Warrior Spirit
I have a vague memory of a man on an airplane who left a lasting impression in the span of two hours. I was on my way to the European vacation of a lifetime that started off with a short flight to Denver before the cross-Atlantic leg. I usually prefer sitting next to family or friends that I am travelling with but on this particular flight I was sitting next to a stranger. The first thing I noticed about the stranger was that he immediately took out a small, worn out journal once we sat down. He began writing in the journal which was sitting on his lap horizontally; he was jotting things down in random order, not meant to follow a lined paper route. His pen was full of midnight colored ink that made every word jump off the page in 3D. Every so often he stopped and stared at the page as if pondering the meaning of his own words.
His writing hand was full of rings that were spectacularly one of a kind. Each ring had its own personality and immeasurable value I imagined. One held a giant onyx gem hugged by metallic silver vines. Another was engraved with intricate golden symbols, telling an unknown story.
I'm not usually one to start a conversation with a stranger, but I felt the words come out of my mouth unfiltered and in response to my own observations.
"Very cool rings," I said quietly, more to myself than to the stranger. He stopped writing and looked up immediately, stretching all five fingers to display the rings in their glory.
"Every single one of them has its own history," he said while softly adjusting each ring. I nodded as if I knew what he was referencing to.
Somehow my initial quiet statement about his rings opened up a dialogue about his life: he was a poet and writing professor, as well as an artist with his own weekly studio workshops. He told me that the two things he always carried with him anywhere he went were his journal and his pen. He explained how he never really planned to write anything in particular, he just let his environment and energy inspire him. He chuckled when I commented on the fact that he didn't seem to write in the 'normal' way, from left to write in linear lines. The more he spoke, the more I realized this man really was one with himself. He spoke gently, with authenticity and passion. In a mere hour of conversing I felt like I understood what he lived for.
After a good while of explaining his love for writing and where he had collected his rings, he turned to me and asked me about myself. 'Where are you travelling to? Have you ever been to Europe? Do you enjoy writing?' Pretty soon it dawned on me that the stranger wasn't only an eloquent sharer but also an actively engaged listener. He nodded every so often and even jotted down phrases that I said on to his journal page. For a person who doesn't ever really strike up airplane conversations with strangers, I was chatting away, explaining that this trip was something I'd always dreamt of, and that I felt so privileged to be able to see so much art, history and culture in the span of a few weeks. We then got into a conversation about guardian angels who blessed us and the power of wishful thinking as one topic blended into the next in a free-flow. He told me he had always had the gift of seeing people's auras, usually in the form of a color or symbol around them. I didn't personally know anything about auras but I was rapt in his explanation.
Before long the Captain's voice rang out on the overhead speakers, telling us we were descending and wishing us a good trip. As I moved to put my seat belt back on and prepare myself for landing, the man was tracing the words and phrases he had jotted down during our conversation. He turned the page toward me.
"You have a lot to see on this trip," he circled words like 'trip of a lifetime' and 'art history'. "It's nice to see a young person with so much joy for travel."
I felt my face burn a little from the recognition, as someone who's never really known how to handle a compliment I just shook my head 'yes' and smiled in response.
"I also see your aura. it shines so bright. You have a warrior spirit that can handle any bumps along the road with a strong heart," he gave me a knowing look that washed all over me in an almost divine feeling of being utterly understood in the moment. I nodded again, still not having the words to properly respond. In a moment we touched down to our destination and he was waving goodbye, off to some other part of the world. But before we got out of our seats he encouraged me to journal during the trip, advising that years later I would enjoy re-reading about my own adventure.
It might sound odd that we were having such a soulful conversation but it felt totally serendipitous. That discussion set the tone for my entire trip. When we landed and there was a significant delay until our next flight I told my warrior spirit not to be disheartened, and to make the most of my delay I fished out the journal at the bottom of my carry on. Just like my fellow passenger, I also believed in the power of journaling. I never wrote consistently but I always had it near me in case I felt the urge to jot something down. I opened a new page and wrote 'Warrior Spirit' as if it were the title of an autobiography. I didn't write anything below those two words but my travels and years of life since then seem to have lived up to the generous compliment given to me by a stranger on that short flight.
His writing hand was full of rings that were spectacularly one of a kind. Each ring had its own personality and immeasurable value I imagined. One held a giant onyx gem hugged by metallic silver vines. Another was engraved with intricate golden symbols, telling an unknown story.
I'm not usually one to start a conversation with a stranger, but I felt the words come out of my mouth unfiltered and in response to my own observations.
"Very cool rings," I said quietly, more to myself than to the stranger. He stopped writing and looked up immediately, stretching all five fingers to display the rings in their glory.
"Every single one of them has its own history," he said while softly adjusting each ring. I nodded as if I knew what he was referencing to.
Somehow my initial quiet statement about his rings opened up a dialogue about his life: he was a poet and writing professor, as well as an artist with his own weekly studio workshops. He told me that the two things he always carried with him anywhere he went were his journal and his pen. He explained how he never really planned to write anything in particular, he just let his environment and energy inspire him. He chuckled when I commented on the fact that he didn't seem to write in the 'normal' way, from left to write in linear lines. The more he spoke, the more I realized this man really was one with himself. He spoke gently, with authenticity and passion. In a mere hour of conversing I felt like I understood what he lived for.
After a good while of explaining his love for writing and where he had collected his rings, he turned to me and asked me about myself. 'Where are you travelling to? Have you ever been to Europe? Do you enjoy writing?' Pretty soon it dawned on me that the stranger wasn't only an eloquent sharer but also an actively engaged listener. He nodded every so often and even jotted down phrases that I said on to his journal page. For a person who doesn't ever really strike up airplane conversations with strangers, I was chatting away, explaining that this trip was something I'd always dreamt of, and that I felt so privileged to be able to see so much art, history and culture in the span of a few weeks. We then got into a conversation about guardian angels who blessed us and the power of wishful thinking as one topic blended into the next in a free-flow. He told me he had always had the gift of seeing people's auras, usually in the form of a color or symbol around them. I didn't personally know anything about auras but I was rapt in his explanation.
Before long the Captain's voice rang out on the overhead speakers, telling us we were descending and wishing us a good trip. As I moved to put my seat belt back on and prepare myself for landing, the man was tracing the words and phrases he had jotted down during our conversation. He turned the page toward me.
"You have a lot to see on this trip," he circled words like 'trip of a lifetime' and 'art history'. "It's nice to see a young person with so much joy for travel."
I felt my face burn a little from the recognition, as someone who's never really known how to handle a compliment I just shook my head 'yes' and smiled in response.
"I also see your aura. it shines so bright. You have a warrior spirit that can handle any bumps along the road with a strong heart," he gave me a knowing look that washed all over me in an almost divine feeling of being utterly understood in the moment. I nodded again, still not having the words to properly respond. In a moment we touched down to our destination and he was waving goodbye, off to some other part of the world. But before we got out of our seats he encouraged me to journal during the trip, advising that years later I would enjoy re-reading about my own adventure.
It might sound odd that we were having such a soulful conversation but it felt totally serendipitous. That discussion set the tone for my entire trip. When we landed and there was a significant delay until our next flight I told my warrior spirit not to be disheartened, and to make the most of my delay I fished out the journal at the bottom of my carry on. Just like my fellow passenger, I also believed in the power of journaling. I never wrote consistently but I always had it near me in case I felt the urge to jot something down. I opened a new page and wrote 'Warrior Spirit' as if it were the title of an autobiography. I didn't write anything below those two words but my travels and years of life since then seem to have lived up to the generous compliment given to me by a stranger on that short flight.
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