Lotta Rock in Little Rock

This past Monday, the airplane I was on almost went down due to turbulence.

I realize that no airplane (at least in recent history) has been taken down by turbulence, but every time it hits, I’m convinced it’s over. In this instance, the bodies would have landed in Little Rock, Arkansas, and as we bounced and swayed our way towards Atlanta, my central thought was: I’m going to die and it’s been seven days since I’ve seen my husband.

I was coming back from a weeklong trip to Vegas and like most business trips, it was a lot of work with a little fun. You can take on a revised persona on a business trip and while I was in Vegas, dancing into the early hours of the morning, I felt young and pretty and even a bit adventurous, which anyone who knows me can refute. (I could tell you what I’m going to do on a Tuesday a month from now. I hate adventure.) But on that plane home, rocking back and forth and wondering if I could clench the hand of the stranger next to me, I just felt…weary.

Yes, the world’s an exciting place but what’s the point if you are forever bound to see it with those that you send the most emails to, but who don’t know that you can’t do simple math and only learned to use (okay, handle) chopsticks 4 months ago? Something continues to build inside of me and I’m finally starting to pay attention. I want a smaller world.

I don’t mean small as in the politically correct eco-sense of “we’re all neighbors and I buy my Chapstick from a woman who makes it in Mongolia” small, I mean actually small. (Not that I disagree with being neighborly with the world, but I get my Chapstick from the CVS.)

How tedious yet reassuring to spend my days picking up the dry-cleaning from Rebecca and her dog Angel, then swinging by to the Italian take-out place to grab dinner. (And possibly say hello to the manager who after 8 years has finally deigned to recognize me.) “The boredom! The boredom!” some of you are shrieking. But I see only calm – a plain backdrop on which to manage life’s real problems.

There is a book I admire even though I can’t remember the name or the author but the crux of it is that a woman who traveled frequently spent her flying time writing letters to her children. Touching and smart. For me, however, the only letters I plan on writing will be those I send to my children’s summer camp. And the rest of the year, when the children are tucked into their own beds, I’ll be right there with them telling a story. “Once upon a time your mom and your dad traveled everywhere and met some very smart and semi-famous people and saw the world and felt energized and exhausted all at the same time.”

Once upon a time indeed. As the plane made its final approach into Hartsfield, my heart hummed. Home sweet home.