Learning to Fly
I did not grow up going on family vacations. My summers as a kid were spent traveling back and forth to the local library, sitting between Mommy and lil’ sis on the sofa to watch TV, attending family gatherings, and participating in day camps. I never learned to pack properly, to plan itineraries, or how to strategically save for trips. I saw going out of town as luxury, an activity for people with more money than my family and me. I became comfortable being a homebody.
My first time on an airplane was when I was about sixteen. I was a semifinalist for a prestigious summer program at Harvard University and was invited to interview on their campus in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Daddy and I flew out early that morning—I still remember the pain and pressure in my ears, the fear I felt at the bumpy landing, and how exciting it was to see a new city. After the interview, we walked the cobblestoned streets, ate sub sandwiches with my mom’s cousin who lived in Cambridge, and then we flew back to Washington, DC that evening. I was not accepted into the summer program, but I cherished the experience of flying for the first time.
I have a confession—although I am far-removed from my adolescent budget and circumstances, I struggle to plan vacations even now. I love seeing new places, but I loathe the process of getting there. Despite how much planning time I allow, I inevitably spend the night before my departure overpacking and repacking until it’s time to leave. When I get on the plane or train, I’m a sleepy hot mess. And by the time I start to feel rested, it’s time to head back home.
Lately, I’ve been combing through my old writings and I found this untitled poem I wrote back in 2012:
today, a well-traveled friend told me
that she thinks the journey
is just as important as the destination.
i hate the journey most times.
i hate arriving at airports,
checking bags, slow security,
stinky restrooms,
germy strangers,
stuffy planes,
recycled air,
worn seats,
heart racing
before i fly and say goodbye
to home.
but once i am in the air,
those feelings subside a little
and i’m able to look out and enjoy the sky,
the plastic cup of ginger ale,
the tiny pack of Biscoff cookies,
the calm that comes over most faces
as they think of the places they’ll go,
the people they’ll see,
the business they’ll attend to,
the family they’ll bury,
and the food they’ll eat.
the landing is somehow easier.
i do brace myself upon the descent,
spend about three seconds not breathing
as the plane touches ground,
but i can’t help a smile coming across my lips
when i realize that i am where i intended to be.
and that it would be impossible to get there
without a journey,
without deciding to pick up and leave,
without facing discomfort for a few moments,
without trusting
that it will be all worth it in the end.
Now, thirteen years later, I can see the parallels between traveling and achieving dreams. For both, the steps to get there can be messy. They both require a release of control, an openness to learning, investment of money, and lots of planning. They both offer lessons along the way and rewards at the end. And they both stretch my will and humanity.
My next steps in life require me to fly,
to dig up the roots of my discomfort
and plant seeds of possibilities.
To rely on the wisdom of those around me
who can plan fancy vacations in their sleep.
In this season, I welcome community.
In this season, I allow myself to be seen.
I take comfort in not knowing everything.
In this season, I grow wings.
