Going Places

60: (April 2019)

I look around at this sea of faces with whom I am sharing a jam-packed waiting room in Chicago’s Midway Airport. I am waiting for a connecting flight back home. I should have been home by now from a vacation to visit family in San Diego, but here I sit. On the floor of the airport.

My early morning flight from San Diego was supposed to make a one-hour layover in Chicago. Alas, mid-April snow in Chicago made visibility poor, and we wound up diverting to Indianapolis after circling over Chicago to assess the situation. We spent hours on the tarmac in Indianapolis and then flew back to Chicago when it “opened up.”

The airport is draped with weary travelers from various corners of the world, all trying to make connections to another place. So many people sit with worried faces staring at cell phones. Exhausted children are asleep in parents’ arms. The chairs are all taken, so the overflow is sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor; I’m glad I’m wearing jeans and am reasonably comfortable sitting cross-legged.

This is the price we pay for our modern lifestyles. Family and friends are spread all over the country and the world. We fly more, drive more, and often move around at a hectic pace. Although I live in a small, rural town, it seems impossible to escape dipping in and out of the frenzy from time to time.

We went to San Diego to babysit for our one-year-old granddaughter while her nanny was on vacation for a few days. Walks to the park. Silly songs. Snuggles. Puppets. Xylophone music. Simple pleasures, deep joy. Some things never change, despite time or place.

It took me 22 hours to finally get home. The snuggles alone were worth every minute.

40: (April 1999)

That I was sleeping in a bunk bed in a Zen Buddhist monastery was strange enough, but the sounds I was hearing transformed the night into a surreal event. A woman in another bunk was snoring. She was snoring so loudly that when I initially awoke, I searched wildly about in the dark, completely disoriented by the incredibly loud, grinding sounds. I went on the weekend retreat to learn about quieting the mind through meditation. I did not expect to learn basic truths about snoring, but life’s lessons can crop up at unexpected times and places.

The first thing I learned was that human beings are capable of achieving undreamed of decibel levels. The second was that such snoring feats are attainable by women. All those years of growing up reading Dear Abby had given me the impression that snoring was relegated to men. I guess all the disgruntled husbands were just too exhausted to bother writing letters.

I covered my head with a pillow and wrapped my arms around my ears, but the snorts were capable of penetrating any sound barrier. I wondered how it was possible for a human being to emit such powerful, relentless, ear-splitting sounds. I looked around the dormitory, amazed and relieved that my daughters were sleeping deeply. After several hours of torture, a soft mallet hit the gong at 5 a.m., resounding through the monastery and the surrounding hills and forests. I never thought I would feel so thankful for a 5 a.m. wake-up call. I jumped off my bunk and practically ran out of the room, wondering if the snoring woman had been sent to me by my Catholic god in order to glimpse a vision of purgatory.

Sitting silently for the required 90 minutes of morning meditation no longer seemed so daunting, even on an empty stomach. I welcomed the silence of the room, as I faced the awesome task of trying to silence my mind. I was quickly reminded that sounds external to the mind are nothing compared to the noisy chattering within. But that woman sure gave this realization a run for its money.

60-40:

I don’t think I’ve gotten any better at silencing my mind in all these years. Life is noisy and busy, and my mind mirrors that most of the time. There are moments when I might be able to focus on the present long enough to quiet down internally, but they are fleeting.

Babies and young children are so good at living in the moment, at being absorbed in what they’re doing, which is usually playing. Or sleeping. Both excellent activities!

I’m still learning to be fully present to the moments in my life, whether on a cushion or holding a toddler. But what I’ve gotten better at is to be increasingly thankful for each sweet breath I take, and if I’m fortunate enough to be around a grandchild at the same time, all the better.