Air Travel as Liminal Space

I experience air travel as a form of liminal space. Bounded by airport security stations, the journey begins when I shove shoes, coins, cell phone, and backpack into a tray for the X-ray conveyor belt and ends when I stroll through the destination city’s requisite “Welcome” sign. But let’s be real, airport liminal space is not usually a life-changing space of transformation. New selves are not typically liberated and born between departure and arrival. That’s not to say that epiphanies can’t and don’t strike in the empty corner of Gate C3 at the Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport where I’m typing this post. It’s just to acknowledge that often when I travel, I like to stream crime thriller shows on my phone. And for parents packing diapers and carrying crying kids, flying might even be a circle of purgatory to flee as soon as possible. But since I typically travel alone for work, conferences, or retreats, air travel has become a zone of in-between that contains sacred possibilities—if I let them arise.

These sacred possibilities occur amid the most mundane and often annoying of circumstances. I might be able to hear the rowdy group of teens at the back of the plane over my turned-up headphones. I might be restless and pace up corridors listening to a podcast. And there’s nothing like that desperate feeling of aching to be home and then hearing the announcer’s voice telling you that your flight is delayed, again. All that said, I still discover something new and vital in airport liminal space. Whatever it is, it glimmers in the stretch of long hours between my initial setting out and my trip’s end, and vacillates undecidedly between solitude and escapism.

Sometimes I ask myself, “How can each itinerary become an invitation to be more present with myself and more alive to God?” And sometimes I don’t ask that at all. Sometimes I sprawl out in a terminal gate over three coveted seats without armrests. Sometimes I enjoy the spacious and world-inhabiting feeling that a good fiction book brings. Sometimes I catch up with a friend who I associate with whatever layover city in which I find myself. Sometimes I cross terminals to find the best overpriced coffee. Sometimes I people watch. Sometimes I wander to the outer-most terminals to locate the interfaith chapel and I plop myself on a meditation cushion. Sometimes the in-between space raises to mind and heart the feelings with which I haven’t yet dealt, the longings I haven’t yet prayed, the resentments and sadnesses that I have kept at bay. And sometimes I chuckle and grin the whole way through.

I’m also reminded of my mortality. No matter how often I fly, when the plane’s wheels prepare to hit the runway tarmac, I have a little back and forth with God, bracing ever-so-slightly for disaster. I say, “I’m definitely not ready to go yet, but if it is my time, I give myself to you.” And when the plane slows down fast and the wind makes that whooshing sound on the wing flaps, I mutter the Jesus prayer (Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me, a sinner). It helps center me in a vulnerable moment that before I know it has passed. The cabin lights are now bright again, people are standing up and eager to exit, and, bleary-eyed as I am, it’s time to go home.

What are some practices that you do while traveling to help keep you conscious and present? And what is your preferred escapist travel hobby?

As a reminder, this is my new weekly column the holy ordinary. The Revelations posts will resume monthly. Have a great week, everyone.