Farts From 30,000 Feet

 Farts from 30,000 Feet                                                                                            May 22, 2025

The day after your last day in a classroom. You finally leave the space you longed for, fought for, worked your ass off to be in. Today, you should be visiting your new cubicle, starting fresh...but nope. You’re on a plane. A 737 headed for OKC.

That building? It was more than walls and whiteboards. It was family. A community pouring into students with vision. Now? Just an empty shell. When you’re gone, you’re gone. Your room stripped bare, ready for the next teacher. The students gone chasing summer. But what sticks? The impact you made. That’s the important part.

You’re pivoting. A powerful, scary pivot. Needed, though. You sink back into your seat on Southwest Flight 197. Delayed fifteen minutes, whatever. The plane’s full, and you’re stuck in the dreaded middle seat between two quiet middle-aged men. Puffy from stress, you glance in the mirror one last time, counting vents and reading lights, trying to focus on anything but leaving.

You’re not leaving education forever....just changing course. But why does it feel like running away? You’re headed to a MOBA family reunion, a place where hugs are currency and you want to wrap everyone in one big group squeeze. Yet you wonder—do they even want you? Do they care who hugs first? You want them all to feel equally important because they are.

Can you just be there already? No—still an hour and a half trapped in this cabin. And then…

The guy next to you lets loose a silent but deadly bomb. You can smell it. Like he ate a toxic lunch brewed in a chemical factory. His farts permeate the air with the stench of toxic waste, seeping under noses, invading the whole damn plane. You want to gag but you can’t move.

You scream inside, “What the fuck are you doing, Beth?” Why’d you take this trip? You’ve got shit to do, and honestly, those people could live without you this weekend. You need some “get the hell over it” juice. Maybe a drink.

It’s 1:41 p.m., and you won’t land until 3:06. Do you realize how long that is when your brain’s spinning out of control? Too damn long.

You hate journaling but here you are. Watching a pair of Nikes bounce on one side, your Vans buried under a stupid TikTok bag you swore you’d never buy. Grrr.

The flight attendant drifts by, soft-voiced and lovely. You grab a mini pretzel braid snack with Maui onion seasoning and monk fruit....tiny bliss amid the chaos.

Bagpipes play in your ear. Your phone’s on the tray table, fingers ninja-typing one-handed, desperate for distraction.

Why the hell do they put those annoying airplane safety cards in the seatback? Who actually reads those? And here you are, wondering if you’re that dork.

Can you just go back to Woodlawn now?

You don’t know what you were thinking chasing consulting. You hate the unknown. Who was that dreamer who pros and cons the “what ifs”? Why, Beth? You always wanted to risk it all.....to dream big. Now you did. And you’re scared shitless.

Is this faith over fear? Or just plain stupid?

-Beth B. Blissful 

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