At the End of it All, Coming Home

Coming home after a long international trip is rather anti-climactic.

For all the trouble taken to get there, it seems so dull to merely arrive home and sleep once again in one's own bed. Had it been a movie (aren't all our lives a movie with ourselves as actor and chief spectator?), there would've been some moment of drama, some point of tension where disaster is imminent but averted; am I to be relieved that the conclusion was so ordinary? Perhaps it is best to be thankful for the miracle of ordinariness. Certainly there is enough trouble in the world to be grateful to avoid one's participation in tragedy.

There was a moment where it appeared that we might be delayed due to a mechanical failure on the aircraft, but since the failure had occurred prior to our departure from the terminal, we were never in any immediate danger. Tempers were a bit frayed, of course; tired people are always closer to the edge of hysteria than the well-rested. But the situation was resolved quickly, and the impact was minimal. We arrived home an hour later than originally scheduled.

Perhaps it is the novelty of moving halfway around the world that incites such strange thoughts as these, or perhaps only the peculiar bent of my own mind; but it is always the case that projections of disaster fill my thoughts in these circumstances. So it is that, as the conclusion approaches and various little upsets occur - delays due to mechanical issues, for example - I'm able to laugh them off. They are so small in comparison to the problems I've imagined. Likewise the feeling of relief when the aircraft finally pulls into the gate and I'm only moments away from being with my family again, is overwhelming. I'm home. I'm safe. I'll see my wife and children again.

Sitting in the hotel in India, that relief can only be imagined, and it isn't easy when there are thousands of miles between myself and the moment. So many things could go wrong, so many alternate paths could be taken.

The newspaper (and the news websites) are full of stories with alternate endings. The tornadoes that destroyed families. The earthquakes that brought buildings down on people's heads. The people who pulled the trigger. The soldiers whose lives were ripped apart by bombs. The airplanes whose mechanical failures aggregated to the critical point. The moment of inattention which ends the life of the child.

It seems a miracle to have avoided all those tragedies, yet it is difficult to be grateful for the miracle when the day isn't over yet and there are still so many decision points left, so many opportunities to make the wrong choice, go down the wrong path.

Perhaps it is my mind's way of dealing with the endless opportunities for disaster, forecasting all the possible endgames, traversing the imaginary paths as a chess player traverses the possible outcomes of each move, so that no result is unexpected, there are no surprises. No matter what happens, I've been there (at least in my mind). I have accepted the possibilities. I can keep going.

Meanwhile I sit here in my house on a calm Saturday morning with my family and thank God for the blessing of an uneventful (so far) life.

So long as the cats behave.