I’ve been doing a lot of traveling lately, spending hours anywhere between 9000 and 35,000 feet above the Earth. While most of the passengers connect to their electronic devices and stare at the screen in the seatback, I look out the window and dream.
I can go anywhere I want – where this plane is headed, or somewhere else. Sometimes I dream I’m headed across the Atlantic or the Pacific. I can stay as long as I want, and money (or lack of) is a non-issue. All of the arrangements have been made – I step off the plane and the good times begin.
The hopeless romantic in me dreams about meeting a tall, dark stranger and falling in love. We’ll spend long, sleepless nights making love and unscheduled days exploring the sights around us while we talk about everything and nothing. What happens when I have to leave? Will we ever see each other again? I don’t know. The dreamer in me doesn’t want to deal with separation or sorrow, so it fades before heartache has a chance to set in.
I’m pretty sure my imagination loves air travel. I’ve gotten some really good ideas for my current book while zipping along at hundreds of miles an hour. Challenging spots are smoothed out, solutions are found, and new ideas float onto the page of my notebook. Perhaps the altitude has a way of uncluttering the creative mind. I’m going to be sure to book a window seat next time.