I imagine the heavy thrum I hear when inside an airplane being similar to that of what a baby experiences in the womb.
The paradoxical comfort of an airplane- with its cramped seating and temperature never quite right- is something I always forget until I’m back in my window seat. It feels like the safest place on earth, where anything could happen, and the perfect blend of unease and complete relaxation.
It’s been some time since I last traveled– since my last hellish journey from Phnom Penh to Taipei back to Washington after ending my last job. Maybe it took me this long to fasten another airline seatbelt because of that trip, maybe it’s because I’ve been so busy with work and learning to spread everything out on the table and say “yes” to some things and “no” to others.
Now that I look out at a twilight sky of periwinkle blue and cotton candy pink I remember why I wandered, why I moved, why I sought. The lights of Seattle, maybe even Gig Harbor and Tacoma, barely in sight and my mind already journeys on to my next small adventure.
One of best friend’s husband, Nick, who also happens to be one of my best friends told me about a year ago that I’m like a hamster running around in a ball and that eventually, something or someone will keep me put. Thus far real estate, my team, a beautiful growing family, and close knit friends have been the tasty little pellets to keep me nested in my little sawdust filled cage. Cozy, safe, well fed, and loved. But oh how I miss that ball.
It’s in moments like this that I long for the rush of exotic sights and sounds that I once knew or taking the blind step towards plans unknown. Recently in a devotional, I was urged to focus on the specific question “do you know where you come from? Do you know where you’re going?”
The answer to the first question is vague yet strong: I come from a family who has given me the opportunity to delve into and explore my true self and utilize my given gifts in ways that have both hurt and nurtured them. I come from a home where I am supported, shown love in every language, and taught lessons that would be sometimes easier left unknown.
My answer to the second is also vague, yet strong: I do not know what the future holds for me. Not the next hour, day, week, month, or year. I do know that I will continue to practice being well, doing well, and giving well. I do know that whatever becomes unveiled over time will be that of a plan so far beyond my reach I may as well just live for the instant I’m in. And I do know that this thrum calls to me.