Flight Paths and Turning Points
When you are suspended thousands of feet in the air, watching the earth blur into a patchwork of tiny shapes below, the world goes quiet. The plane turns into a microscopic speck in the vast tapestry of humanity. For me, it has always been a spiritual container; a rare pocket of time to process the internal noise that my regular, daily routine drowns out. If I could strip away the chaos of TSA lines, the exhaustion of jet lag, the physical toll of motion sickness, and the collective overwhelm of a crowded terminal, I would choose to live in that sky-bound headspace more often.
I recently returned from a journey to Australia, a trip born out of a deep necessity to integrate a lot of heavy internal pieces. From the lingering echoes of childhood and the sharp struggles of my teenage years, to the unique, heavy pressure of growing up as a rabbi’s daughter, I was simply carrying too much. My soul was overcrowded. To move forward, I knew I needed a literal, physical space to engage in a process of letting go.
There were two non-negotiable destinations on my map for this emotional release:
My grandmothers grave : She passed away recently, and I hadn't yet been able to visit her final resting place to properly say goodbye.
The ‘Oceanview’ cliffs of Sydney: Standing on those massive rocks, with the raw power of the Pacific crashing below, I poured my heart out to God. I held a solitary throwing-away ceremony, visualizing all my long-held grievances, old grief, and heavy sadness, and casting them out into the expanse.
Why did I choose those specific rituals, and did they perfectly "cure" the ache? Human psychology and spiritual transitions are rarely that linear. But what I know with absolute certainty is that my soul demanded those acts of closure before I could step into the next chapter of my life. It was a visceral, necessary form of healing.
Yet, the spiritual high of a breakthrough rarely immunizes us against the friction of reality. On the long flight back to the United States; a space that usually acts as my sanctuary, anxiety crept in. The pending itinerary loomed large: a week-long stop in New York (which felt grey and abrasive in my post-travel state), followed by a return to Miami, where the thick heat and my cramped apartment awaited me. My chest tightened. I found myself asking, Do I really want to be back here when the beautiful, open shores of Sydney are still calling my name?
It makes me wonder if this sudden wave of unrest is a message from my mind and soul. Now that the clutter of the past has been intentionally left on the rocks of Sydney, the space that cleared up is being filled with a new question: Is my true home calling to me from across the ocean?
I am writing this at two in the morning, right in the thick of lingering jet lag, waiting for my internal clock to reset. I am trying to hold space for this unease rather than run from it. When we experience post-travel anxiety, it is easy to dismiss it as simple exhaustion or the dread of returning to the mundane. But sometimes, it is something more profound. Is it just standard anxiety, or is it a quiet directive pointing me toward a completely new path?
On the journey out to Australia, I prayed for the courage and wisdom to follow whatever road was laid out for me—and I asked that the markers along the way be made easy and unmistakably clear. Now that I am back on American soil, my prayer has shifted. I am praying for the eyes to see the path, and the stillness of spirit to recognize it when it appears.
