Disoriented

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I fell into a complete slumber the minute I boarded the Air France plane for India. My request for a vegetarian meal prompted an immediate delivery right in the middle of my snooze. I fumble with my tray table, trying to pull it down, but can't figure it out. A kindly Indian nun reaches over to help me. I feel ridiculous, but tell myself I'm just tired. I manage a few forkfuls, before the highly efficient French attendants whisk away my tray. I flip through a magazine, try to read a little of the new David Sedaris and develop a full-blown sciatia cramp.

I'm hitting the wall. I try to listen to music or some podcasts, but the earphones don't seem to fit the new I-Pad, or I can't make them work. I have no idea what time it is, anywhere. The watch I bought to take on the trip failed before the plane ever took off. I think we land around 12:30 a.m., Bangalore time. I could have 3 more hours to go or 6. The sun went down on the plane hours ago. Lunch arrived immediately, but dinner has never appeared. I close my eyes and imagine the short trip from the plane to Father Nelson's car will stretch into infinity. Well, infinity plus another hour by car to the Passionist Retreat House. The pilgrimmage is in full swing. I'm left to write and eat chocolate covered almonds colored to look like olives. How's that for disorienting? I try not to think about the searing pain in my hip. Disoriented and uncomfortable, that's what I am. The perfect state for arriving in India?

And then, before I realize it, I'm drifting off again. When I wake, the cramp is gone and the attendants are preparing the plane for landing. The discomfort has disappeared. Even the disorientation. My mind feels clear. Everything is impermanent, just as the Buddha says. Nothing lasts, not even the pain and confusion from spending 19 hours in the air on a plane.

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