Blue Hour

Two hours in a metal tube with a wife and two little people after seventeen days abroad is almost up. We are about to touch down.

The sunset swirls blood orange through my window, but as we bank hard it comes through Helen’s side. Landing is coinciding with my favorite time of day — that short window just after sunset when the sky is deep blue above, fiery red at the horizon, and lights begin to twinkle. Boy are there a lot of lights. DFW is big, but you don’t realize how big until you fly over.

Lucas sits on my lap, face glued to the little pane of glass where the world flies by. His little Blundstone boots match mine. I smile at that. Ezra stands teetering on Mommy’s lap across the aisle, peering out his own window. The rest of the plane has gone quiet, like it gets just before landing. Just the whirr of the engines muscling us through the air as we get ever closer to runway 35L.

It’s a picture to close the shutter on as time flies by. Home is calling, but I don’t want to rush. This moment feels right — a temporary pause where you just sit back and take it in. Not too reflective about the past, nor too anxious about what comes next. The boys are behaving — a minor miracle in itself. Time slows, even as the runway approaches. Lower and lower we get. Blue hour is upon us, lights twinkling from the tiny but ever-larger cars on the highways below. It reminds me of the rug I had as a boy with roads and cities we drove our trucks across. I loved that rug — I loved that world (maybe that’s why I love building little worlds so much today). I want to get one for Lucas.

The boys are silent. Transfixed.

And now, thud. The wheels kiss the Texas pavement.

I’m ready to deboard and kiss the ground myself.

But the plane is sleepy, and the mellow taxi keeps the dream playing. We pass the long D terminal, and I spot the lounge I’ve hung out in countless times before, waiting for a connection. Its warm yellow light oozes out into the cool blueness, and inside are dozens of travelers reading newspapers, eating supper, watching the world go by — watching us go by. The engines whir softly and the plane gently inches toward its resting place. We turn ninety degrees. Moving slowly, slowly — and then, stop. The lights brighten and a bell chimes. Down the long aisle passengers arise, stretch, and open overhead bins. The dream is over. We’re home.

Only half an hour later we have a comically intense child disaster meltdown — bad part of town, unplanned restroom stop, hazards on & two very unhappy humans on our hands — Helen and I both trying to do ten jobs at once. I smile again.

—

Life speeds up and slows down, lands and takes off again. You have to learn to roll with it, and savor the tiny, important moments where time seems to stop.

Right now I have more on my plate — projects, responsibilities, ideas, possibilities, decisions to make — than perhaps ever before. I’ll share more with you soon. But I’m writing this to help me remember today, tomorrow, and one day far in the future — to be present.

—

Thirty of our dear friends came out Saturday morning to prune and mulch our two hundred fruit trees — the ones we planted a few days before Lucas was born. He (and they) turn three this week. It was a stunningly beautiful day — not just the sunshine and perfect temperature, but the friendship, the learning, the laughing. Helen and her friends cooked us a wonderful breakfast, and we enjoyed it all together in the pergola garden at the heart of the orchard. We’re doing it again this Saturday.

I smile at that, too.

If you’re around, I invite you to come join us!

Regardless, just a little reminder:

Be present.