I'm sitting dutifully in my seat--seat belt fastened, seat back upright, tray table stowed--waiting for the small commuter plane to push back from the gate. I've been awake since 3:30 this morning, and I'm fighting sleep. I always make an effort, for courtesy's sake, to keep my eyes open as the flight attendant races without pause or inflection through her script. Just a few more minutes and I can close my eyes. Every time I hear the familiar monologue, the same questions come to mind.
One, is there anyone in this country who, after over a century of use, still isn't clear on how to buckle a seat belt? Except, of course, for children whose experience of public transportation is limited to being tossed about the bench seats of a school bus.
Two, "in the event of a water landing," has anyone ever actually survived by clutching their seat bottom--which "doubles as a flotation device"--to their chest? And doesn't it require that everyone unbuckle their seat belt, stand up, and extract their cushion while the plane hurtles toward the water? Then, with seat cushion embraced, where do they sit?
And, three, isn't it a tad disingenuous to ask passengers to take the time and energy to occasionally listen to a recording of the script since, presumably, the attendants are unable to take the time and energy to recite it live? I'm reminded, too, of a Sunday evening many years ago when my spiritual mentor, Lynwood Smith, was trying to get home through Jackson, Mississippi from Mobile, Alabama. He boarded the Delta Boeing 727, and took his seat. After some time, the attendants shut and secured the massive cabin doors. Puzzled, he looked about the plane; he was the only passenger.
Now, Lynwood's disposition, I should interject here, was one-part Jesus and one-part Mr. Wilson, curmudgeonly neighbor of Dennis the Menace. Lynwood summoned the attendants and questioned, "You don't mean to tell me that you're flying this bird to Jackson with only me on it, do you?" "Well, actually," one of the attendants replied, "We'd have to bring this plane to Jackson tonight, even if you weren't accompanying us."
Then, she added, with a wry smile, "You don't need us to give you the full safety demonstration tonight, do you?" With the ripple of a grin spreading across his enormous flat lips, Lynwood declared, "Oh, yes you will. I've had to sit through that mess all my life when I didn't want to hear it. Now, you'll give me the whole thing!" So, with a swing of his arms, Lynwood directed them to their stations, sat back, crossed his arms, and with a smug smile, listened with satisfaction. I concede, however, that it's human nature to suppress the familiar, if annoying, cautionary tales of counsel that Wisdom--or, even a flight attendant--persistently repeats. It may be the voice of family or friend; it may be one of those pesky internal voices. It may speak to a distasteful task resisted, a moral principle at risk, a treasured love neglected.
Or, it maybe as simple as, "Are you sure you turned off the stove?"
Sometimes the voice is well-meaning but, well, meaningless. Other times, we acknowledge within, begrudgingly, it speaks the truth. And yet we resist.
Come on, buckle up. What's your internal attendant speaking to you? What's keeping you from listening? What measures do you take to turn a deaf ear?
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