I’ve not always been afraid of flying.
A terrifying roller-coaster of a trip in college sent me into a tailspin (pun intended). And while I can now fly without medication (or without sobbing into my friends’ laps), it’s never easy. There are always the sweaty palms, the pounding heart, and the surrender of control as we pass the point of no return, and the wheels leave the pavement. At that point, I’m typically fine, as long as the air is clear.
But the clouds…
One cannot see in clouds in a plane, and if you’re already panicked, the feeling of blindness is extra-terrifying. I feel that I’m suffocating, that I’m on a collision course for who knows what. I can’t tell if we’re going up or down. Every second is a minute, and every minute stretches into an eternity of fear so tangible that I can taste it.
And then, we rise above the clouds. The sun is shining. The sky is a brilliant blue.
And those harbingers of doom below us? Nothing more now than fluffy white cotton.
And I finally exhale.
I haven’t written for months. MONTHS. Part of that had to do with a very difficult move and my husband starting a time-consuming job. We lived at my mother’s house for a week, then a hotel for nearly two, and finally moved into the house, where we ripped up floor and painted, and are still living out of boxes.
But just before we left, I felt that I’d risen above the clouds, in a manner of speaking. O has just passed the two year mark from diagnosis. I’d sat in my 5th IEP meeting in two years (and I’d have numbers 6 and 7 after the move!), and things had gone well. I saw my son as my son, not as what was on paper. I recognize his amazing and numerous strengths, as well as his deficits. We were in clear air.
We still are in clear air.
I recently told my nephew that writing foryourself was different than writing for a teacher or a boss. You found that stories to be told fought to get out, and you would write swiftly and without regard for form or fashion until every word was on the paper.
And then you’d need a cool beverage.
It’s not that there haven’t been stories to tell – they just haven’t fought to get out.
But don’t you worry.
Here I am.
Welcome back to The Writing Life.