My husband and I were recently talking about a trip we made to Scotland, so I grabbed my travel journal and looked for details.
The first thing I found was my notes during the flight from Chicago to Glasgow. “I see the lights of a city far below,” I wrote, “and it seems as if we’re moving terribly slowly, almost floating. But all the while we’re hurtling through space at immense speed. And I think how life is like that, too.”
The proof of this observation is the date in my journal: June of 1992. We made that trip over thirty years ago but it seems like last week. While we were hiking on the West Highland Way, trudging up and down the rugged paths, we were also hurtling forward at immense speed.
As a young girl, I couldn’t have grasped this. I was always looking forward to the next big day—like a birthday or a trip—while the days in between went on forever.
Well, forever is gone now. I can’t look as far ahead as I used to but I have lots to remember—such as events in this journal. “I’m watching the pulsing light at the end of the wing,” I wrote, “which is strangely reassuring, and I listen for the pilot, announcing our descent.”
This all happened thirty years ago and again today.
