To Mother and Child on the Flight From Worcester
On returning from my first silent retreat on January 20, 2025
To mother and child on the flight from Worcester,
I wanted to get your attention
when you passed my seat.
To say:
Weren’t you on the flight up on Friday?
I remember your son —
his youthful enthusiasm.
It brought a smile to my face then,
and it does now.
Prior to this retreat I’m returning from,
before the overtones of racism
on Inauguration Day,
on MLK Day,
maybe I wouldn’t have noticed.
But I noticed.
And came back to this again
As you sat behind me.
“Mom, did you know if you push this button
the flight attendant will get you something to drink?”
And when we stood to leave.
“Wait your turn. We’ll be out soon enough.”
And as we kept passing each other
On the long walk out of the terminal.
Him,
but mostly you,
carrying a box almost as tall as he is —
a musical instrument
and late Christmas gift?
I wondered:
Could I say something
without making it weird?
Maybe even vaguely threatening?
I wanted to say:
Your son brightened my day.
His energy, his smile,
mostly his child’s way
of narrating life.
All presence,
mostly joy and wonder.
It’s wonderful.
I just thought you should know.
What I probably couldn’t say in passing,
what I really wanted to say:
I know you may not feel it right now,
two hours delayed in the snow,
child running to and fro —
down the terminal,
up the escalators,
almost bolting off the moving sidewalk,
well ahead of you,
and into the crowds of LaGuardia.
I see your exhaustion.
But I also see your patience.
And I see a child secure in your love.
So I want to say thank you.
Thank you just for being a mother and child
on their way back from Worcester.
—
But I kept waiting for a better time,
a less awkward time,
where my intrusion wouldn’t bring worry
or skepticism.
But we can never know
how anything will be received.
And now I’ll never know.
You exited toward baggage claim,
into the city that never sleeps —
with a child that I imagine you’re wondering
if he ever will.
I’ll never know if a kind word
would have been just the thing.
The thing to lighten a mom’s step.
The thing to bring a little reassurance.
Reassurance on MLK Day.
Reassurance on Inauguration Day.
I’m wondering if you heard the gentlemen
in the Worcester airport,
walking through the tiny terminal,
speaking loudly into his cell phone —
his cell phone on speaker phone.
I wonder if you heard him say
how much he didn’t like that uppity woman
who couldn’t be bothered to attend the inauguration.
I hope you didn’t hear that exchange —
not on MLK Day,
not on any day.
And I wonder if a kind word
would have offered some solace.
But I’ll never know.
I was struggling
with that man’s words,
with his very demeanor.
Or my interpretations of both.
Until then,
I was aglow.
Alive.
Awake.
During retreat
I broke noble silence to look up
the words of Thomas Merton
that Tara Brach loves to quote.
“Then it was as if I suddenly saw
the secret beauty of their hearts…
If only they could all see themselves
as they really are.
If only we could see each other
that way all the time.”
These words kept coming to mind
as I lost myself and found a world.
“There would be no more war, no more hatred,
no more cruelty, no more greed…
I suppose the big problem would be that
we would fall down
and worship each other.”
And now
before I’d even flown out from
the MLK “Strength to Love”
silent meditation retreat,
I’m struggling to stay present.
How I miss the inner silence right now.
That uppity Black woman.
But that’s not what he actually said.
What was I bringing to this overheard airport conversation?
Assumptions.
And sides.
I wasn’t confronting racism.
I was stewing.
“Only love
can drive out hate.”
Am I up to it?
Come back.
Come back to what is.
I’m in an airport,
overhearing a conversation,
caught in my head.
Come back.
Come back to feet on the floor.
To this breath. And this one.
Come back to presence.
And then we got on the plane,
and you walked down that aisle.
All presence —
at least your son.
And it brought me back.
Back to a simple smile.
Back to simple presence,
and the joy it can sometimes bring.
And that’s enough.
So, thank you.
Now, I’m back in the LaGuardia Sky Lounge,
writing you this letter I’ll never get to deliver.
But still feeling the importance of noticing.
I know you might not feel any of this right now.
I know what it’s like
to just want to get from point A to point B
and wish your child would cut down
on the narrating and the joyful exuberance
and just focus on getting where we’re going.
But I also know what it’s like
to look back on those times wistfully,
And hope your tween can somehow find a way
to touch back into that presence —
that I can.
Sometimes.
Just sometimes.
That would be enough.
And I know that neither you nor he is an object lesson for me,
and I won’t pretend to see the secret beauty of your hearts.
I know you’re full human beings,
just going about your lives.
But that,
just that,
is amazing and wonderful.
So, thank you.
I wrote the original version of this while returning from my first ever silent retreat. I came home feeling unusually open. Porous, almost. Beauty felt sharper. So did ugliness.
What surprised me most was how quickly mindfulness became less about silence and meditation halls and more about airports, overheard conversations, projection, judgment, tenderness, and trying to come back to presence in the middle of ordinary life.
If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you. A comment, a share, or even just a like goes a long way. Writing into the void is its own practice, but knowing the work lands makes it easier to keep showing up.