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Why do moments of intense happiness and introspection occur so readily at 36,000 feet?
Transit at great heights and across great distances always blows out the cobwebs in my head. But until recently, I'd never wondered how this happens, or whether it's a common experience.
Recently, airborne after a tropical holiday, I immersed myself in the newest issue of the Atlantic magazine. As a middle-school teacher headed back to the fray, I gravitated to Awesomeness Is Everything by Matthew Hutson, imagining a discourse on teen slang. Instead, the subject was the vastness that moves us spiritually; the observations were as sharp and clearly outlined as the Earth's contours below me. I realized I was living – aloft – the very principles referred to in the article.
It was impossible to turn away from the awe inherent in flight. Even through the tiny eye patch of a window, the immensity of the Earth was everywhere. A skin of snow fitted the curves and clefts just so. Further west, a coverlet of cloud was pulled up to the bony neck of the Rockies.
Which is the greater majesty: the timeless ripples of rock miles below or the human ingenuity that allows us to escape above them?
I felt the liberty and privilege of soaring above the Earth even as I was constantly aware of forces that worked against the likelihood of being suspended by a pair of metal wings.
Although I used to clench my hands and imagine catastrophe while flying, I have learned to abandon myself, allowing useless fear to slip away. Hours before my return flight, I had floated atop the rolling swells of a turquoise Caribbean. Bliss came. Not always a relaxed ocean swimmer, I had found easy comfort in Grenadian waters over several visits. This time, I welcomed a new challenge. Arms wide, I wanted to find a weightless balance, trusting my body's ability to arch here and flatten there until a magic state was reached. Time drifted. The sea rocked me tenderly in its salty embrace. It struck me that I was in the holy pose of a believer, in supplication and openness to receive.
That same kind of reverence forms part of the experience of flying. We offer ourselves to the limitless universe beyond, partly in fear, partly in wonder.
It wasn't surprising that the article pointed to astronauts as having an expanded "belief in an interconnected humanity." When we hurtle through space, we might wish to cling a little more tightly to fellow humans. This sense of unity borne of awe transforms us: Hutson reports that "a greater sense of oneness with others … can make us nicer." When we are humbled by vastness, we naturally open up.
A vast geometry of separate, frosted Prairie fields sat primly miles below, edges touching but not overlapping; we passengers were also connected, sometimes grazing elbows or bumping shoulders and knees, yet still distinct. We were bound together by machine and destination, shepherded by a pilot and co-pilot in whom we placed our faith while simultaneously suspending disbelief. At such a time, it is easy to affirm the innate goodness of fellow humans; most everyone is on best behaviour, and kindness – holding a stranger's crying baby, inquiring into your seatmate's life, restraining critical remarks – seems to keep us safe. On this flight, even announcements about grim weather and missed connections were greeted with public good humour.
Paradoxically, at -56 C, the frozen stratosphere is the perfect place to reach clarity about life on terra firma. We can see so much from afar, yet look so closely within. As I scanned the terrain below, I tried to make sense of the geography of my life in the past year.
In a sudden shock of synchronicity, a cartoon skunk on a screen one row ahead appeared to chatter the lyrics from my headphones along with the artist, Sade: "Now as I begin/To wash you off my skin…"
I shivered and pondered whether hallucination was possible after only four hours of sleep. Was the cosmos telling me that my marital separation had reached its zenith? Was it time to move on? Hold fast? Hutson reports one study in which "awe was the second-most-common cause" of goosebumps. My awe was rooted less in the jolt from the lyrics than in the heavenly peace of the infinite sky outside. A joyful realization stilled me and the passage of time: I could do as I wished. The planes of my life would be revealed and shaped by my needs, not by celestial forces or fate.
As the sun stretched out over the Pacific, we could not hope to catch it. Descending toward Vancouver and earthly concerns, I began to lose some feeling of transcendence, of peering beyond to wonder more about the mysteries of life – what lies past sight and understanding. The awe that had suffused me thousands of feet up and stopped the clock was now draining away. Confirming my experience during the journey, Hutson writes "that awe made time feel more plentiful, which increased life satisfaction." The glory of the Earth seen from far above gave me a natural high.
The marvel of flight is just as much about our perspective and goodwill as it is about the technical miracle of aviation. Seems about right for the marvel of life, too.
Maribeth Adams lives in Kamloops, B.C.