Into the Great Wide Now
Flaps, one notch.
Mixture, rich.
Sky, clear.
Throttle, full.
Brakes, released.
The plane clings to the ground for an instant, Newton's pesky inertia law stunting your movement, but soon another law of physics takes hold and you inch forward. You creep at first, then pick up speed. Faster and faster, the landscape a green blur in the peripheral vision, your feet work the rudder pedals as the plane sways left, then right, then back again.
The stick vibrates your palm as the airspeed needle begins to wake up. It silently warns 30 more knots are needed before the plane will even think of lifting off. Meanwhile, you’ve eaten up half the runway. The trees at the opposite end of the runway that appeared kind and docile before, now look angered and gnarled as they seem to charge you. You fight the instinct to pull the stick back, knowing the plane will become a mangled mess if you do because you lacked enough airspeed, so vital to lift and flight.
The needle creeps, moving through mud, caught in a slow-motion time warp as it arcs from 40 to 45. The magic number is 60. The trees race toward you. 50…55… They close in, crooked limbs stretching your way. 58… Too late to abort, not enough runway left to stop. 59… If only you had 30 more feet of runway…
Then the plane rises, the wings physically curving upward on both sides like a drawn bow pointed toward the ground. The trees strain skyward, final attempts to snag you in their tangled branches. You sail over them by scant feet, then glance down. There are so many trees, but now they appear docile again, mere shrubs from your new vantage point.
For an hour you soar over the countryside, scanning the sky for oncoming aircraft, monitoring the gauges. You peek at your winged shadow gliding across the ground where it expands as it darts up the side of a building to race across the roof before plunging down the other side where it shrinks once more. The setting sun brushes against distant clouds near the horizon, painting their edges in golden light before sinking behind them.
It’s time to land. You point the airplane toward the faint lights of your home field, one of the shortest airstrips in the state. You scan your gauges, paying special attention to the airspeed indicator once more to maintain the exact airspeed. Too slow and you stall before ever making it to the runway. Too much, and you land long, crashing into the same trees you outwitted during takeoff.
But your airspeed is right on. It brings a gentle touchdown in an emerald sea of grass that sloshes against your tires as you slow. A burst of power propels you to your tie-down spot where you throttle back, cut your avionics and lean out your fuel mixture until the engine sputters. The blurred propeller slows until snaps still.
You pull three ropes taut to anchor your winged mare to earth. Walking away, you wonder if you need tie-down ropes for your body because it seems to float across the field instead of touching the ground. Soft grass sways from the same gentle breeze that presses into your back. Your mind is light, your body energized, and you pulse with life.
For a long time, I thought I knew the reason I felt so alive and energized after flying, during my initial flight training and beyond. I was wrong. When walking away from my plane after a flight in the early days, I mistook the intense energy surrounding me as elation. And why not? I had finally pursued a long-suppressed big dream to fly.
I’m sure elation was part of the emotions I felt but over time the true reason dawned. From the moment I slid into the aircraft and flew it until I tied it down, piloting the plane was my one focus. In the plane, I never summoned past regrets or mistakes. I didn’t mentally go over my monumental to-do list. I forgot about bills. I forgot to fret over the future. I… lived in the moment.
If I hit my writing goal at the beginning of this piece, you lived in the moment vicariously through my flight, forgetting the annoyances and distractions of life that vie for your attention. The piece may have taken your brain elsewhere, the reason many of us like to read novels, but it’s still a “present” you experience real-time.
After this realization, I searched for other activities that anchored me in the present. Good novels jumped near the top of the list. Exercise scored high as well. Much as reading locked me in the present, so did writing, an activity I began to immerse myself in with increased frequency. Nature is a biggie. Some claim a twenty minute walk in nature does more for your well-being than any pharmaceutical wonder drug ever can. I believe that. No matter what mood I start in, a short walk in our local The Bog Garden cures what ails me. It’s hard to stay down when you walk under a cathedral of green canopies as the sky pulsates blue between the spaces in the leaves.
Something else that tugs me into the present moment and never fails to send a smile across my face, is the sight of a dog’s head thrust out a car window, its eyebrows arched in sheer enthusiasm, tongue trailing in the wind. My guess is all dogs live in the present and we could learn a lesson or two from them. Next time you're driving a car, ease down your window, erasing that curved glass between you and the world. Feel the cold or the heat. Shoot your arm out, palm down, and let your “wing” slice the air. Encourage your passenger to do the same, especially if he or she has a perma-scowl etched on the face. Who knows what will happen? If you’re speed is right, maybe you achieve lift off and sail over that far horizon into the great wide now.
