I don’t enjoy flying. But I get some of the best sleep on planes.
My body loves the motion. And in those brief hours, my mind is still. There’s nothing I can do on a plane except be present in the moment.
It’s easier to be stoic on a plane. It’s a place where I have an undeniable lack of control over my surroundings.
On the ground, there’s the illusion of control to contend with, when the fact is that it doesn’t exist either.
On the ground, I am constantly in search of motion, trying to do more, more, more. Constantly trying to bend the world into my desired shape. This effort is futile.
The Universe gives what it will. And I’m learning that all I can do is be ready to catch whatever it throws at me.
Up in the air, it is more obvious that there is no point regretting the past. It has already happened.
It is obvious that there’s no point being anxious about the future. We don’t know what’s in store.
So my mind rests. My body quiets. And all there is, is the steady motion of flying.
It’s like being a child again, being carried, rocked to sleep.