving each other deeply. For all the moments in my own life when I, too, had empathic misses with the people I love.

Every human has been misunderstood in their moment of pain. Every human has misunderstood someone else.

The toddler kept screaming. The mother kept trying. The descent kept descending.

My awareness continued to widen beyond the row, beyond the plane, beyond the small family struggling to land inside their bodies. I saw the universal ache of humans trying to read each other with partial maps. And the pain of not being met, even when it is unintended.

We touched down with a jolt. The mother apologized to the air, to the rows, to the invisible judgment she felt all around her. The child sagged into exhaustion. The field exhaled. It was done.

And all I could think was: I am not here to fix the world. I am here to see it clearly, love it fiercely, and let whatever ripples out, ripple.

As we stood and gathered our bags, I found myself silently wishing that family well. I hoped the little girl’s ears would soon stop hurting. I hoped her mother would be gentle with herself. I hoped they would all sleep well that night.

It reminded me how often we meet one another with our best intentions and our limited understanding. Perhaps that’s simply part of being human.

Maybe it’s enough to notice. To soften. To honor the best efforts of a mother, a father, a frightened child, a kind stranger, and all of us who are learning, one ordinary moment at a time, how to meet life and one another more gently.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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