A month or so ago, I did something I dread and despise: I took a trip on an airplane. When I fly, the joy is entirely in the destination and not at all in the journey. The flight fills me with terror: terror that escalates if the trip is turbulent or if I'm in a small plane where I can feel just how fast I'm rocketing through the air or if I'm seated away from the window, shut in, claustrophobic, with no reference point.

Of course, all of those things happened on one leg of my most recent trip. I missed my connection and lost my carefully selected window seat, and the folks sitting next to the window on each side of me pulled the shades down and went to sleep leaving me trapped blindly in shivering metal. It was a bumpy flight in a small plane, and I could hear and feel the monstrous rush of air all around us. So I prayed and meditated (or tried to) the whole flight. I must have said the Serenity Prayer six million times. And let me tell you, nothing will give you a new outlook on the Serenity Prayer like saying it yourself six million times when you fear that the next moment will bring your violent, fiery death.

I sat on the plane and tried to breathe with lungs that felt like they were constricted to the size of peas and repeated in my head over and over, "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference." I'd the first part really hard: grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Ok, I can't change whether or not the plane is going to crash. I can't control the turbulence. I can't control when we land. I can't control whether I live or die. Serenity. Serenity. Come on, bring on the serenity!

Then I'd pray the next parts weakly: the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. After all what can I change? The only thing I really care about is whether or not I die. I really, really want to control that a lot. I could wake the guy next to him and ask him to raise the shade or switch seats with me so that I can have a nice clear view of the engine exploding or the ground approaching at 32 feet per second squared, but that's not actually going to change the thing I want to change. So, back to that first part about the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Stupid, useless rest of the Serenity Prayer.

After a few thousand iterations of this, I started to think about how odd it was that I was in a situation where I was completely powerless to change anything, when it struck me that there was one thing I could still change, the one and only thing I could always change: me. I didn't need the courage to ask for I window seat or the courage to leap up and operate the emergency exit if needed. I needed the courage to change me, the courage to overcome my fear of death, the courage to change the way I perceived this flight.

Oh.

Duh.

So, I started praying both the first and second parts of the Serenity Prayer really hard: the serenity to accept the things I cannot change and the courage to change the things I can. As for that last part — the wisdom to know the difference — I gave a little burst of gratitude each time I got to that, because saw I'd already gotten that part this time around. And I kept praying until the plane touched the ground, safe at my destination.

I suspect crossing the Golden Gate Bridge must get tiresome for the folks who commute across it each day -- the traffic, the fog, the monotony of routine -- but I am not one of those people. I was in the San Francisco area just for the weekend, a long-awaited vacation that was a gift from my husband and some other loved ones. I spent two glorious days relaxing on Point Reyes and one participating in a daylong session on Buddhism and the Twelve Steps with Kevin Griffin at the Spirit Rock meditation center. During my trip, I had to cross the Golden Gate Bridge twice -- once as I headed from the airport to my destination north of San Francisco and once on my return -- and each time it was exhilarating.

In all that was wonderful about the trip, I think driving across that bridge may have been my favorite part: the view, the wind, the adrenaline rush of being suspended over the mouth of the ocean far below, the way the transition from vibrant city to quiet hills marked my own transition with "Now you are really leaving the bustle of life behind to begin a vacation" and "Now you are really coming back to the rushing flow of your life."

During the time I was in meditation at Spirit Rock, a fear came up that often arises for me, especially in travel: the fear of not knowing what I'm doing, of making mistakes. My thoughts were seemingly endless stream of: "Am I in the right place? Am I supposed to be using those cushions? Am I doing this meditation right? Did I say something thoughtless or inaccurate during that group exercise? I've never done a walking meditation like this and I've never been here. Am I walking someplace I'm not supposed to? Am I getting in that guy's way?" In fact, these thoughts came up so often that, at the end of the day when Kevin Griffin asked us to contemplate what "persistent visitors" had been present in our thoughts that day and to set an intention to address them, mine was around the fear of making mistakes. "Just for today," I vowed, "I will let go of my need to do everything perfectly."

And I almost immediately got a chance to practice it. Imperfectly. On the Golden Gate Bridge.

That day at Spirit Rock was the last day of my vacation, and I was running low on cash. I had brought what I thought was an adequate amount with me, but ran into a few situations where I couldn't use a credit or debit card. Then I had a series of adventures with small town ATM machines being out of order. The end result was that I had very little left to use as a donation to the teacher. (Kevin, you were awesome, and I didn't give you enough. Note to self: next time bring your checkbook. Also, find a way to give Kevin Griffin an extra donation.)

When I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge on my trip north to Point Reyes, there hadn't been a toll, although I had passed through some out of service toll booths. I wasn't sure if there was a toll going back in the other direction, but just to be cautious, I held on to $2, knowing I had enough in change to make $5 and thinking that would be plenty. I gave the rest of what I had as my donation. Then I drove south.

I emerged from the tunnel north of San Francisco to the spectacular sight of the Golden Gate Bridge red against the white city skyline ahead of me. I drove across, thrilled both at being there and at the thought of heading home to my family. But as I neared the end of the bridge, I saw the toll booths ahead. Open and in operation. Toll: $6. Crap. I hoped I had enough change to make up the difference, so I dumped my purse onto my lap and started fishing for coins. I reached the booth before I finished counting and handed the toll booth attendant a collection of change, which he painstakingly counted out as the line grew behind me. The final count still had me 19 cents short of the $6 toll. And that (during the third pass through my purse) was when I found a twenty dollar bill wedged between some old business cards and a Target gift card. Whew! I handed it to the toll collector, who (clearly annoyed at the entire situation) said, "You should have given this to me in the first place!"

To which I snapped, tingling with anxiety and defensiveness, "Well, if I had known I had it, I would have!" Oops. That would be me. Not being perfect. And not being mindful. Imperfectly handling not being perfect.

I realized only afterwards why I'm so afraid of mistakes when traveling. When I was growing up, I learned that tourists were prey. If you looked like you didn't know what you were doing, if you admitted you were new or unfamiliar with things, if you did things differently or asked questions, if you got lost and ended up in the wrong place, if you made mistakes, if you were less than completely prepared or completely perfect, at best you would be mocked or taken advantage of, but at worst you could be robbed or raped or murdered. I always assumed that I "just" didn't want to appear stupid to people, but when I snapped at the toll collector I saw my reaction coming from a place of deepest fear, out of proportion to the situation. We all, every single one of us, make mistakes sometimes, are unprepared sometimes, don't know what we're doing sometimes. But admitting that, showing that, having that exposed in myself can feel to me like being the one gazelle walking with a slight limp past the lions.

In the past, the only lesson I would have taken from this would be to learn the one small skill that many of those around me had mastered: how to correctly pay that toll. But what I can see I need to learn in addition is to release my fear of being someplace new, of not knowing everything, of making mistakes. Making sure I have correct change for the toll will certainly help me on specific bridges and highways, but letting go of fear will help me (and the toll collectors I won't be snapping at) wherever I go.

Photo credit: Photo by cindiann on Flickr

I've been reading marta's blog for a while, where she posts updates on the novel she's working on. And I've been wondering when I would ever be able to get a chance to read what she's posted of it.

But then I realized: I'm going to Long Vowels' wedding next week. And since Vowels lives far enough from me to require a plane flight, I'll have hours of kid-free time in which to contemplate my fear of flying -- I mean, read something longer than a blog post. So, I decided I'd print out whatever of marta's novel was available before the trip and take it with me to read.

But marta's not the only one. Shelli at Mama of Letters just posted part of her young adult novel for comments. And I know lots more of you are writing, if not necessarily sharing drafts on your blogs. (If you are sharing, I may not have seen it -- I'm still 440 posts in the hole on Google Reader. I'm progressing in alphabetical order by folder, so when I get to you depends on a combination of where in the alphabet your blog name falls as well as where I have you filed. I'm scrupulously fair.)

So, all you writers, if you've got a manuscript you're willing to share, I'd love to take you on the plane with me. In return, I will honestly tell you what I liked best about your work -- and what I didn't. (But only if you want that "didn't" part. I sure as hell wouldn't, but that's why I'm not trying to get published!)

Leave me a comment with a URL (if you've posted your work online) or e-mail me at mamampj@gmail.com before Thursday, May 29th. (I'm leaving on the 30th and want to make sure I have time to print things.) I will read in the order received.

Hope you'll join me on my trip. What better way to celebrate meeting some of my blogging BFFs than to take others of you with me? This is going to be fun!

I picture myself with the oxygen mask on, and as the plane is going down, I am screaming, unheard, "Damn you, Alanis Morrissette! You have no idea what irony is! Thanks to you, millions of children have grown up mistakenly believing, as you do, that irony is rain on one's wedding day or a black fly in one's Chardonnay or the good advice that one just didn't take. And none of those things are, in and of themselves, ironic!!" What is ironic is Alanis Morrissette's failure to take my good advice and write a follow-up song about sarcasm.

Fortunately, I have a few more glorious days before me, in which to rid myself of this song before it starts playing on an endless loop again...

"Ironic"

An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day
It's a black fly in your Chardonnay
It's a death row pardon two minutes too late
And isn't it ironic...dontcha think

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought...it figures

Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids goodbye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down he thought
"Well isn't this nice..."
And isn't it ironic...dontcha think

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought...it figures

Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything's okay and everything's going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face

A traffic jam when you're already late
A no-smoking sign on your cigarette break
It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife
And isn't it ironic...dontcha think
A little too ironic...and yeah I really do think...

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought...it figures

Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Helping you out

This wedding I attended was hard, and I couldn't help but think of her this past weekend, as my own emotional discomfort manifested itself physically. It started building, gradually, during the ride to the airport: the knot in my stomach, the tightness in every muscle in my body, the need to consciously will myself to keep breathing. Of course, I knew it didn't help that I was flying (you will recall that I hate flying). And it didn't help that the wedding was held in the middle of Northeast Nowhere. Beautiful? Yes. Direct flights from where I live? No. That means changing planes, doubling the number of takeoffs and landings, and that means doubling the anxiety. When I have multiple connections to make, I mentally tick off each one: two takeoffs and two landings left, one more takeoff and two landings left, one more landing and one takeoff left, just one more landing left, ah! safe...

By the time I arrived in the Charlotte airport to catch my connecting flight to Northeast Nowhere, I had a tightly nauseated, choking sensation in my throat and stomach that remained with me until my return home. Everything from my throat down through my abdomen was constricted in such knots for the majority of the trip that I felt certain if I swallowed a bite of food, I would vomit up a lung or simply explode, internal organs blasted out of my body and plastered to the walls. I barely ate for three days; at each meal, I'd take a tiny, tentative bite and then abandon the entire endeavor.

Each day, I did yoga, and each day, it didn't help. I'd position myself, only to have voices flying up through the window and tug me off balance. When I stand in Warrior II, I like to think that I am standing, as my yoga instructor once said, with one hand reaching to the future and one hand reaching to the past, while my torso stays perfectly upright, centered in the Now. But in that room, in that inn, my torso didn't stay upright, but leaned and listed, pulled along with my mind, by one hand or the other, out of the present. I would sit in meditation, tense and unable to breathe. I would will each muscle to relax and find it still contracted. Or it would relax for a heartbeat, for a blink, to tense again as soon as I concentrated on the next muscle.

I knew my mind was making my body sick, making it hurt, but try as I might, I couldn't fix my mind, and so couldn't fix my body. In the end, what fixed the problem was leaving. I felt like a pregnant woman with gestational diabetes or pre-eclampsia, conditions that are caused by pregnancy and only resolve, can only be cured, by the birth of the baby, the removal of that tiny parasitic burden from the woman's body. After I said my goodbyes and left the inn to drive back to the airport, my mind finally released the burden it was carrying, the worst of the tension left, my body relaxed, and I could eat again, breathe again.

I am telling her I love her. (No, that thing I'm doing with my hand doesn't mean "longhorns" or "hang loose" or anything else.) According to an episode of Family Feud I once watched, which featured a deaf woman (who was no doubt playing an enormous joke on Richard Dawson), that sign combines the sign language letters I, L and Y, thus "I Love You." I'm sure that even if it does in fact mean "I love you" the fact that I'm doing it with my left hand probably makes it obscene in some cultures, but somehow that works too. I send my obscene love to you, Junky's Wife! I'm wearing my hippie thumb ring just for you. And I did that French manicure myself. All to look pretty for this picture.

Still, it was greatly disappointing to me that this photo of part of an airport terminal chair was the best I could do. I passed a wall painted with a map of the area and a big star in the middle labeled "Charlotte." That was where I wanted to photograph my hand, but I had three problems:

1. I was rushing to catch a connecting flight.
2. I was speeding past on one of those moving walkways and would have had to wait until the end of the walkway, get off and then walk back to get to the wall.
3. I was feeling extremely ill, a feeling which persisted for the entire trip.

So, I took care of myself and missed the perfect shot: good for my own well being, bad for the Junky's Wife and my blog.

But as we drove, I felt sick, not with joy or anticipation for my return home, but unfortunately, physically sick. I hoped it was just exhaustion, but I suspected (correctly, it turns out) that I was paying the price for having seen Kelly on the heels of her stomach virus earlier in my trip. I asked Pat to pull over, and he took me to a fast food restaurant, where I leaned over a toilet in the ladies' room, and my body tried to vomit, but mostly just convulsed in sickness. I hadn't been eating well as I traveled, so fortunately, there simply wasn't much to bring up.

As I stood over that toilet, it hit me that the sickness placed me in the midst of my greatest fears: I was away from home, I was sick and weak and vulnerable, and I was about to get on a plane. And suddenly, I was totally, unexpectedly, serene.

Mark says that he believes God is in our freedom to make choices, in seeing and knowing that we are not trapped, but free. And as I climbed back into Pat's car, I felt that. I knew the kids were safe at home with Mark. I knew that, as much as Mark ought to be back at work the next day, he would not be fired or fall dangerously far behind if I needed to stay. I knew I could change my flight, and that even if there were fees, short as we are on money, I could find some way to pay them. I knew Mark would support me in whatever I decided and would care for me when I got home.

I suspected I had a virus, and I knew that it would pass in a day. I knew I got that virus by making the choice to see Kelly: someone I loved as much as anyone in the world, someone who needed me to be there for her. I knew that was the right decision and that it had been worth it.

I knew Pat was with me and that he would take care of me. I knew I was with someone I could vomit in front of without worry or shame. I knew there was no need to fear vulnerability or weakness. I knew I was with one of my best friends in the world, someone I had known and trusted for more than a quarter of a century, for more than half my lifetime, someone who knew me as well as anyone in my life.

I knew I was safe. I knew I was cared for. I knew I didn't need to do anything, not even decide right then what I was going to do. I knew I was free to choose. I called Mark to tell him what was going on, and he said he could hear the serenity in my voice.

We had time; we kept driving. And I waited to see how I felt. We drove to the airport, with me clutching a bag, eyes closed, breathing, just being with the sickness, waiting to see if I'd feel better, waiting for my choice to become clear. Pat told me I'd be ok, and I knew I would. Pat told me he'd sit with me at the airport or take me home with him, whatever I wanted. Pat parked the car and waited there with me. And sitting there in his car, in the airport parking lot, I leaned over the bag, convulsed in sickness, and knew I couldn't make it into the airport, couldn't make it onto the plane. Everything was clear. I told Pat I didn't want to get on the plane. And he drove me home.

On the way, he talked to me and sang to me and joked with me and told me he knew I must be sick because I wasn't laughing at his jokes. I told him, closed eyed and nauseated but smiling, that his jokes simply weren't that funny. We drove, and I listened, I breathed, I spoke when I could, and I held still as wave after wave of nausea washed over me.

Pat made sure my flight was changed. Pat's fiancée prepared a bed for me with fresh sheets. They got me water to drink and a bucket to vomit into. They made sure I had bland foods, clear liquids and a ride back to the airport the next day. And they let me sleep, in their quiet house, with the sound of the ocean breeze in the trees outside. And I felt safe, and serene, and grateful.

That night, I wept with a gratitude that felt too big for me to hold, a gratitude I wanted something as big as God to hold. And in spite of the sickness, I slept better than I had during my entire trip. And when I got on the plane the next day, I had no fear, no anxiety. I knew I was safe. I knew I was loved. I knew wherever I went, I was home.

I am not bringing my laptop with me, so I don't know if I'll be able to post while I'm away, but I may be able to steal time on the computers of the friends I am staying with. I'll miss you all! Expect me back on Monday at the latest. I will be posting (anonymous) pictures!

But before I go, does anyone have any good books to recommend for the plane? Something exceptionally well-written but definitely not too sad or heavy? (My favorite book on my last trip was Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies.) Hey, let's make this a contest! The book I enjoy most will win one of these bead bookmark/jewelry things I've been making. And don't worry about catching me before I leave; I have another trip coming up in a few weeks, and I'll use late entries for that. Come on my lit chick readers, bring on the good books!

With those elements in my head -- pregnancy, a familiar face now unrecognizable, a much wanted baby, a loving and devoted husband, car accidents, speed, death -- my mind devised a dream for me. In the dream, Missy is pregnant and dies with another high school friend in a car accident, speeding to get to a destination on time. Her husband finds the car wreck, but the bodies are so mangled and disfigured that he doesn't know her. He lost the wife that was the center of his life, the baby they were longing for, but he didn't know it yet, looking at blood and twisted metal.

I woke up in a panic. It was a sign. I shouldn't take the plane. Forget that it was a dream about someone who was not me dying in a car accident and not a plane crash, there was a blond in the car and they were going fast. It just meant I was going to die at some uncontrollable speed, rushing to get somewhere. It meant I would end up in a heap of twisted steaming metal, my body would be ripped apart and unrecognizable. (Can you tell that my rational mind does not work well after a nightmare at the time of day my brother refers to as "the butt crack of dawn?") I tried to breathe, to get back to sleep, but I couldn't. So, I got up knowing I had hit my own personal anxiety bottom.

I've been doing this addicty thing lately. I have been knowingly holding on to the anxiety about this trip, because the rush of excitement I am having about it is a high I don't want to let go of. I have been afraid of letting go of the anxiety, because I don't want to let go of the excitement. I haven't been doing yoga. I haven't been sitting in meditation. I haven't been doing these things even though I know that they will help, because I know they will help. But screw it, I'm done. The trip will be here soon enough, and it will be fabulous. If the excitement goes with the anxiety, so be it, but the anxiety must go. I'm going to yoga tonight. I am sitting in meditation. I will be present for this adventure, not high on adrenaline. I will sleep tonight, and it will be dreamless.