there's a slight ding in the wing (hopefully it's not too large)

Flying is getting easier as I get older. There is some kind of fatalism on the rise. Not a morbid thing, but an understanding that if I want to go and see some things and spend time with some people I care about I will need to fly.

I've never really been terrified of flying. If you're really terrified you can't get aboard the craft. I'm a white knuckle flyer. I interpret even the slightest bump as evidence me and my fellow travellers are about to pay back the borrowed time we've been living on.

Sitting on the tarmac in Vancouver, the voice of the Captain announced, over the crackling sound system; "Ladies and gentlemen, we are just having some maintainance done. There is a slight ding in the wing. Hopefully it's not too large and we can get going soon..."

My imagination takes over. A slight ding, eh. I see that ding opening as the plane groans against the forces of air pushing against it. I close my eyes and begin to chant: "Let go of all attachment..."

I'm almost embarrassed to admit this. When I say attachment, I mean to life. And it helps. I repeat this, over and over and over again, with deep breathing, until I can feel my fingers release their grip on the armrests.

I got here. And I'll write more when my fingers thaw out. I was just walking in a lovely Monteal West Island moonscape, but it's cold as hell. Everything is brown and grey and hard as a rock. The ice is formed and ready to receive the long awaited white blanket, expected tomorrow. It's minus 9 degrees, and holding...