I’ve talked about my aversion to turbulence, both in air and life. The feeling is one we all know, our emotions crunch inside of us and the unsteady terrain delivers a continuous stream of uncertainty. There is very little comfort in those kind of moments. You have to sit in it, your mind tricks you into believing that you are locked into this irregular flow of varying emotions: fear, anxiety, and ambiguity.
The last few months I’ve certainly struggled with this overwhelming sense of chaos. I’ve asked myself questions that echo in my daily life: What is my purpose? What is this life trying to teach me? How can I be more present to appreciate what persists in my everyday? What ordinary graces am I ignoring? Pondering these questions rocks my core. Because, of course, those inquisitions are so clear and confusing at the same time.
It is so, so easy to get mired in these wonderings, mulling over what is and isn’t. I know that there, quite realistically, may never be a definitive answer to my questions.
But sometimes what the universe is whispering to you becomes more evident.
As I sat on the plane with my daughter, I hear the grinding, its voice clearing its throat. We are mid-flight, the air is smooth and then suddenly it happens. The up and down rocky feeling of turbulence. I see a few heads moving up and down, life-size bobble-heads shaking, and almost instantly, my hands sweat and I am convinced all the other passengers hear my heart beating.
My daughter leans into me and swings her head in my direction, grips my hand, and says, “Momma, I will hold your hand as tight as I can. Don’t be scared.”
I try to control the tears brimming in my eyes. This little girl helps me understand. There is turbulence everyday, in some form or another. But there is also, in all our lives, loved ones who are right there with us. Willing to hold our hands.