Desperation Meditation

An Airbus 340-600 on final approach

An Airbus 340-600 on final approach

Sister Alma Rose has received numerous requests to print “the Meditation of Not Being in a Plummeting Aircraft,” to which she refers, now and again, when y’all write to her with “problems” that are, in fact, no such thing, at least not when compared with one’s Impending Fiery Demise.

Sister Alma Rose has no fear of flying. In a speeding passenger jet, she feels as safe as a baby in a cradle — as long as the jet is not speeding in a vertical downward direction, something that Sister Alma Rose has not experienced, and she does not anticipate ever doing so.
Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner (copyright Warner Brothers)

Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner (copyright Warner Brothers)


The Meditation of Not Being in a Plummeting Aircraft…

…originated with the following bit of verse, by Anon E. Mouse.

crisis-144x1351I am ashen-faced, my pulse is racing
like a rabbit, as the sleek airliner
in which I’m a passenger is streaking
through the bright, blue sky. The flight attendants
serve my choice of beverage, obscenely
alcoholic; all the other passengers,
insouciant, are chatting, reading, dozing;
yet I know I am about to die. I
know, moreover, planes can’t really fly — the
one I’m in will any moment realize the
speciousness of all aerodynamic
principles, and plummet, just like
E. Coyote
, to the seething desert
floor. So I implore the God Whom, up to
now, I mostly have ignored, and ask to
be delivered safely to my desti-
nation; and I vow to never take for
granted anything henceforth. I promise
I will always be contented once this
mortal peril I am in no longer

I think of my small discontents, the day-to-
day annoyances disturbing my
serenity, and see them as not merely
trivial but absolutely radiant, the
jigsaw-puzzle pieces of my life, which,
now that I’m about to lose it, gleams with
incandescent loveliness. How fine a
thing it was to take a breath and know that
I could take another and another,
practically forever.
Apparently you have to be about to
die to see your life as burnished, jeweled,
precious; to be grateful thoroughly for
all things great and small — for people, family and
friends, but also chicken-noodle soup, and
watermelon; bookends, blankets, tennis
shoes, a vintage flick; the symphony, to
which you never go, but will — oh, yes, at
least four times a year if you survive; and
every single dance recital, soccer
game, and Christmas program featuring
your grandchildren you shall attend.

watermelon_steve_evans2Then the engine noises change; the plane
descends; you send your promises to God on
angel wings, express delivery; you
shiver. Are we meant to fall so fast? Is
this the End? Or will you live to see
tomorrow? Fear gives way to sorrow, that you
didn’t say “I love you” oftener. How
softened are the grievances that made you
bitter and unkind. God willing, you shall
overlook the little things and leave your
pettiness behind, white contrails in an
azure sky, forevermore.

For surely leeds_bradford_international_airport_david-benbennick1God is gracious; you arrive, and
do so — can it be? Yes — quite on time!

I write this
to remind myself to practice grati-
tude, and grant the world more latitude to
fall amiss of my exacting expec-
tations. There are only to be cele-
brations, for entitlement is left in
outer space. God’s grace is mani-
fest. And with a few forgivable o-
missions, once I knelt and kissed the
tarmac, I have (so far) honored all I
pledged at twenty thousand feet, and dwelt up-
on my blessings, praising God un-
ceasingly since he delivered me, with
generosity divinely tendered,
not as toast, nor as a smoking cinder,

The Earth at night, a composite of DMSP-OLS ground illumination data on simulated nighttime image of the world (NASA)
The Earth at night, a composite of DMSP-OLS ground illumination data on simulated nighttime image of the world (NASA)

Sweet, ripe watermelon at roadside stand in India, photo by Steve Evans
Leeds-Bradford International Airport, photo by David Benbennick

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