The Eruption

Yesterday morning before the plane took off from Wellington to Christchurch, we came to a stop. The pilot let us know that a firearm may have slipped onto the plane—a very odd thing to announce.

So now what?

A strange limbo began. One thing led to the next. Security came. A man and his carry-on bag were removed from the plane and, shortly after, the pilot let us know they indeed found a loaded gun in the bag.

How was this missed in security?

Why was a loaded gun in his carry-on bag?

I don't know what happened here and, honestly, I don't care that much.

I am curious about the details just to close the loop of curiosity.

Some people on the plane were scared, some enlivened, some asleep, some numb, and whatever else moved through this contained airplane-body of living cells in the multitude of questions, answers, perspectives, reactions, etc.

The most unsettling (and also comical part), for me, was the paradox of being in something so unpredictable and chaotic and—at the same time—in a such a kaleidoscopic wardrobe of different costumes, identities, niceties and separative politics between passenger vs. flight attendants, euphemistic customer service sayings to make everyone feel safe and, generally, just a microcosm of the bizarre culture we are so embdedded in.

Instead of being thanked for our patience and being told “Sorry for this delay,” I would rather feel the truth of the eruption.

I want the cells within my heart and the cosmic memory of my soul to commune in the silent language of how each individual’s body comes alive to certain places on Earth that touch us in unfathomable ways.

I want to mix DNA and expresion and sound and song and feel the teeming Life erupting from the places in between our little neck cushions and noise-cancelling headphones and perfectly placed belongings in the backpacks under the seats.

I want to be on an airplane or waiting in line at the post office or going to buy a lightbulb, and I want the erupting volcanos of the White Island and the crashing waves of Ireland and the buffalo across the Great Plains to enter us and trample through our veils and make sure that we do everything in our power to break free from any roles or skins or performances of who we think we need to be.

I am here for that eruption.

I am tired of pretending like I am not that eruption.

I am tired of pretending like you are not that eruption.

I do not wish to meet any more in our contortion.

I choose to meet in the stampede of what we’ve been hearing for a long, long time.

Not what has been or what is coming.

But what is here.

Who we truly are.

Now.