Spiritual Lessons at the Airport

Once, I was a frequent flyer.  Every 4-8 weeks, I got on a Delta flight to see my grandmother.  Several times a year I flew up to the DC area to see my mom and dad.  Now I only fly a few times a year, if that much.

Now I drive by the airport more than I fly out of the airport.  This morning, as I dropped off a passenger, I thought about a poem that I wrote back when I was a frequent flyer.  It's a poem about yearning to be where we are not.

I'm working on being happy about blooming where I'm planted.  I'm working on gratitude.  This poem makes me smile with recognition.  I do wonder about the title . . .


Zen Lessons at the Airport



The tarmac longs to lift itself skyward,
to fling itself free of the earth’s clinging
embrace, to shake off the cloak of asphalt
depression, to float in the fantastic
realms that stretch above.

The planes tell tales of improbable
kingdoms, castles of clouds and endless
vistas. The planes delight
in tormenting the tarmac with visions
of lands it can never visit.
The planes torture the tarmac, jealous
of its stability. They tire
of fleeing across continents, always rushing
to stay ahead of the harsh
taskmaster of the schedule. Breathless,
the planes race
from day to day, never having a chance
to enjoy the views, never knowing
for sure where they’ll be on any given day.
The tarmac stays anchored and mopes,
frustrated by the familiar scenery.
The planes see the world, but yearn
for a friendly face and a rooted
future. The flowers bloom their riotous
profusion of flowers, even though the planes
overlook them and the tarmac wishes
for different colored blooms.