Unexpected Turbulence

The year is past mid-April (Go not to the Capital, Alan. Beware the Ides of April!). The meteorologist forecasts snow. After last week’s heat (into the upper 80s) had melted most of the accumulated snow that fell from the late Autumn and long winter storms, and when even the trees had begun to bud, and the out of doors seemed safe to roam about in, this snowfall feels like an assault. And even if the precipitation doesn’t actually satisfy the meteorologist’s prediction, today (as was yesterday) will be gray, gloomy and damp. 
            I awoke this morning to birds chirping. I suppose they hadn’t yet heard the forecast, but I wondered as I lay abed if songbirds sing when it snows. Then I thought of the airplane captain’s announcement during flight: “The captain has turned off the seat belt sign and you are free to walk about the cabin. But when you are seated, please fasten your seat belts in the event of unexpected turbulence.” Unexpected turbulence! When isn’t there unexpected turbulence? When shouldn’t I be wearing my seat belt. When do I take it off to walk about the cabin and even go to the bathroom. But I think the captain’s advice up in the air is equally relevant to being on the ground. During take-off and ascent, the going is rough and keeping seat belts fastened is important. These devices protect against unexpected turbulence only because I know that if the plane does go down no seat belt is going to keep me safe. But when the plane has reached its cruising altitude and there are no wind gusts to rock the plane, then it is safe to get up and walk about the cabin. When I have returned to my seat, it is best to fasten the seat belt in case of unexpected turbulence. But, in fact, I know that the turbulence isn’t really unexpected: I think of Hamlet’s acknowledgement: “If it be not now, yet it will come.” I know his statement refers to death, but wouldn’t that event be a prime example of unexpected turbulence to not only the one dying but to those who remain alive. The question, of course, is when do I return to my seat and fasten my seat belt? 
            I am thinking that writing is not unlike the captain’s announcement. I put down a first sentence and a vague idea about what I might want to write. Vague is the operative word here: this moment of pseudo-inspiration seems like a cloud—wispy and light and resting easily in the calmest breeze. (I am calm, I consider: I like that sentence.) There seems to be no turbulence.

(As I sat here trying to write I saw outside my office window that the snowfall had irregularly begun, and indeed the birds had ceased their songs, but I think that unlike me the birds experience no disappointment or unhappiness at the sudden change of weather: as far as the birds are concerned this wintry mix is just another day in the neighborhood. I suspect the birds are familiar with unexpected turbulence and they have now returned to their seats and fastened their seat belts. Or that their lives are always turbulent and they are always present in the present.)

As for me, in such moments of relative quiet as I sit before the screen staring at what I’ve written and hoping there will be more to come, I think of Snoopy sitting atop his house with his typewriter before him. Linus is reading the sheet Snoopy has given him and comments, “That’s a good start. Good luck with the second sentence.” (For years I have kept that particular strip inside a drawer, and just now when I went to the drawer to confirm I have quoted it correctly I found it gone. At some point I must have decided it was clutter and recycled it. Another instance of unexpected turbulence!) 
            And what isn’t unexpected turbulence? Of course I will have eventually to get out of my seat to go to the bathroom, at least on longer flights, and while I am enclosed in that tiny cubicle doing my business (as my mother would say) the plane might experience unexpected turbulence and somehow, I’d have to zip up and hurry back to my seat and buckle my seat belt. But I had to unbuckle to make my way to the bathroom knowing there could be unexpected turbulence. I suppose we must somehow be brave enough to unbuckle our seat belt and roam about the cabin, but wherever we go we ought to know where to find our readily available seat belts to buckle up when there is unexpected turbulence. As for me, when the going gets rough here while I write, sometimes that seat belt looks like a chocolate chip cookie or a piece of bread slobbered with peanut butter. Sometimes the seat belt is a look at the news where unexpected turbulence comprises the front pages. Sometimes that seat belt is a nap.
            At some point I realize that I have to roam at times unbuckled and wish for good luck with the second sentence. And hope that there is something to grab onto when the plane rocks from the blasts of wind.
            It has snowed all day and not a flake has stuck to the ground but only to my soul.