(Recently overheard in my household, pronounced by a person who had lost the bucket)
If I could only bottle the way I feel when I’m driving to the airport at 4am, I would never be afraid of anything. The day before I travel tends to be a misery. I read The House at Pooh Corner and weep about how hard it is to grow up. I have never understood what the hell my problem is. I suppose the anticipation of travel stirs up some sort of resistance to change, the fundamental fear of death, except in my case, it isn’t the fear of death by falling airplane; it’s the fear of death by what if I forget to pack Q-tips? Or my chapstick? Or my cheese-avocado-egg sandwich?
Anyway, once in the car or the cab or the subway or whatever, I always feel so much better. On Saturday morning at 4am I was in the car driving to the airport listening to “Your Love” by the Outfield and Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings and cheerily contemplating my dreadful clutch and kind of wishing I didn’t have to go through the misery every time but grateful, at least, that it tends to end once I’m moving.
I don’t love airports but I do love airplanes. They bring you closer to the gods. Plus? You’re flying. For me, that still hasn’t gotten old. I’m as giddy about it as I was the first time, which was many, many flights ago.
I’ve retreated to an undisclosed location and am spending a few peaceful days with some people who love me and are proud of me whether or not I muck everything up. They make good meatballs here. There are crickets at night. There is also a rain barrel, a garden bursting with tomatoes, eggplants, and zucchini, and a cat with a red bell on her collar that does not seem to impact negatively her ability to catch birds. I have been sitting under a willow tree and reading marvelous books.
I wish you all peace.
