The Eve
When I wake in the morning, it’s Tuesday, the day before flying. My peacefulness from the night before has vanished. God feels distant. I do not feel a sense of the divine presence. What I feel now is something close to stark terror. I am too distracted to write and too agitated to pray. This makes me angry. “What are you so scared about?” I demand.
The obvious answer is “death,” but is that exactly what I’m afraid of? I’ve always thought that, faced squarely, there might be some kind of acceptance of death. And yet, I am scared of something. When I think about flying, my heart pounds. My pulse races. Make no mistake, I am terrified. Maybe it’s the moments just before death that scare me. I see the cabin in my mind’s eye. I picture all too clearly the terror and chaos. “Why rehearse catastrophe?” I ask myself. Say what I will, my mind spools out scary scenarios.
Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.
—LEONARDO DA VINCI
I call my friend, the actress Jane Cecil, a seasoned optimist.
“Jane, I’m scared of my flight,” I confess.
Jane’s response is soothing. “Your flight will be fine,” she tells me. “I think you might even enjoy it. I get nervous flying from New York to Los Angeles, but I remind myself of all the good reasons I have for going, chief among them how much I will enjoy seeing my sister.”
“I don’t have anyone I’m eager to see,” I tell Jane. “I’m flying in to work with strangers.”
“You may like them very much,” Jane says. “Don’t forget, you told me they seemed nice.”
“Did I? I can’t remember my optimism.”
But Jane assures me I was once optimistic. “I’ll stick you in the prayer pot,” Jane says. “And don’t forget to call me once you land. We’ll have dinner when you get here. It will be fine,” she repeats.
Jane’s optimism does not defeat my pessimism.
Next I call my girlfriend Sonia Choquette. Sonia is a finely tuned psychic. I tell her I am afraid of the flight, and, like Jane, she assures me it will be fine. Surely if disaster were looming, Sonia would spot it but to her eye all is well.
“It’s just nerves,” Sonia reassures me. “Stage fright. Your nerves are par for the course,” she says. “Try to focus on the positive. All will be well.”
The reason birds can fly and we can’t is simply because they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings.
—J. M. BARRIE, THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD
Hanging up with Sonia, I turn my thoughts resolutely to the good reasons I am making the trip. “It will be an adventure!” I tell myself. There will be sights to see and people to meet. I will earn good money for making the trip. There are students waiting to hear what I will be teaching. I look forward to laying out my toolkit.
It is only when we are suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight that we force our wings to unravel and alas begin our flight . . . but the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not know where you’re going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you.
—C. JOYBELL C.
My cheery recitation of the positive reasons for flying doesn’t really comfort me. They all seem hollow compared to my fear. My stomach is upset, and I debate driving to the grocery store for saltines. “No. It’s just nerves,” I decide. I remember that I have half a bottle of ginger ale in the refrigerator. That might do the trick. I pour myself a glass, but it is flat. So much for physical remedies. What I need, I decide, is a spiritual remedy. Tired and overwrought, I find myself cornered into prayer.
Dear God,
Set aside my terror. Bring me calm.
Help me to think clearly,
Give me a sense of my next step.
Amen.
The prayer calms me down. I find myself possessed of a sense of direction. This is an answered prayer. Calmer, I know what I must do. “Ignore your nerves,” I tell myself. “It’s time to pack.”
If you were born without wings, do nothing to prevent them from growing.
—COCO CHANEL