There is a moment when a plane lands on the tarmac. The wheels touch down. And there is a collective breath out. Sometimes even a full round of applause. Like we have survived. To live another day. To continue. And in this moment, there is a letting go, a release, like we made it. The woman beside me loosens her grip on the pillow she has held tight the entire flight. And relaxes. As if holding on is a way to get control. And letting go is a way to go back to sleep. There are only two options. Hold on for dear life or put my head on the pillow and wait.
Living in the crash position.
Just in case something happens. Really? Do we really think the crash position is going to save us? If the plane starts to shake, to fly through turbulence, holding tighter is going to help get us through it? Like the tighter we hold, the more we can reach through the bowels of the plane to that steering wheel, and get it under control, calm the turbulence, change the wind patterns. And if the plane does go down, holding on, and putting our heads between our legs is going to help us survive? Really?
We're just going to miss the ride.
What if we were to release the grip? Uncurl our fingers from the iron-clad lock on the things around us. The things we cannot control. Ever. What if we were to embrace the journey? Breathe. And look out the window. And take it all in. The shadowed clouds stacked like mountains. The patchwork of farmer's fields stitched together by a collective of quilting elders. What if we were to remove the pillow and wake up? What might happen?
We can only let go to find out.
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