Sunrise over Taipei. Haze and columns of steam blur the otherwise clear view of the city. The sun shines full and strong. A frame of incoming clouds dance lightly around the golden drops illuminating the baby blue of the sky.
Airport ground crews load luggage, food carts, and fuel. It is a well-oiled machine. Ever present invisible hands moving like workshop elves so passengers can board their planes. We fly homeward, forward, backward–the plane takes us to place but it is the passengers who determine the destination; not just the place we will land but the people we will be when we arrive.
The plane is merely a vessel which carries our memories of holiday cheer, moments of grief or a raised voice we would like to forget, and a place of time suspended to reflect on what we are. Seconds blur into minutes blur into hours of waking or sleeping or eating or pondering or forgetting or regretting–or just being.
We have a place where we will arrive but in many ways, we are going nowhere.
So we fly, listening to the constant roar of engines and the quick tapped steps of flight attendants. We stare out our windows or glance at our clocks and wonder if the plane we sit on can change time–give us back something we have lost.
But in the end, all we can do is breath and be and become.