When I flew to Australia last month it took me about 26 hours to get there, the longest leg being a 16-hour flight from Dallas to Sydney. That’s a lot of hours on a plane. I spent most of them reading or sleeping. I also walked – well, paced – the plane as much as possible. As we were approaching Sydney the morning colors started to lighten the sky around the plane. I took this picture:

Morning colors, flying into Sydney

While in the air traveling to Australia I wrote this poem:

The Magic of Flying

I used to hold my breath

when the plane took off – 

as if my air-filled lungs

added to the buoyancy of the plane,

as if I was as responsible for flight

as the engines. 

Now I barely even notice

when the wheels leave the ground,

I’ve grown accustomed to the magic 

of flying.

This flight is 16-hours long – 

a lifetime in the air. 

My legs ache to stretch

and my back and neck just ache.

The miracle of flying has become something

to complain about – luggage lost,

flights delayed, flights canceled.

We’ve forgotten the magic

of communing with the birds,

of gliding through a star-filled sky.

Twelve days later I would fly home, this time the long flight was from Brisbane to Los Angeles. Once again I read and slept and walked during the flight. As we began our descent I snapped this picture, in the early hours of the morning:

Morning lights, descending into Los Angeles

If you don’t already, be sure to follow me on Instagram – I post lots of pics there!