John knew his flight would be canceled as soon as he looked outside. He stood in front of the twenty-foot floor-to-ceiling terminal windows and pressed his hands against the icy glass, and sighed. It was no ordinary squall; this blizzard was bona fide.
There was a collective groan at the gate when they made the announcement. John had already pushed his way to the front of the counter queue to request meal vouchers. The attendant printed him a slip for twenty bucks while fielding landline calls and assuring the jostling mob of holiday travelers it would still be possible to make it home for Christmas.
The rebook was for the same gate at midnight, four hours from now. John searched for a way to escape the hapless E7. It was packed with a bunch of other E’s into the end of a tiny spoke in the massive wheel of Terminal 4. He tried a few other spokes, but every chair, bench and stool was occupied while the hallways themselves were scattered with luggage and bodies. He searched for a place to redeem his meal voucher, but half of the restaurants were closed and the other half were full. The only other option was a kiosk selling a bag of peanuts for twelve dollars.
Then he spotted a rectangle sign over red double doors: “Lounge – Comfort Elite.” John had spent years walking past first class seats without batting an eye, and had likewise never attempted TSA precheck. But now, watching grown men fight over a wall plug, he wanted out of the teeming proletariat. He looked both ways and slipped through the door.
He found himself in a narrow hallway with an empty desk. He searched for a bell to ring, but the desk was bare. There was another door on the far end, small and wooden with a festive wreath. He tried to shake the slump from his truant schoolboy shoulders. After stuffing loose ends back into his rolling suitcase and clearing his throat a couple times, he confidently swung the wooden door open.
It was difficult to keep his jaw from dropping. Far from the efficient arrangement of modern seating he had expected, a sprawling array of colorful couches and wool rugs filled the room, which boasted all the wood finishes of a decadent 19th century arts and crafts interior. A blazing hearth illuminated a Christmas tree in the corner, complete with a trove of red and green gifts underneath. The bar looked authentically old with a wonky grid of oak shelves, like an English tavern he had seen in a travel magazine on his last flight. Garlands of cranberries and dried oranges dangled between the columns that flanked the entrance where he stood. The effect of the scene was more Irving than elite.
The lounge was empty aside from a bartender in a black suit polishing glassware, his back turned. John gingerly approached the bar and claimed a stool.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked without looking.
“How much for an old fashioned?” John held out his voucher. The bartender turned around with a smile, silver hair and pearly teeth each gleaming as bright as the glass he was polishing. He waved the voucher away.
“It’s all included, of course. Make yourself at home.”
“Thank you,” John said, feeling the imposter. The bartender got to work. John fidgeted. “Crazy weather today, huh?”
“Is it?” the bartender said, and then nothing else. The fireplace crackled. It was very quiet in the lounge.
When the drink was ready, John murmured his thanks and moved over to a large red armchair by the fire. The old fashioned was the best he could remember, and with the whiskey’s warmth came the courage to ask the bartender for a second.
The Christmas glow of the room was so inviting and familiar, he began to worry less about whatever memberships might be required. The nagging fear of being caught faded. He had half a mind to test the decorative nature of the presents under the tree.
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice from over his shoulder, low and cloying. He nearly jumped from his chair. He turned to see a tall woman standing behind him, her hair and dress both an unnatural scarlet; maybe a trick of the light.
“Sorry, I didn’t think anyone else was in here.”
“You didn’t notice me sitting alone over there in the corner?”
“I–I didn’t,” he stammered, still quite sure the place had been empty.
“I noticed you.” She ran her hands down the arm of the chair across from him, and slipped into it without a sound. She raised an arm in a beckoning gesture, and without a word spoken, the bartender soon brought a martini for her and another old fashioned for him.
“Do you come here often?” she said.
“Well, no, I’ve never been in one of these. I mean, not in this airport. I love airport lounges, generally speaking.”
“I thought you looked the traveler. Have you been anywhere exotic?”
“Well, the Florida Keys once, for spring break back in college.”
“The ocean is my favorite tonic. Did you manage a good tan?”
John shifted in his seat uncomfortably, but every time he faltered she deftly picked up the slack. And so they talked: about the drinks, about the fire, and most of all, about John. And when he remembered the promised midnight departure at E7, he began to doubt what difference four hours would make when a blizzard was on. Almost imperceptibly, the minutes were ticking past not too slowly but too quickly. He kicked off his shoes and felt the warmth of the fire on his toes. He drove the minutes from his mind, and it wasn’t long before time slipped away entirely.
When he woke, the fire was out and the room was cold. The woman was gone, and so was the bartender. Five empty lowballs sat on the table beside him–he didn’t recall drinking the last two. He looked at his watch with a start: it was twelve-thirty.
This one time I used my lunch break to eat lunch. What a mistake! Traffic is always mayhem out there by my work on mall sprawl drive. I missed my turn for Generic Fast Food three times, but boy I did not miss that lunch rush. I waited in a line of chugging car for about half of my tiny 30 min lunch break. I slammed the carbs down my gullet and tried not to think about factory farm videos my gf showed. There was no way I was going to make it back in time for the 2 minute grace period on the clock! I contemplated just slamming the gas and forcing a risky frisky left hand turn. Could I afford a third strike on my record? I lost some marks recently when some dumb town event clogged the streets and then that other time my on ramp was shut down. They wouldn’t fire me over this, would they? Next time I’ll starve and just write something for my friend’s website.
These days I work for corporate America. I am always late. In cozy pants most of the time. Mocha in hand always. They pay me so much more money here, I can barely believe my paystubs. And people don’t even bother me if I work a little slower because the World Cup is on my second screen. I take a whole hour for lunch and eat grass fed beef. I ponder if the cow was actually happy, and resolve to do some research. Might have to go full vegan soon. Ah yes, it really is so much better here. No punch clocks, my wildest fantasy come true. The only trouble is now I feel like I owe this machine something. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck forever. I lean in towards my paper cup of molten chocolate and espresso, melting marshmallows on top. Just another sip. No emails. I think I’ll go write something for my friend’s website.
Yo yo yo now that we can phone in some entries expect the number of entries to R as iSE and the quas Lott y to Drosp! Hailllllll yeah we’re workin it now, scrawls on scrawls leewwwweeeeeeezgo. Tipped with thumbs?? Moore like SWIPED with thumbs amiriiiiiiiiiiite
I found it just a bit too late
I found it rotting on my plate
I wasn't going to blame fate
But better that than blame my mate
You might want me to recreate
Events that got me in this straight
But I'd rather you debate
What it was that night I ate
is the story of my life.
leaving my house takes at least 20 minutes.
first it’s the sprinting, shoes untied, upstairs to snatch my leather wallet resting on its designated perch by my bed.
tripping back downstairs to grab my keys, only to bolt back upstairs for my emotional support, sticker bombed water bottle.
give a quick spin.
remember it is in my car already, stumble back downstairs and make it out the front door.
click goes the lock.
I’m met with a shivering spring breeze as it hits my bare shoulders.
I need a sweater.
shwipe goes the unlocking of the front door.
back upstairs.
zip up or pull-over?
just kidding, going to go with a light jacket instead.
downstairs and out the front door.
I make it to my car this time, but out of breath.
go to grab a drink out of my forgotten water bottle.
slerrrRrrrp.
no water.
back inside.
water bottle kinda weird smelling so it needs a quick soapy rinse.
okay, fresh water and ready to leave.
make it outside again and lock the door.
wait, I did lock the door right?
double check.
triple check.
keys, phone, wallet… wait where are my keys?
back inside, they were left next to the sink when I was filling my water bottle.
did I say 20 minutes? maybe closer to 30… if I’m just going three block to work that is.
I regret to admit that over the course of my life, I have earned the reputation for arriving late to most engagements. In those stressful few moments after I arrive late to the party, or the class, or the meeting, I wish I had better excuses for my tardiness. Sometimes I can legitimately blame it on the traffic, or a last minute work emergency. But, more often than not, I’m left grasping for a reason people will actually accept. And so, I have come by the title of ‘late comer’ quite naturally and there’s no one to blame but myself.
My struggle with being late has caused a great deal of wrestling with and processing my tardiness over the years. I swing from feelings of obligatory guilt to moments of giving a metaphorical, middle finger to the rigidity of western deadlines and its obsession with packing our schedules to the brim. I’m not trying to make excuses for myself, I know that my time management skills are those of a novice. However, I also wonder if the average pace of life for Americans is, at best, unrealistic and at worst, toxic.
In particular, this time of year (the holidays) poses an uphill battle for being ‘on time’ for things. Amidst the stress of juggling multiple family schedules and fracturing my days between dozens of commitments, I often find I have let down another family member or forgotten to catch up with a disappointed friend. So, here I find myself, in an odd quiet moment, contemplating tossing my whole schedule in the bin and asking, “why the heck do I even do this every year!?”.........*Sigh*
But, I am trying to do better, so instead of rage-canceling all of my plans, I’ll allow my brain a “short”, written reflection on the state of ‘being late’. It might be a bit of a tangent but feel free to tag along.
When someone catches me in the act of slipping into a party at 5, 10, or 120 minutes past the start and I hear the tired, old critique, “Hey! You’re late!”, I want to snap back with the popular quote of the Wizard Gandalf from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings franchise:
“A Wizard is never late, neither is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.”
It’s a snappy turn of phrase that seems to say, “Get off my back, I’ve got more important things to do than show up for your agenda!” I particularly appreciate this quote as it seems to say of Gandalf, the importance of being late, or early, or showing up at all is quite entirely up to him and not dependent on the opinions of those waiting for him - a philosophy I selfishly want to appropriate to avoid the day to day business. Yet, sadly I am no wizard and my own schedule is rather unimportant by comparison.
Gandalf’s words may just seem like a quip that gives the character’s dialogue some punch, but the quote has been popping into my mind quite a bit lately, so I decided to hop down the rabbit hole and take a longer look at it…bear with me.
The above quote was not actually written by Tolkien himself; it was penned by a fantastic script writer for the film adaptation. It’s a memorable, one-liner introduction that captures how Gandalf sees himself and his purpose. Perhaps Gandalf makes the proclamation because he’s just an arrogant narcissist who doesn’t owe anyone a deadline or a favor. However, if we take a bit of time to contextualize the quote in what Tolkien says about Gandalf and how the character views ‘being on time’, we might be surprised by what both the script writer and the original author are hinting at here.
Since my MA degree is in Old Norse myth and language and the director of my program specialized in Indo-European Language, I have a particular interest in the pictures/concepts and roots that are embedded in our words. Tolkien, a professor of linguistics, created several dialects of his own language (Elvish) to use in his stories. Elvish words, and specifically Elvish names, carry a great deal of symbolism in their roots and meanings. For example, if we take the Elven name for Gandalf, Mithrandir, already paints a picture of the character.
‘Mithrandir Is composed of the Elvish roots, ‘Mith’ meaning Grey and ‘randir’ which means ‘pilgrim’ or more specifically ‘wanderer.’ So together the roots become ‘Mithrandir’ or ‘The Grey Wanderer.’ ‘Wanderer’ is an apt description for our Wizard, clothed in gray robes, who is constantly traveling and journeying, exploring new realms and discovering hidden knowledge. However, Tolkien’s prose rarely stops with a double meaning. Much like his languages, Tolkien usually has something else going on. To better understand how Tolkien will use ‘wandering,’ perhaps we should take a quick break from Elvish linguistics and return to a more recognizable language, English. (Like I said, old languages and root words are my thing, so just bear with me.)
A quick search for ‘wander’ on Etymology Online Dictionary renders the following breakdown:
wander (v.)
From Old English wandrian "move about aimlessly, wander," from West Germanic *wundrōjanan "to roam about" (source also of Old Frisian wondria,.....a younger version of the Proto-Indo European root *wendh- "to turn, wind, weave"
Here we find in the bedrock of the word ‘wander’ the images of “moving aimlessly” and an even deeper connection to the image of winding, turning weaving in and out amongst the concrete.
‘Wander’ springs from the same Proto Indo-European root as the verb ‘wind’ listed below:
wind (v.1)
"move by turning and twisting," Old English windan "to turn, twist, plait, curl, brandish, swing"
I personally love that ‘wander’ shares original roots with the verb ‘wind’ with its imagery of bending, twisting and folding back against itself. Both words also share a poetic imagery with the noun ‘wind’. While the noun ‘wind’ comes from a different root which means ‘to blow’, it conjures up a very similar picture as something that can be aimless or directionless, elusive and difficult to pin down.
Now that we have a small base for the roots of ‘wander’ we can return to how Tolkien plays around with this wonderful word. Analyzing Tolkien’s use of ‘wandering’ and his philosophy surrounding the word could be a lengthy endeavor, taking up an entire essay or chapter or more. Unfortunately, my current submission is already ironically rather late, so we will just focus on a quick snapshot instead.
A brief, in-world poem from the Fellowship of the Ring gives a quick look at how Tolkien thinks about the act of wandering. I have bolded the line of interest. The poem reads:
All that is gold does not Glitter,
Not all those wander are lost,
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
We are mainly concerned with the second line as it has our key word ‘wander' embedded in it. The line seems to be claiming that someone who wanders or in other words, “moves about aimlessly” or who moves by “turning or twisting” are not lost. In the interest of consistency we ought to take a quick look at the roots of ‘lost’ as well.
Returning to our tool, The Online Etymology Dictionary we find that ‘lost’ is an adjective derived from the Old English word ‘lose’:
lost (adj.)
c. 1300; "wasted, ruined, spent in vain," c. 1500; also "no longer to be found, gone astray"
The words that jump out to me in this description are “wasted”, “spent in vain” and “gone astray.”
Now that we have looked at both ‘wander’ and ‘lost’ it appears Tolkien is saying that someone who ‘wanders’ i.e. someone who “moves around aimlessly” is not in fact ‘lost’ i.e. someone who “wastes” time or “spent [time] in vain.”
Taking this analysis a step further there are also similarities in the roots between the word ‘lost’ and the word that started this whole wandering tangent - ‘late.’
late (adj.)
Old English læt "occurring after the customary or expected time," originally "slow, sluggish, slack, lax, negligent," from the Proto Indo-European root *led- "slow, weary," from root *lē- "to let go, slacken."
While ‘lost’ and ‘late’ share different roots, I find ‘late’s’ meaning of “lax, negligent, to let go, and slacken” very similar to those of ‘lost’, specifically in “wastes” or “spent in vain.”
Given the similarities between ‘lost’ and ‘late’ we can perhaps see a closer connection between both Gandalf’s original quote and Tolkien’s use of ‘wander.’It seems our script writer who wrote that Gandalf, our wandering wizard, is “Never late, neither is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to” is echoing the the theme that Tolkien is hinting at - that even those who wander (meandering off the path, winding around and about) are not lost, delayed or in any other way missing their destination or deadline.
Far be it from me to reduce another author’s themes to a single point. However, given the backdrop of the rest of the Lord of the Rings, I think Tolkien is hinting that life is not just about getting to one’s destination on time or otherwise. Those who “wander” off the path aren’t lost or wasting time. Instead they are leaning into the life that is in between the destinations.
Tolkien’s work tends to stress that the journey, the wanderings, the engagement with life along the way is more important than sticking to your deadlines and keeping your agenda. The following and final Tolkien quote seems to imply that embracing the unknown and admitting that you may not know when or where you will end up is rather the point of it all. Encouraging his cousin, Frodo, to embrace the potential for adventure or ‘wandering’, Tolkien’s character Bilbo says to his cousin. Frodo:
“It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
So, as the new year begins and I am late, yet again, in submitting my scrawlings, I encourage you to embrace wandering a little more. Step off the path, smell the roses, feel the grass, or snow, under your toes, stop and chat with your neighbor and look less at your ‘to do’ lists. Make space to notice that the world spins on in spite of your missed meetings and you don’t have to keep up with it all. Take a deep breath and, don’t worry, all is not lost if you’re running a little late.
Signed,
Wanderer by the Wood
Very unusual dream, difficulty discerning reality as I slowly woke. The deeper part, maybe a dream within a dream, was that I had been in some sort of accident -- the hijacking of a plane. I had been a fighter pilot (a woman) escorting the plane, who watched it get attacked. But I wasn't really the pilot, I had temporarily been dropped into that life, someone else's vantage point. Or maybe the pilot was my real life and I had been pulled out of it so I couldn't remember what had really happened.
And in fact, I was on trial, trying to recall the events of the hijacking and realizing my testimony wasnt going to make any sense because I had been a different person at the time. The trial itself was small and silly with the semi-autiobiographical tangents of a normal dream, despite the seriousness of what I was being asked to recall. I say serious, because the vague plane attack of my half recollections (how would I witness a plane's hijacking from outside, in its fighter jet escort?) did not feel like a Hollywood heist, but an almost supernatural invasion.
Then I was wondering if I had been in a different kind of accident, maybe a car accident where I had been hospitalized, which has left me with this confused dream of being another person who has witnessed this event I was now on trial for.
And while I was trying to remember this original event, I was also remembering and suddenly manifesting the scene of a car accident at night on a snowy hill, seeing scattered winter clothes that suggested a body had been thrown from the car into the woods, possibly my own.
And then I heard a baby crying up the hill to the left and got a very eerie feeling. I wanted to run and check on the baby, but I froze. And still on trial, and still a fighter pilot who couldn't remember the attack because they had wiped it from my memory (or simply beaten it out of my me, or I was too traumatized to remember). The baby's cry turned intense and desperate in a horrible way and my blood felt cold as I began to wake up.
And as I slowly became aware of Amanda's presence in the room I urgently felt the need to ask her whether I had been hospitalized earlier in the year. Perhaps I had been in a car accident and forgotten, or perhaps it was true that I had witnessed a strange attack on a plane and yet had been pulled out of that life and forgotten, and had received a new and peaceful life to wash away the disturbing old one. Unclear whether nefarious entities had done this to cover their tracks or whether it was more of a cosmic and benevolent witness protection program. The concerns of a schizophrenic.
Finally I woke up in our room, in our house on Farnsworth, frightened. No baby crying. I am still a little jumpy. I checked the baby monitor, not sure why I am afraid. A presence in the house? The dream fades into a melancholy spectre as I write it on my phone.