Not my space

[Written Sunday April 29th aboard flight 30 ]

Way too early this morning, my constant state of travel led me to yet another gate. The journey was a long one, laden with uninteresting airport artwork, tired faces, and the faint humming of smooth jazz. An all-nighter had me feeling sedated, and I couldn't wait to sit down. When I finally arrived at A14, I scoped out the crowded scene.

As usual, there was no available seat.

I mean, sure there were seats. But, you know how it is. It's always those single standing seats in between the already-situated people. Those seats that require you go and make yourself all cozy next to a total stranger. Or there are two seats, which isn't any better because you're still going to have to sit buddy-buddy with someone, only this time you have to choose which one. The apex of comfortable flight-waiting is the sighting and subsequent usurping of three seats in between people. Then you're guaranteed a good amount (at least one seat's worth) of space in between you and your neighbors.

I was one such lucky lady this morning. I found that spot, alright. And with the luxury of healthy breathing space at least four feet in all directions, I was sitting pretty.

I had about three good minutes to enjoy my status before the sweet voice of an older man brought my gate-waiting heaven to a screeching halt.

"Excuse me, Miss. May I sit here?"

Despite the inner sense of victory I was experiencing prior to his arrival, I was quick to respond, relatively painlessly, with an "of course!" He took his seat, and, surprisingly, life resumed as normal. I picked up my book and started to read. But, really, I was thinking.

This sweet man needed a seat and had probably chosen me as the least awkward proposition. I looked around at the classic scene of Seattle's organic woman, depressed youngsters, and shy Asians. On second thought, I was definitely this man's least awkward seating proposition.

The more I thought, the more silly I felt for having made calculations that left me feeling high about a mere seat. And more than that, I didn't feel comfortable with the fact that this man felt he had to ask me to sit down. The seat was much more his than it was mine. I didn't want the man feeling like he had infringed on my space.

I thought about the unwritten rule we all seem to live by: that everyone on earth owns a certain amount of space in their immediate vicinity. It suddenly felt ridiculous. "My space" is a site for your personal homepage, not a mindset that makes you feel as though you have rights to the air around you.

I noticed he was sitting a little tight. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and held a newspaper folded in his hands. He was not in my definition of a comfortable flight-waiter.

I had to say something. Being a former seat-and-space monger and now freshly repented, I wanted him to know that it's normal for him to sit there, and that I felt no entitlement to the seat he was now seated in. Most of all, after thinking about it for so long, I wanted to expose the silliness inherent in the seating-choice-fiasco we all seem to succumb to.

"It's funny," I say, "We're all about to sit shoulder to shoulder on the place, but we act like it's the end of the world to sit right next to each other out here."

He chuckled, thought about it, and responded, "That's so true."

After relaxing his shoulders, he opened his paper ((no, it wasn't Men's Health, it was The Seattle Times) and sat back in his seat, totally at ease. Mission accomplished.

I looked around the waiting area. We were the only two people who were sitting right next to each other. I was happy to have been given the chance to let go of the entitlement I felt to the inches around me.

It was now boarding time. Crammed in between people of shared space, I slowly approached my happy home for the next five hours - but of course, the middle seat.

Trauma Aboard Flight 1016

I, too, am a woman. Or so I thought.

He’s just your average college dude.

School team hat. Beaten jeans and sneakers. Blonde hair.

He sits to my right.

He is a boy.

I am a girl.

This girl and this boy are on flight 1016, both excited for their arrival in Miami.

They are sitting way too close for comfort, and this trip’s battle over the armrest takes an easy loss on the side of the girl.

We’re in the air.

The boy spreads out as much as he can, reclines his seat, and shifts his hat to cover his eyes.

Something’s holding me back from relaxing.

No, not something.

A boy is holding me back from relaxing.

I’m not accustomed to sprawling out and resting in such proximity to a college lad.

So this girl is sitting upright.

There is no plan of action when you're stuck in 5 square feet and thousands of feet in the air. She'll just have to deal.

Soon enough, the young mister starts moving.

Ever so nonchalantly, our young man pulls out a magazine from his stuff.

And, no, it's not Newsweek.

They call it "Men's Health Magazine."

Apparently, a tan and barely clothed model in an extremely creative position has something to do with men's health.

I glance over. I have to see the expression on his face.

Is he seriously about to peruse through this magazine with a young lady seated right beside him?

This girls cheeks are probably a little flushed.

So he opens it.

The flashy pages totally grab my glances in this empty, crammed, and temporary space.

And now, every time he turns the page, I naturally look over…almost against my will.

The pictures. The vulgar headlines.

This men's magazine is totally dedicated to the objectification of women.

Women - for men’s viewing pleasure.

I am utterly amazed.

Does this boy not realize?

I, too, am a woman.

I am a feminine being.

I have the same body parts

I may even wear the same lipstick.

And the boy sits beside the girl, turning the pages ever so casually.

This guy is acting as if I am a separate creation. As if I have nothing to take personally.

He is effacing my gender.

The lack of embarrassment is startling.

How could he not be uncomfortable?

I have within me all those things that put women in men’s magazines.

And, who does he think he is – making me aware of this?

Who does he think he is – exposing me to this?

Aisle 21 has never been the scene of so much squirming. I am cringing from within.
This girl wants to cry.

On a flight to Miami, I am forced to face the harsh reality of the nature of secular usage of the female body, the truths of our all-too-often shameless society, and the horrors of a world with no respect for boundaries.

As I sat in 21E, this girl realized that people have become all too comfortable with their own perversions.

There’s no such thing as “behind closed doors” anymore.

And not just that, but our young fellow has lost touch of the world. He doesn’t even realize he’s sitting next to a woman.

When he opened the magazine, I became an object.

That was the only way he could open the magazine without being guilt-ridden, without it feeling wrong.

After all, who opens a men’s magazine with provocative pictures while seated an inch away from a young lady?

This girl feels a little taken advantage of.

She feels a loss of innocence.

And all because of your average college dude.

School team hat. Beaten jeans and sneakers. Blonde hair.

He sits to my right.

He is a boy.

I am an object.

The Rebbe is on the Plane

No Stopping

Here is a splash of my feelings written from thousands of feet in the air:

I am weightless.

The cabin pressure cannot leave its mark.

Questions of my existence are flowing through the clouds as American Airlines flight 1016 makes its way to Miami.

They have no idea the Rebbe is on the plane.

----------

Traveling for the Rebbe's mission is in a category of its own.

Everything joins the mission. The people you sit next to. The sun setting from the window of 21E. The Diet Coke.

The weightless feeling is there mocking my existence.

It's so clear who's traveling here.

When you're on the Rebbe's mission, you go places.

But it just doesn't feel like me. It doesn't feel like it is me that is going.

If it were me, I'd be a little nervous, a little anxious.

If it were me, I'd have gone to the bathroom a million times before leaving.

If it was me, I'd be checking my watch every five seconds at the gate.

If it was me, I'd be trying to sleep right now - I wouldn't be as alive and alert.

If it was me, I wouldn't have one hundred Pushkas (charity boxes) in my suitcase.

The calm inside.
The fresh mind and spirit.
The confidence and trust.

The feeling of flying - way before boarding the plane.

It's all the Rebbe.

The Rebbe's involvement in the mission he gave us extends beyond the orders.
The Rebbe's investment in his soldiers is intimate, and extends into all the details.

It's not a nice thought.

It's real.

Inside.

Outside.

Bubbling and pumping and flowing.

All around me.

It's beyond humbling.

I'll be the first person to touchdown in Miami. There's stuff to do, and I was entrusted with the tasks, the seemingly small details that make the bigger picture. Like coffee.

It's unbelievable really.

Over the course of the next two and a half weeks, souls will jump, truths will explode, and many Jewish women will leave with a recharged connection with their maker, a burning passion to do good and not settle for anything less than sacred.

To be a part of such an experience is a magnificent blessing.

The Rebbe's vision is forever spiraling. From hilltops to the oceans depth, the daily transformation of our people in the direction of redemption is very alive.

On the outset of this journey, feeling the Rebbe's strength and partnership is more than meaningful.

It makes my world shine.

It gives me everything I have.

-------

At any given moment, the Rebbe is on planes coming from and going everywhere. To feel him uniquely invested in this particular mission is extraordinary - a strong testimony to the truth and unity in the Rebbe's detailed vision for this world.

When you're with the Rebbe, you're elevated beyond your natural human tendencies.

You just flow.

The Rebbe doesn't mind flight delays, nor does he complain about his middle seat.

So, naturally, I didn’t.

Attention American Airlines.

The Rebbe is on the plane.

-----

With G-dliness so firmly united in the cause, it's impossible not to feel this weightlessness right now.

I am going somewhere.

Sent from above.

I am blessed.

I am a running river.

I am an ascending flame.

I am a speeding train.

I am a rain drop.

Reporting live.

- M