Earlier this week, while I was walking from my car into the place where I work, I saw an airplane taking off. It was a cold and grey morning. The ground was dry, but the air held a certain promise of rain. The plane pulled my attention away from the too many things that I was carrying, as it prepared to break through the clouds and disappear.
For a moment, I was seized by the notion that I wanted to be on that plane. I wanted to be going where they were going, and not into work.
Planes taking off have always held an exotic mystery for me. Uncertain of their destination, I am able to imagine that they are going to the exact place I would like to go myself, even if I can't name it at the moment. On cloudy days, I know that they will soon reach a world of white, billowing carpets, blue skies and blinding sun, leaving me in this grey, unfinished basement.
But really, where am I? I am in the circumstances of my choosing. Whether I have chosen through spectacular actions,
"Julie, would you marry me?"
"Mom, we're moving home."
or by the the equally powerful in-actions that keep me working on what is in front of me, I have chosen this path.
I could have dropped my things, walked back the car, gone to the airport and got on a plane. But even then, I could never actually step away from where I am.
Even if I had the power to jump into other lives, that then would be my life, and that life would be different from all of the other possibilities.
Considering this, I can sense the faint faint flavour of victimhood in wishing to be on that plane.
Next week, I will be the one on the plane. As we take off to the West Coast, I will looking down people on their morning commute, wondering where they are going.
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