Somewhere Between

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I woke up late.

I missed my flight

I was racing to get my things in order, frantically throwing items into my luggage in my hotel room.

The feeling of despair consumed me.

As I rolled up my luggage I wondered how long it would be before a new flight home would be available once I got to the airport.

And then I woke up.

I was already on the first leg of my flight home, in a sky floating somewhere between Tampa and Denver.

I had nodded off and had this dream.

I let the relief wash over me before resting my head again sideways, staring out the window.  I watched the clouds roll past for a short while longer before letting myself drift back to that murky place somewhere between sleep and confusion.

I blame the long work days.  I blame the way I over-think. I blame the time zone difference. I blame the 4 lemon drops and 2 3 4 beers I had on Thursday night. I blame the efforts it took to pack all of my belongings while feeling nauseated, and wondering why no matter how many times I checked the drawers I couldn't put to ease that I wasn't forgetting something, or someone, important behind.  I blame feeling disconnected.  

But really, I just blame myself for not being able to separate it all.

And the second stretch of my journey home came faster than the first.  As I nestled into my aisle seat in preparation for a journey somewhere between Denver and Home I regretted not having a less conspicuous seat at the window like I had on leg 1.   I felt the gentleman seated next to me in the coveted chair scanning my demeanor, hoping to make conversation.  I was still exhausted and lost, somewhere between distraction and lucidity.  I didn't want to talk to anyone.  I wore an over-sized sweatshirt with the hood pulled over my face, hiding every bit of the way I looked that mirrored exactly as I felt:  

like a mess.

I could sense his kindness.  

I could tell he was harmless, and nothing about my appearance would indicate he was going to hit on me or be creepy (unless he was into women who don't brush their hair, don't wear make-up or a smile and who wear dirty running shoes with mis-matched socks while swallowed in men's over-sized clothing.)

No.

All he wanted was to talk about his trip, to pass the time, to learn something about a stranger, to show his pleasant demeanor to someone who looked like she could use a pleasant interaction.

But my mind and heart were somewhere between despondent and dejected.

I reached for my iPod and earbuds and got caught somewhere between Miranda Lambert and Paolo Nutini.

He retreated, but would come back from time to time to give me a peripheral glance.

I deflected his glances, but I wondered if he needed the interaction as much as I needed to withdraw.

He finally caught me, though.

As I heard the captain make an announcement I turned down my iPod long enough to hear we were flying over the Grand Canyon.

I looked left, out the partially open window.

And while I didn't look at him,  I felt his warm smile as he lifted the window higher so I could look out.

I gave a half-hearted smile back and whispered "Thank You".

And I meant it.

That was his Grand Gesture.

Somewhere between the Grand Canyon and me thinking of only myself, I was able to give him something he deserved.







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