This essay originally appeared on Susan Dugan’s blog on November 28, 2017.
As the Southwest 737 climbed through the dull clouds and ragged hills of San Diego the Captain explained Air Traffic Control had advised him that the skies throughout our flight path in California today were “out of sorts,” much like the reluctant flyer I still think I am. Our ascent would prove bumpier than usual; and while he would try to find smoother air, he couldn’t make any promises.
Of course, he couldn’t, I silently muttered, gazing out the window with as much neutrality as my resistant-to-love decision-making mind (apparently floating around somewhere far, far over a reputed rainbow and the confines of time and space) could muster. On what I imagined might sadly prove to be my last flight to this city I’d been frequenting for some years, at least long enough to nab a rental car and drive an hour northeast to The Foundation for A Course in Miracles (www.facim.org) to attend classes. The good news? The tailwinds in our favor would deposit us in Denver in well under the allotted two hours, the pilot prophesized. You know; one way or another.
Outside the window my imaginary inner professor was literally waiting in the wings with his gravity-defying ways and “gotcha” smile, steady hand extended, mumbling something about gratitude for our classrooms, no doubt, but I was in no mood for levity toward my clearly precarious predicament. After all, it had been yet another week in the dream chock full of breaking news stories involving topics such as mass shootings, men in powerful positions from all seeming walks of life abusing their authority by harassing and in some cases assaulting women and children in various subordinate positions over many decades, along with continuing allegations of probable White House ties to Russian interference in U.S. elections.
Hell, I had gleaned all of this without even watching televised news during my three-day stay in Temecula to attend the Foundation’s November seminar merely by checking the headline feed on my not-as-smart-as-it-likes-to-think-it-is phone. Preferring to bury my sorrows in endless streamed reruns of the Gilmore Girls back in my hotel room punctuated by long, restless walks rather than focusing on applying what I was learning to my reactions to breaking news in classrooms far and near, macro and micro, public and, well–way personal.
Now I robotically answered yes as the flight attendant asked those of us in the exit rows if we understood and were capable of assuming our duties should the flight run amuck in the worst possible way before settling into my ergonomically diabolical, forward-leaning seat. Feeling once more cast adrift in a strange dark land by the ego’s unrelenting story presented in countless guises of unforeseen circumstances beyond my control. Attempting to channel my fearful-flyer anxiety into my novel, as oblivious as possible to the ongoing pain in my neck and shoulders and the young, male flight attendant periodically perfecting his standup routine on the loud speaker to weak enthusiasm from fellow harried passengers no doubt with another kind of turbulence on their minds: preparing (as I soon would be) for the impending Thanksgiving holiday next week.
Despite my book’s compelling narrative, its author’s evident literary skill, it failed to capture my attention long enough to stave off the sense of grief I’d unexpectedly encountered during my visit that had not yet abated. Arising again and again as I found myself unexpectedly confronting the bodily death of our beloved teacher Ken Wapnick nearly four years ago, anew. A palpable sense of his presence beside me as I marched the sidewalks of the commercial strips surrounding my hotel triggering the simultaneously magical, wishful, and terrifying thought that if I spun my head around quickly enough in his apparent direction, I might actually glimpse his image again.
Although the captain announced that we had reached our cruising altitude, he didn’t bother to explain his failure to turn off the seatbelt sign as the rocky ride continued. The flight attendants made a valiant effort to provide beverages for 20 minutes or so before the captain ordered them to conclude and return to their seats for the duration of the flight. Twenty minutes later he warned Air Traffic Control had advised that our long descent into Denver would prove much bumpier than usual.
Needless to say I found myself about out of patience with the entire dream at this point, let alone the inner professor of sanity I’d noticed earlier dancing on the wings outside the cabin window, who had clearly vanished. “I’m doing the best I can,” I mentally whined at him, nonetheless. “But as I may have mentioned earlier, I’m just not getting anywhere with this Course. I still clearly think I’m a body, OK, a body with a Thanksgiving dinner for twelve to produce in just a few days. I know we’re not supposed to ask you for help in imaginary form but you helped Helen [Course Scribe Helen Schucman] with shopping, for Christ sake. Is it really too much to ask to experience a smooth, safe descent and landing? I’m too tired for this curriculum right now.”
As if in darkly humorous response, the enormous plane jolted vertically, horizontally, every which way. I rolled my eyes at Jesus, as if he could see me. “Please!” I silently pleaded. “I’m not there yet, OK? Help!” I glanced at the woman beside me, prompted by an incoming memory of Ken Wapnick’s advice to “make it about them,” meaning notice how you’re always putting yourself first, obsessed with your own desires and needs, largely unconscious of others. Suddenly aware I’d been oblivious to the feelings of my fellow passengers, which likely mirrored my own fear at least to some degree, to the welfare of everyone navigating these literally, figuratively, constantly treacherous skies. Everyone traveling this so-called world feeling lost and alone, buffeted by dangerous forces beyond their control.
The plane lurched, delivering a sudden drop in altitude worthy of the finest of roller coasters. I turned toward that woman seated to my right whom I’d barely noticed earlier, engaged as she seemed to have been in a movie on her tablet. “Yikes!” I said, smiling, impersonating a much braver dream figure as I am often wont to. Of course my hands clenched on the arms of the seat likely spoke otherwise.
“I used to live in England years ago and had to fly all the time, often in small planes,” she said. “I got used to some really bad turbulence. I don’t know what your belief system is but there’s a psalm I found then I’ve relied on ever since.” She went on to quote psalm 91:11: “For He will give His angels charge concerning you, To guard you in all your ways.” Pointing out that it was like dialing 911—ha, ha!
Seriously, I thought? I looked over at the window to see if Jesus was winking at me or something but could make out only the thick fog of the clouds enshrining our path. The plane continued to rock and roll more violently than I’d ever experienced coming into Denver (which is saying quite a lot) while the wannabe comic flight attendant did his best over the speaker to distract us from thoughts of our imminent demise. He probably would never make it on the Comedy Channel, but he would definitely make it back to Heaven, just like every other one of us passengers, saint and sinner alike.
I thanked the woman beside me for her kindness and struggled to converse as the plane pitched and shook. She told me about the grown children she was meeting in Colorado and a cross-country bike trip she’d taken with her husband last summer to raise money for a nonprofit they supported that helped disabled cyclists. Conscious and grateful, even as fear for our physical bodies ebbed and flowed with the plane’s motion, that my prayer had been answered by her calm, attentive presence. Aware that while our belief systems appeared wildly different in form, the root cause of all fear: the belief in separation, and its solution: the recognition of our shared need to find out way home to our safe, eternally loving, innocent identity within our Creator by making it about each other, remain identical. Realizing, as the wheels of our aircraft touched down and fellow passengers uttered an audible, collective sigh of relief that Jesus never fails to answer all sincere students, one way or another.
“We trust our ways to Him and say “Amen.” In peace we will continue in His way, and trust all things to Him. In confidence we wait His answers, as we ask His Will in everything we do. He loves God’s Son as we would love him. And He teaches us how to behold him through His eyes, and love him as He does. You do not walk alone. God’s angels hover near and all about. His Love surrounds you, and of this be sure; that I will never leave you comfortless.” (ACIM, W-ep.6:1-8)
Susan Dugan’s books – Extraordinary Ordinary Forgiveness, Forgiveness Offers Everything I Want, and Forgiveness: The Key to Happiness – are available at RMMC and on Amazon. She writes about ACIM based on Ken Wapnick’s teachings at ForaysInForgiveness.com and teaches online via Zoom on Tuesday nights.