In Flight

Today I watched a hawk in flight. To the backdrop of a grey, overcast day, he hovered above the brown stubble of a barren field, searching for breakfast. The wind he road whistled in my ears, blew my hair back and prompted me to pull my jacket a little tighter to my body for warmth. He held his position despite the strength of the breeze moving all around him. He appeared motionless in the sky, as if a painted figure on a piece of landscape art rather than a living being navigating the forces of nature. I could see the wind move under his wings. Yet he hovered, using the current to hold his position, waiting for opportunity. Patient. Lifted. Beautiful.

I drew strength from that fierce feathered creature today. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been flailing all about, navigating this new “temporary” existence living in someone else’s home, figuring out how to be a new mother of two very small needy children, running in a million different directions as I navigate the emotional landscape of my soul. I hope to become more like the hawk… stretching out my wings, feeling the wind under me and not trying to direct it, not trying to change it, but instead allowing it to hold me up, utilizing the vantage point it allows, looking for new opportunity poking its head out from the stubble.

Our homecoming landed us in the Midwest frozen in winter. During those first weeks, my daily runs were bitterly cold. Icy air would cut through my chest, freezing my breath, burning my lungs, giving a visceral sensation to my grief. Slowly though, spring is thawing the ground, melting the drifts, whispering green into the landscape. Like bits of green, happiness and perspective also sneak their way into my outlook as I dare to enjoy this rare opportunity we've been afforded.

I still manage hitting a gravel road with my sneakers a few times a week, glad for a softening to the air March brings. My breath no longer cuts. Most days have been overcast, but the great grey above stands as a blank canvas for my observations, my thoughts. I joke with my friends that I’m running longer and harder than I’m in true shape for thanks to my inner “crazy” fueling extra miles. I run until my thoughts go quiet, and sometimes that takes a lot of distance, a lot of sweat, a lot of breathlessness. I’ve written huge journal entries in my mind during those runs, words that never hit keyboard or paper. THIS I realize is processing. And maybe those words never need to be read. Some thoughts are better undisclosed, offered only to the open sky. They simply need to be thought, to be spoken aloud even if there is nothing other than field mouse to hear.

More than anything else, running has been therapeutic as I let the animal of my body feel. The quiet of the Kansas country side acts like a sponge to my racing thoughts and anger that seemed to nearly eat me alive in the moths following our relocation. With emotion seeping out my pores in salty sweat, I can finally find space for grief, for hope, for healing and ENERGY for the future.


On one of my runs, I moved beneath a great swirling, hovering cloud of migrating geese, their cries filling the grey air, their chorus of wings beating the wind, their ribbon-like formations giving texture to the sky. I stood in awe as the hundreds of birds touched down in a nearby field, then just as quickly lifting off en mass, readjusting, circling, joining the hundreds more above. Watching one flock rising into another, one group changing course in a sea of swirling feathered bodies, one flight plan merging into another, I half expected to see mid-air collisions, wings battling each other in the crowded sky above. Yet not a feather was harmed. An orchestra of wings emerged, all moving in a unique direction, following a leader but aware of others around. Graceful chaos. Such moments I feel privileged to be alive, to be present as witness to such incredible beauty.


I’m grateful for so many things. For our lives, for being together, for a safe place to lay our heads. I’m grateful that Patrick and I have gone through this all together, that there is one person in my world that no explanation is needed. I’m grateful for the patience and understanding shown by our remarkable family and friends. I’m grateful for two incredible children, our “twins” and the time we have to spend, to bond, to love, to make each other strong again. I'm grateful for wide-open spaces, big sky and life that teaches me lessons, revealing beauty in brown landscapes, demonstrating how to move with the forces of life and let them offer perspective. Truth is, the tragedy of the earthquake gave rise to huge blessings for our family… a daughter, open-ended time together, a chance to introduce our kids to their American family and friends. It has been hard accepting such incredible silver lining on the back of such loss. Yet life is like that.

Like the hawk or the geese in the sky, we ride the wind. We wait. We learn to look out at our surroundings and the gifts they have to offer. We are pulled with the current. Often it is our habit to fight the wind, struggling against it, trying to inflict our own flight plan on forces bigger than ourselves. Our hearts are pulled in different directions. We are anxious to join the efforts of our partners in Haiti, to continue the work on the ground that feels more necessary, more purposeful than ever. We are anxious to reconnect with friends there. That is where we hope the wind takes us. But for the time being we hover, we watch, we ride the breeze and learn to appreciate the orchestrated beauty of the chaos around us, gleaning strength from our surroundings, equipping ourselves for the journey with a rest in the field.