For my 12th birthday I was gifted an introductory flight lesson at Minuteman Aviation in Missoula, Montana. Although it’s been over 40 years the memory of that day still feels bright and suspended — the hum of the engine, the airstrip narrowing below, the quiet disbelief that I was, somehow, aloft. That my hands were on the yoke of this…machine. It wasn’t about thrill or speed; it was about perspective. Control over my own direction. The horizon looked different up there, and so did I. For years after, my dreams were of driving, flying…going wherever I wanted at whatever speed I chose.
Years later, in 2016, I found myself returning to that sky in a different way — this time over Los Angeles, saying goodbye to a city that had shaped so many versions of who I’d been. That post, The Wind, captured the feeling of turning a chapter while still holding the weight of all that came before. I didn’t know it then, but that ritual of flight — that act of looking down on a place I loved — would become a touchstone for how I approach change itself.
Reading it now, nearly a decade later, I recognize a thread that runs through it all: learning when to let the wind carry me, and when to take the yoke in my own hands. Life has a way of pulling us off course — through loss, upheaval, uncertainty — but somewhere along the way, I learned that even in those moments, I still have agency. I can level the wings, steer through the gusts, and trust that direction comes from within as much as from the sky ahead.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about that first flight again — how it taught me not just to move through change, but to meet it with intention.
October 13, 2016
The Wind
Just about 15 years ago I moved to Los Angeles. In two days I’ll leave. Probably for good.
It seems a whole life time has been lived here. And I suppose in many ways- it has been a whole life time.
Numerous jobs- Hollywood jobs. Films, television, food industry...a marriage and divorce, the birth of my son. The passing of friends and family members. None of it anticipated when I arrived here. A lifetime.
It’s hard to know how to acknowledge a shift like this, for, though it’s only a move, the depth of its significance cannot be understated.
If my life were a book, this would be chapter 5, as near as I can tell.
On the one hand, it’s not as simple as just turning a page...but on the other hand, the page must be turned. The book continues to be written no matter what we do. Sadness, joy, anticipation and anxiety...fatigue. Almost too much to be said in words...and no real way to wrap it up- yet still too complex to just walk away.
Because I’m a performer at heart, I am forever thankful that I have ritual and symbolism in moments like this. I am reminded that ritual may not be something that is being repeated, but rather a moment, or series of moments, during which I reflect upon those things that need to be reflected upon. A ceremony of sorts, during which I celebrate and mourn what has passed, and look forward to that which is yet to come; a ritual of passing. Grief and joy are permitted to exist simultaneously within this ritual, without explanation. Perhaps this can never be explained, but only felt.
Some weeks ago I started taking flying lessons. My decision to do this wasn’t entirely whimsical- I knew that I needed something, ironically enough, to *ground* me. Flight has been that thing.
Though I still have packing to do and a long trip to make, my true farewell ritual to this city that I have come to love so much was yesterday evening when I took a long last flight up the coast to Point Dume and back. This flight was only my second solo flight and I spent most of the time shaking my head in disbelief that I was capable and even allowed to do this. I realized as I climbed above Venice beach that this was my farewell. 15 years ago I never would’ve guessed that my life would unfold in the way it has. I never would’ve guessed that my goodbye to Los Angeles would be spoken at 3500 feet above Venice. It was an incredible and peaceful end to my love affair with Southern California.
All things exist at once. It is a challenge to understand that pain and sadness will pass in time and that new things lie ahead for anyone who is in times of tribulation. But they do pass. Eventually. And they give way to something completely new and unexpected.
Looking back on this writing now, I see that the flight wasn’t just a farewell — it was practice. A quiet moment of realizing that I could be both carried and in control. That grief and gratitude can share the same sky.
In writing The Sky Between Us, I found myself returning to flight yet again — not as escape, but as reflection. It became a way of understanding what it means to pilot one’s own life: to stay steady through crosswinds, to climb through cloud cover, to trust that there’s clarity above the storm.
These past years have held plenty of new directions — some I chose, some that chose me. But what’s changed is the sense of agency in it all. The wheel is in my hands. The wind still shifts, the sky still surprises me, but I’ve learned how to fly within it.
And somewhere above the noise of the day, I can still hear that first takeoff — the sound of a boy learning, for the first time, that he could shape his own direction. That even the smallest plane, when guided with care, can find its way home.
