On the Fly

I knew that I would be in a lot of planes on Thursday, and I looked forward to one shining aspect of that day: the chance to read. My reading life has not been the same since I became a mother. I have to choose my times and places much more carefully, and end up reading half-chapters in the bathroom.

In the streaming dawn light of the first airport (Hartford), I finished Caught in the Fading Light: Mountain Lions, Zen Masters, and Wild Nature, by Gary Thorp. There was something great about sitting in a 100% synthetic environment, surrounded by suits, and reading about a guy’s nocturnal searches for mountain lions. I had this secret in my hands, an intimate account of deep longings by another nature lover. The hard part was keeping the Zen pace of the book while the world raced around me. I stopped to watch a toddler, just starting to walk, double over and look at me through his legs. We giggled at each other. He helped me slow down.

I started feeling flu symptoms before the first leg of my return flight from Raleigh-Durham. I had to change planes at Norfolk, and then flew to Philadelphia in that awful, all-I-want-to-do-is-curl-up state. I had to read total fluff: Time magazine (which has gotten fluffy as an Easter bunny) and Entertainment. All I remember from the entire 120-page glossy journey is that I felt sorry for Harrison Ford, whose abilities as an action hero were called into question. Oh, also, middle-aged people are having more sex. It was a great distraction.

By the end of the trip, in a dehydrated state, I was nearly hallucinating. In the waiting lounge at Philadelphia, I thought a woman in the lounge was knitting. I saw the dart and weave of her hands and found the rhythm comforting. But she was just untangling her earphones. I had to get home.

I took the new Oprah magazine on the last plane. I like her enthusiasm and her effort to embrace things beyond fashion and Hollywood. Every issue has a “bookshelf”, and Sigrid Nunez’s bookshelf contains A Writer’s Diary by Virginia Woolf. I added this to my wish list, pronto. I can‘t wait to see if Virginia also second guessed herself, didn’t want to get up and write, and compared herself to other writers. I will be so disappointed if she didn’t.

I read a piece of my own but gave up, disgusted. This is a piece I have reworked and reworked, but it still has not come together. I have no new ideas. Back into the briefcase. I will banish it to the zippered darkness until it is ready to behave.

The last thing I read was a piece from another writer in my group. How I relished, even while ill, writing notes in the margins. Why, oh why, hadn’t I thought to be a literary editor? She is a brilliant writer but I saw that she too puts things in that should stay out, has some rearranging to do. Very reassuring.

The possibilities in a day of flying are limitless. Maybe next time I will do a write-a-thon instead of a read-a-thon. I love the portability of reading and writing, for it really feels like a comforting friend in even the worst of times. It comes with me on trips and even into my sick bed. So glad I didn’t choose hockey instead.