“But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” Luke 2:19

I am writing this from seat 18C on WestJet’s Flight 702. My For Your Safety seat card tells me this is a Boeing 737-800 LR. I am enroute to Toronto and I will publish this when I arrive at my hotel. But right now, the white noise of hurtling through space is thick, like cotton batting made audible, like being in the centre of a swirling snowstorm without the cold or flakes. I can barely hear the click of my MacBook Air’s keyboard as I type these sentences.

My coffee is hot and the cream is real, and, in spite of the styrofoam container, it is delicious – as only an early flight’s coffee can be.

Although the flight is almost full, I feel alone for the first time in longer than I can remember. This is, of course, ridiculous. My typical day is often spent alone; I love my time for walking, writing, in my studio, in our apartment, buying groceries, making dinner, puttering at chores.

Yet right here, right now, feels profoundly different. I am sinking into this feeling like a hammock strung between two maples in an expansive meadow. The relief is measurable and large. It is as real as if I had sequestered myself into a hermit’s cabin in the wilderness.

I wasn’t look for, or expecting this.

Is it because I am finally out of constant contact? The phone is off. Up here in the heavens, there is no email. No Facebook. No Instagram. No Twitter. No random bumping into friends…no one to give me the knowing look, the long hug.

Please know…I love the people in my life. I love being the extrovert, the laughing one, the one connecting the dots and brokering the friendships. I love the friends that are simply present when I cry.  I love hanging with my husband, meeting friends for heartfelt talks over coffee and talking on the phone.

But now as I write this, I see why this feels different. It turns out, that in spite of all the solitary time built into my daily routine…I am always available.

With this flight, I have effectively been ejected up and out of my life. I can hear nor share anguish. I will hear no confessions, no sorrows. I don’t have to actively listen or empathetically reflect. I don’t have to share what’s happening. I am not anyone’s friend, aunt, wife, guardian, sister or neighbour. I am officially decommissioned. Out of service. Unavailable.

Oh dear God, until I stumbled into this plane, I had no idea how necessary this was.

In a few hours I will land in Toronto and then drive another couple of hours to Peterborough for the Travel Media Association of Canada’s annual conference. I will meet many friends and colleagues and make new ones. There will be cocktails, connections, laughter and learning.

But most importantly, each night I will slide my key into the door of my hotel room and shut it behind me with a muffled clunk. And for one more night I will be alone. For a few nights, I will be the hermit that my childhood self always said she would be when she grew up.

That little girl, who, even when challenged by the adults, was steadfast in her goal of being a recluse.

It took sinking into seat 18C and hurtling through the heavens to remind me.

I need to listen to that kid more often.