Flying and Philosophy
Ready for a quick itinerary run down??
Today I’m flying back to Albuquerque, with two giant suitcases and Joey. I’m bringing out equipment for my boyfriend’s film and staying with him for a few days. From Albuquerque I’m flying to Phoenix (with less luggage and still Joey), where I’ll be picked up by my parents who are driving out to have Thanksgiving with my Uncle in Tucson. My parents haven’t done a solo road trip in....26 years? And they’re taking my car because rental costs are doing the most at this point in time. Figuring out this plan was like solving a jigsaw puzzle where the last three pieces are hidden under the couch, but we did it and here we are!
I’ll be gone for 12 days, which feels like a really long time. After periods of extended home centered living, traveling feels monumentous, even Herculean. I’m not saying it’s not fun, but being away from the routines of life can be ungrounding. Sometimes that’s the whole point of a trip: floating like a half deflated balloon, unsure if anyone will grab hold of the shiny thin ribbon before helium overcomes gravity. I love indulging in that feeling, laying on a new bed for way too long in the afternoon, staring at the front doors of houses filled with families I’ll never meet, ending up at bars I wouldn’t normally go to, mostly because I don’t really go to bars.
This time I have to stay centered because I have personalized meditations to write. I’m very protective of my energy when I do them; the gravity of the process is tangible. I imagine myself as a sort of lightning rod, receiving information and transferring it from sky to earth. Not to mention extended time with family, even when you love them, can be a doctorate level course in patience and resolve.
I’m a pretty grounded person naturally, but circumstances challenge that all the time. Whether we’re aware of it or not, we’re all lightning rods, picking up energy and taking it in. The trouble comes when we’re not rooted into the earth.
The first time I experienced being ungrounded as a sensation was when I worked putting together weekly art parties. I’d always leave with my head spinning, feeling other people’s words twirling me about as I tried to sleep. Living in a house with many other people became a constant back and forth between earth and ether. Often I’d feel a free floating anxiety almost like static electricity. It felt as though I was gathering the vibes of the house with a giant net and wrapping it around myself every day. The obvious solution is to relocate, move to a remote treehouse without connection to anyone in the world. As much as I’d like to do that sometimes, it’s not a viable option at this point in life.
Forgive me for this metaphor, but the thing that we can miss is the treehouse that lies within. Call it a treehouse, a desert, a beach at sunset. Wherever you find aloneness comforting. We have a tether to that spot, one that can never be broken, all it takes is following the line until we reach the center.
Even when we cannot fully access that space—perhaps the static of anxiety has grown too thick—knowing it’s there can allow us to step into the role of viewer.
Viewer of anxiety, viewer of lost days, viewer of the balloon that can’t seem to lift off or lie down.
Reaching the center happens in many different ways. Sometimes I find it while cleaning the kitchen, intentionally sweeping crumbs from counter tiles and scrubbing utensils. The tactile sensations are a comfort, reminders of where I am in time and space.
Something I do almost everyday is take 10 breaths. Yea, we all breathe all day, but this is 10 breaths before doing anything else. 10 breaths before the phone, 10 breaths before leaving bed. 10 breaths before making any decisions. Usually I’ll lose count of the inhales and exhales, sinking into the space that they’ve created. It can’t be described but is never forgotten, a return inward that is not limited to the internal but is inherently everything. It’s center and beyond.
The more you visit that place, the less you become a visitor and realize you’re a full time resident. No one can take that away, because it’s in a dimension all on its own.
Last week I was at a party where I only knew one person. It was one of those gatherings where people volley big concepts back and forth, answers to universal questions found in texts written by man. In a weird way, I’ve always had an aversion to philosophy. One of my earliest memories was walking into a room to find my parents talking quietly about spiritual concepts and feeling what can only be described as an existential dread. It’s not that I find philosophy to be unimportant, but there’s something about the labelling of that which cannot be truly conceived of that I find to be deeply weird.
But I get it, I now love it as much as I can find it cringe. We all do “philosophy” because it’s an attempt to reach the sky. To actualize is the underlying driving force in all our humanly things.
But we can’t put a bow on things, words will always fail us when we try to encapsulate the limitless. Language cannot interpret the experience of touching, or even being engulfed by, the eternal.
I’m a few hours away from hopping on a plane, transcending the troposphere and piercing the stratosphere. So I woke up this morning, took my 10 breaths and prepared the body to experience one of the greatest feats of humankind. A simple ritual for such an overwhelming undertaking.
Can we ever fully describe what it’s like to casually view mountains from the perspective of clouds?
That’s all for today—
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xx
James
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