Bucket list: flying adventures!

When I was four years old my family was crossing the Atlantic on a PanAm 747. Dad brought me up to see the captain (oh how I miss the days when this was still possible) and I got to sit on his lap and "steer" the plane. I remember being absolutely awestruck. The ocean SO far below. The view going on and on forever, coming straight at me. I still love flying, but as much as I love watching the skies from any airplane window, there is something about that front seat.

Fast-forward many years. Ryan and I became pen pals this winter, even though I knew him back in Vermont forever ago when he was a high school kid building an airplane (not the one he has now) in his basement. He became, in part, the inspiration for this blog (see my very first post), and somehow this little seed sprouted in me - I wanted to go on a flying adventure. In a little plane with a front-seat view. So he said, "Come on out!" and, as if handed to me on a plate straight from heaven, the wonderful folks at Southwest Airlines discovered I had enough flights for a free ticket. Off I went to Seattle.

We saw so many beautiful things. We saw miracles: the moonrise over Mt. Rainier at 13,000 feet, clouds over the Olympic Peninsula that looked like tidal waves, rays of light streaming through clouds like ufo beacons. We raced the sunset to land on the beach, we flew a picnic out to friends, we landed in airfields and camped. We walked the railroad tracks straight into Skykomish's centennial parade and wandered into Sekiu's annual halibut fishing derby (the winner was a 73-pounder). We pulled up to Lana's Cafe not in a car (boring!), but in a plane... a beautiful little blue Luscombe Silvaire with yellow wings and a candy cane striped tail.

And somewhere on the way to Willapa, Ryan asked me if I wanted to fly, and so began my first hours of fight training. It never occurred to me that at some point I'd want to learn how to fly. I always thought being a passenger would be enough. But there we were, and all I could think about was my moment in the cockpit of that 747 that started this whole thing (and "West With the Night" by Beryl Markham which kindled the fire).

Sometimes you don't even know something is on your bucket list until it kind of clunks you over the head. How often do we say we'd like to do this or that, we daydream about it, but we come up with all sorts of reasons not to make it happen. Work. Money. Time. Blah blah blah. I've decided I've had enough of that. Life is too short not to do the things you want to do.

(photos of me are by Ryan)

Spring

Well, I'm stumbling my way through having this blog; two months is too long for a new entry! That said, I have to believe that whatever it is we do, regardless of how many times we stop and start, it is the starting again that's important. How else do dreams come true?

It is springtime, and on a trip out to Dawes Arboretum for a picnic I thought I'd bring my camera, certain I'd wind up with some landscapes to post here. As I sifted through the images, though, my landscapes didn't grab me. Instead it seemed that this series of florals wanted to be seen. Funny how it is that our idea of what something should be most often isn't what winds up happening at all. The trick, I guess, is learning to get out of our own way so that we have room to listen to the thing that's really calling.

Obama's Inauguration

I've never been to DC. How nice to receive an invitation to stay with friends during the days of inauguration festivities! What truly surprised me was how powerful the experience felt. It was nothing I expected at all. Everything felt immense, from the size of buildings to the vastness of the National Mall (you can't tell this from television or photographs!) to the collective mood of goodwill coming from over a million and a half people. Everyone I bumped into was happy. Strangers were nice to each other. That it was also the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday put things into a perspective I didn't even realize would affect me so profoundly. From "I have a dream..." to our first African-American president, right here where I was standing.

With not nearly enough time to visit much of anything I wanted to see my first time in DC, I poked my head into a few museums and wandered by chance into the National Museum of the American Indian which happened to be sponsoring a three-day festival of multicultural performances entitled "Out of Many." Armenian dancers, Japanese storytellers, Native American flute players, salsa bands, African drummers, bluegrass bands... the list went on and on. I felt compelled to spend my two days clapping, stomping, swaying, singing, and dreaming to some of the most wonderful performances I've experienced.

On Tuesday morning, after a night of insomnia, I woke up in the dark at six, ate toast and a banana, and layered on my wool socks and tights, a couple shirts and a sweater, gloves, scarf, and my old heavy army surplus coat with the serious hood and we headed out to the Metro. After seeing the line of people waiting and realizing we'd never make it onto a train, we decided to walk the three and a half miles to the Mall. Once there, we parked ourselves in front of one of the JumboTrons next to the Washington Monument (did you see me waving?) and waited two hours in the nineteen-degree weather for stuff to really get started.

The Itzhak Perlman/Yo-Yo Ma "Air and Simple Gifts" performance was probably my most unexpected moment of joy of the entire trip. Yeah, okay, they weren't really playing, but whatever was coming out of the speakers was echoing through the canyons of empty streets and buildings, slipping through crisp, cold air and finding its way to my ears from ten different directions in the most ethereal angel-song I could ever imagine. If you were at home, warm, watching it on tv, you missed this magic. And then the feel of almost two million people cheering at once after the oath of office. And then the feel of hugging strangers next to you after Obama's address. As my feet turned to blocks of ice I wondered ever-so-briefly whether staying inside and watching it on television would have been a better idea - nope. This was SO worth the almost-frostbite and the seven miles of walking in boots not meant for walking. This was history. And I was there.

These are a few from the National Museum of Natural History. The "Birds of Washington, DC" exhibit was especially beautiful. It was tucked away in a basement hallway, like a little secret treasure, lovingly watched over by a bust of Spencer Baird, "founder" of the museum, who for some reason didn't make the cut to a more "important" floor. Perhaps they thought he would prefer the quiet company of his birds as opposed to life under the spotlights of the entrance hall. I know I would.