The other night I was flying into the Buffalo airport. It was a really long day, all my flights were delayed and every airport was full of people who seemed liked stretched rubber bands or mammalian IEDs. When we finally landed it was after midnight. As soon the plane stopped people did the thing that I hate, which is (regardless of row they are in or the fact that there was nowhere to go yet) they pop up and get their wheeled bags out of the overhead bins and start pushing forward.
This is when the stretched rubber band that was also me, snapped.
“Excuse me,” I said to a young man who was now pressing his way into me despite having been seated many rows back and was blocking my access to my own bag. I used my snarkiest voice and said “Do you have a tight connection?” There were definitely no more flights leaving that night. He looked taken aback and then annoyed and then his face hardened into something else.
“My grandmother is dying,” he said. “Any minute.”
Oh god. I was suddenly the villain in a parable. I looked at the young man more closely. He was wearing nylon shorts and hiking boots and holding a small plastic water bottle with the top cut off. Inside was a bit of water and two perfect black-eyed Susans bobbing over the side.
He saw me see the flowers.
“I was camping in Yosemite when I found out she was dying. I drove straight to the airport in what I was wearing with these flowers, she loves flowers.”
There was only one employee at the airport that night who could open the gate and they were unloading another plane first, so we had to wait on the tarmac. Passengers were restless and pissed. It was hot. The young man and me were smushed up against each other.
He told me his grandmother had wanted to die that morning but when she found out he was coming, she decided she to wait. He was hoping she was still alive.
We stood like this for 45 minutes. When they finally opened the door it was after 1am. The last I saw of him was a flash of his backpack as he sprinted down the corridor trying to keep his flowers from spilling out of the makeshift vase.
Today, I’m on another set of flights. I wish I could say that when folks popped up and started pushing forward that I smiled beatifically and let them pass. But I didn’t. The truth is that I was still annoyed AND I thought about the boy and his makeshift vase. I held both things at once and bemoaned the fact that as humans we’re excellent at finding things to be annoyed about in others and that personally, anytime I’m not annoyed by some small thing, it’s only because something much more terrible or tragic is happening in my life that is giving me perspective. Like a tree falling on the house distracting me from a splinter in my foot, I shift focus. Then when the crisis passes, I’m back to my minor irritations. Surely though there must be another way and perhaps it’s the the memory of the young man—whose name I didn’t get but who I will always now imagine as a boy named Sue. I will try— every time I land— to imagine him as my personal saint of travelers and hope he keeps me kind.
These newsletters are free because I live with the eternal and boundless hope that, if you haven’t already, you will buy my book for yourself or for someone else who needs it. (The writer Jeannette Walls said she “freaking loves this book” in case you need a recc that isn’t from the author herself lol.
These prompts are meant to inspire you— not limit or intimidate you. To that end, put your phone in airplane mode if you can and set a timer for 7 minutes. You can always write (or think) for longer if you so choose, but I find 7 minutes to be kind of magical. Second, tell yourself that you are already excellent, perfect even—if only for 7 minutes (you have the rest of your life to criticize yourself). Third, whenever you get stuck, choose a sensation to describe (a taste, sound, sight, smell, noise, etc). Let me know how it goes! If you’d like, you can post your response in the comments section or on Instagram by tagging @laurel_braitman.
Describe a moment your perspective shifted from something you were annoyed about or frustrated by into gratitude, awareness or understanding. This could be a person, place or thing that suddenly changed character for you. Describe this moment as a scene.
Make a packing list for yourself for the journey that’s next few years of your life. Imagine this as a trip you’re setting out on. You can only bring one bag but in it fits everything you’ll need that you don’t have already and it includes intangibles (think physical objects but also skills, capacities, attributes or bits of insight you want to take with you). There is no weight limit ;) Number this list and write until the timer goes off.
There was a moment in which you did not give someone the benefit of the doubt that you should have. Go back in time and rewrite this scene as if you had.
If you’d like, you can post your response(s) in the comments section or on Instagram by tagging @laurel_braitman and I’ll find them and respond!
The best talk I saw at the TED conference this year was death doula Alua Arthur and it is finally out so I can share it with you too! “Why thinking about death helps you live a better life.”
In this week’s Oldster, Chris J. Rice shared a quote from the composer John Cage in his Lecture on Nothing that really stuck with me: “We carry our homes within us, which enables us to fly or to stay—to enjoy each.”
I’ve seen these videos before. But I’m not sure you can ever see watch happy cows enough. Look at that joy!
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This Saturday I will be leading a low-cost virtual writing workshop that’s open to healthcare professionals and their loved ones Writing Medicine. We will spend an hour writing together and this week’s theme is faith and health.
Come say hi in person! You can find out more information and how to attend on my events page.
Argh. Painful and deliciously chastising. What a great storyteller you are, Laurel. Here's mine:
I had recently been told by a “hair loss specialist” that the clock was ticking for my follicles. The sooner I started minoxidil (known by the balding as Rogaine) the better.
Within the week, I’m religious about the daily applications. Beyond that, nothing to do but wait.
Waiting is boring. By that I mean I’m subtly anxious about the results and decide to include my husband in my anxiety by pointing out he would be a perfect candidate for minoxidil: lots of follicles left, though his luscious, curly crown has been thinning, too, and evokes the same sadness I feel when seeing forest clear cutting.
I point out the ease, the affordability of the process. I warn him time is running out for his follicles. I drop hints like, “I miss your thick hair.” When that doesn’t work (because he’s freer and less self-conscious about aging than me) I say flat out I don’t want him going bald.
His expression saddens into one of lost innocence and dawning realities, like I’ve hurt him for the first time in 24 years of marriage. One rotten sentence and my pathetic jerkhood may have broken something in him or between us.
I switch to emergency measures and remind him he once called attention to my inner tube of waist fat and said it was “fine, as long as it didn’t get bigger”.
The marital score-keeping works, nothing’s broken, but I grasp to how easily it might have been. Thank you Universe.
And six months later, I have to say, his hair regrowth looks fabulous.
I’m at the airport right now in between flights. And lives. And homes. This has given me something nourishing to think about while I wait. Thank you