So, I have seven days left to work on my “I’m-not-going-to-freak-out-when-I-fly” visualization.  I’m doing okay so far.  In fact, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to dig down to the root of my problem.  I figure that if I can find the root, I can pluck it out and be done with the fear.  But boy, the more I dig, the more dirt I see piled next to me…but have I found the root ball?  Maybe.

I actually have found this digging somewhat amusing.  As I sift through the “why’s” I’ve even chuckled at some of them.  Sure, there’s the whole “I really don’t want to die” fear.  But I think I can say with certainty that my fear has been learned from my Mother.  (Yes, cliche, I know…)  But I believe she is at the center of my root ball…other dirt clings to it, but I believe she is the thing I must pluck.  (That sounds very strange, doesn’t it?!)  Here’s the anecdotal evidence at hand:

(I must preface these stories by telling you that my Mother is the dictionary definition of calm.  She is one of a few angels who walk this Earth blessing me with her presence…always rational, always in control, always pleasant and peaceful…unless she’s on a plane.)

The first time I ever flew, I was seventeen and SO excited!  I remember loving the experience of take-off, as I watched my mother, knuckles white, hanging onto the seat for dear life, with her eyes closed and lips mouthing a silent prayer.  I remember saying, “Mom!  Look!  It’s beautiful!!!”  I don’t think she heard me, as she continued to pray and clutch.

Jump ahead a few years.  Picture the same scenario, only this time, my dear Mother has one hand white knuckled, grasping a vial of Holy Water, and the other wrapped tightly around her Rosary.  No, I’m not kidding.

Are you beginning to see a pattern?

Now…fast forward a few years more.  I’m dropping off my parents at the airport, seeing them off on a vacation.  She turns to me and says, “Walk with me.  Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”  During this little walk she says, “Okay, there’s something important I need to ask you.  You have to promise me that if our plane crashes, you will go to the house and take all the garbage in the garage to the dump before the funeral.  I didn’t get a chance to take care of it, and I’d be so embarrassed if people came to the house with all those garbage bags there.”  I swear I couldn’t catch my breath, I was laughing so hard!  “I’m serious!” says she.  “I KNOW!!  THAT’S what’s so funny!!”  So there I stood, in the airport, crossing my heart that I would take her garbage to the dump…and I’ve teased her about it ever since.

Which brings me back to my original theory: My Mother has made me fear flying.  My calm, rational, God-believing, peace loving, always-right Mother, is mortally terrified of flying.  “And how can someone who is always right, be wrong about this?” says the inner child voice in me. 

Now I must not pass this fear along to my children.  I will be calm, I will be calm, I will be calm.  If I say it enough, it’ll come true, right?  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a root ball that needs plucking.