It was a full flight. I'd been assigned an aisle seat. If my five foot two frame has a problem in middle seats, I wonder how the rest of the world puts up with them. The plane was filling up and I was tired and happy to be heading home.
My laptop had crashed two days before the trip. The notes for my speech were handwritten with arrows going every which way. I was so nervous that I would not be prepared that I practiced over and over for three days in between classes and demos. I kept rewriting - by hand - adding still more arrows.
The hotel mirror was my audience, always awake and alert but not very enthusiastic. It did not laugh at the jokes or sympathize with my pauses of confusion. The mirror was not at all judgmental but it did listen, so I continued to use it. It kept me awake late into the night and as the days passed, my weariness grew heavier.
My topic was Hawaiian quilting. Rich history. Some jokes. Some facts. Some names. Some places. Some taboos. Some intrigue. Would they like it? Would they want to listen? I had been asked to "just talk". Just talk about quilting from my perspective.
I could not help but wonder if I was getting old enough that people were actually listening? I am too young to be that old.
Through a hectic weekend, the classes and demos went off without a hitch. The closer we got to the Monday dinner, the more nervous I became. Not because I wasn't prepared, but because I was supposed to entertain. Now I was a bit on edge, because whether or not anybody knew it, somebody believed I had things to "just talk" about and an expectation was on the table.
I wished so badly that I was back in the hotel room talking to my own reflection instead of the 120 or so faces that were patiently waiting. In an out-of-body sort of way I heard my name introduced and heard my voice start to speak. Within a sentence or two, I heard laughter (the good kind) and they kept laughing for the hour and a half that I just talked.
We blended, worked together and had a fabulous time. It was relaxing and fun, like a party. My worries went out of my body completely when I heard myself say thank you to this fabulous and loving audience. Yet as they applauded my knees began to rattle in an exuberant release of nerves. I was so thankful that I had worn the Hawaiian full length dress (not a mumu). The plumeria print fabric danced gently around the vigorous and uncontrollable shaking of my knees, concealing the visible signs of my inexperience.
"Please stow any carry ons under your seats to save space in the overhead compartments. This is a full flight and we will need as much space as possible." Someone was going to sit next to me. I watched passengers approach and I tried to guess who it might be. It was going to be the tall guy I was sure. And yes, I was right. My guilt told me I should offer my aisle seat because he was so much taller and would be much more comfortable. But I so badly needed rest. He sat down and got settled. We said nothing.
I opened my briefcase and started to write my expense report. Though he did not say a word I was sure he was terribly uncomfortable. So, I decided to give up my prize possession. I offered to change seats. He lied and said he was fine.
I am not sure what happened next but for the entire three hour flight, we talked.
Mr. Seattle Firefighter has nearly everything going for him: Lovely wife, kids, friends, and a great job as a firefighter. In Seattle, he has everything but the sun. He grew up in California and is a sun lover. He was returning from Florida where he visited a friend who had made the cross-country leap. His friend basks in the sun every day. Mr. Seattle Firefighter visited the friend to see if he might want to make the leap too. The visit confirmed his yearning for sun.
I do not know how long it took before I realized the young man stuck in the middle seat was listening to me. Really listening, eager for my opinion. It started with a small thing: He sews the equipment straps at the firestation when they need mending. His old sewing machine was missing a part and I told him how to find replacements. Once again, I question the implications of getting old enough that people listen. A scary thought indeed.
Without thinking twice I encouraged him to listen to his heart. I echoed his own words back to him: Leap while he is young and has the chance. His family was okay with it. There are surely fires to fight in Florida. He would miss his friends, but he wouldn't really lose them and would make many more. The kids would grow up with a beach and have the fun-in-the-sun times. He could always move back.
The closer we got to our destination, the less doubt he had. I was envious of his position, not his middle seat position, but his position in life - his ability to make it work. His willingness to go out on a limb and make his dream a waking reality.
Later, I was struck with concern. What right did I have to give advice? Was his life any of my business? What if he moved and hated it? Was my advice a potential contributor to marital and familial stress?
And then I realized that I had become like the hotel mirror, a reflection of what he felt.
And he, too, had become a mirror for me. For every question he pondered, I did too as it related to my own life. Are my dreams going to become a reality? What do I need to do to make them so?
So, Mr. Firefighter... Have you found your sewing machine part? And have you found your place in the sun?
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