It is hour I don’t even know what anymore on this flight that is too long, on a trip that seemed to never come. We are flying to Melbourne today. German countryside fades into specks in the foggy oval window, my last glimpses of Europe and the dreams I buried in hard earth.
How many cities have I watched disappear into that fog in my lifetime? I can buckle my seatbelt with my eyes closed.
When I was a little girl, we only listened to Christian music. I used to think in tiny boxes, a pile of black ones on one side and a pile of white ones on the other side. But airplanes were one of the few times I got a taste of the music that was out there. On a British Airways flight from Sri Lanka to London, I first heard those words, Got a picture of you beside me, got your lipstick marks still on your coffee cup. This was back in the day when each channel on an airplane radio station had a set one-hour or so play list and it played on a loop. It was a total delight to an uncool one like me, I would wait and wait for the song I wanted to hear and delight in the fact that I could hear it multiple times before the flight was over.
Whatever I said, whatever I did, I didn’t mean it. I just want you back for good.
It was over a decade later when I found out it was Take That who sang those words, but wherever I am even today if I hear Gary Barlow’s mellow voice singing, I guess now it’s time for me to give up, I am 13 again, a geeky country Filipina girl with long frizzy hair sitting on an airplane, wondering where she belonged because when your life is in boxes but you aren’t a square, you get left out of your own story.
I scratched out the words in my journal. It was the best song I had ever heard.
It is 2001. Train releases Drops of Jupiter, and I listen to the radio now. I’ve wanted it that way, known the meaning of being lonely, and said bye, bye, bye to friends in Manila, Philippines and friends in Fayetteville, Arkansas. It’s another flight, United, I think, and I listen to Drops of Jupiter again and again and again.
Now that she’s back from her soul vacation, tracing her way through the constellation…
I am sailing tens of thousands of kilometers in the air, and I can pretend that this is my story, somewhere there is a nonexistent person – preferably he is tall and resembles George Clooney (grace please, I was 17) – and he’s waiting for me to land while I look for myself out there. Because I used to think an adventure was needed for change to come, it needed to be big, bold and radical for it to be real.
Those were the years when flying meant leisurely hours to watch movies, sleep, crochet and read books. Or to just stare out the window and think about nothing. But this is 2015. Not this flight, not with Little Bear clutching at my clothes as he tries to fall asleep. We cried our tears and said goodbye to Husband’s family, the boys run through security, and delightedly climb into their seats next to the oval windows. Big Boy gets his seat belt on without my help, he’s only interested to see if Cars is on the Emirates media program. It is. Little Bear sits in my lap and plays with my face, with his seat belt, with anything he can touch.
Wheels are off the ground, and I grab the headphones to find music. I’ve hardly listened to any music in the past five years. Beyonce has songs other than Crazy in Love? What? A song called Roar? Who is Katy Perry? I’m mid-30 and have two kids, is that a good excuse?
So this flight I go to the CD of the year, 1989 by Taylor Swift. I listened to it for most of the six hour flight to Dubai and again on the 13-hour flight to Melbourne. Apparently my old habits haven’t died.
Because here I am, wife, mother, woman, moving yet again. The world is a bed of clouds under this piece of machine, and I am taking flight. Higher, higher.
I used to think in boxes of black and white and stories that were big and bold, but now I am small, a speck of molecules and dust zooming through the clouds, living, loving, learning and it is time to meet the next change. There is no morality prize, no medal for pretend heroism, only the reward that comes from slow, painful growth.
So here we go, a landscape I have forgotten, a life I do not have, a place waiting for us, a story waiting to be written. And I can hear the song in my head, I can feel the wanting for something more, searching for the song I’ve not heard before. The wide expanse of wild Australian earth stretches out its red-carpet welcome to Melbourne, and underneath are the everlasting arms carrying me home.
And it’s a new soundtrack. I could dance to this beat. Forevermore.