Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

As I exit an airplane, I am that passenger in the single-file 1-way cattle-drive of patiently impatient strangers who turns to look too long into the open door of the pilot's cockpit. I look past the plastered smiles, tight scarves and bright lipstick of the flight attendants to see what I can see.

The herd trudges and shuffles through the plane exit door and into the accordion fold-away origami hallway that leads to airport architecture, open spaces and...restrooms. Restrooms are really what everyone is thinking about in the line behind me while I linger to look.

I do not know for sure, but I suspect the pilot's intercom has only 3 volume settings. Iv'e only heard 3. When the plane is grounded with sleepy passengers, no engines blaring and no baggage shuffling, the low setting is loud enough.

When fully aloft, floating on clouds with carts rolling the isles offering tiny bags of tiny pretzels, muffled voices fade behind the engine's steady hum-m-m-m, and general shuffling becomes numbing white noise, a medium intercom volume is locked in. The pilot blandly states the weather.

I imagine the highest volume switch is marked in fire engine red with a lightening streak icon. It would just seem fitting. Reserved for the most severe turbulence in the most treacherous storm, the pilot's voice must rise calmly above all other sounds within or outside the plane. High volume must be louder than everything else around.

There was a day when the pilot's finger messed up and 150 freshly-boarded bored passengers and I nearly cracked our eardrums in one shocking moment. I sat buckled tight and sweating, surrounded by other tight and sweaty strangers as we waited for take-off.  

An egg could be fried in seconds on the tarmac asphalt outside the window. I had been watching the mirage of heat waves rise from the concrete.  Suddenly, the intercom crackled to life like a frying egg.

The pilot said...something. I don't know what. Nobody knew what. It was loud; way too loud. In sync, hands were clapped over ears. Groans resounded. Babies cried.  

It was one of the few times in my life a flash-flood of goosebumps streaked from my forehead to my feet and back to my hairline in a millisecond. I thought a car backfiring in the fast-food drive-through line, or a rush of freezing water in the middle of a hot shower embodied the strongest jolts possible this side of a lightening strike.

I was wrong. Pilot Intercom Error was now on the top of my mental "Shocks" list. Soon, another event would tie for the crown. I call it, "Small Amish Child Informs Me of the Contents of my Belly."

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Shock moments ingrain and engrave memories in the same way UV-sensitive nature-print photo paper works. This special paper is coated with light-sensitive chemicals. When exposed to a shock of light waves (rays of sun), particles in the paper react. Light that is blocked by the shadowed areas of objects placed on the paper remains white, while the paper around them turns dark. Forever.* This was a favorite science integration project for my art classes!

Shocks imprint memories, colors, and the atmosphere of surroundings. Like the instant sunlight imprinting a silhouette, I remember every piece of clothing I was wearing the day the pilot's voice boomed; the combination scent of exhaust and fast-food grease when the car in front of me backfired in the drive-through line; the grass green shampoo bottle in my hand when the steaming water of my peaceful shower suddenly turned to ice in a 5th story hotel room.

And, the day I was told the contents of my belly!

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As was my custom, I greeted each class outside the door of my colorful Art room. It mattered to me to smile and make eye contact with each child. Hopefully, it mattered to them, too. In addition to smiles and hellos, sometimes I was gifted with random information like, "I have a twinky in my lunchbox!"

Or, on this day, prophesying. 

My spine was arched forward to peer over my  protruding belly as the short 2nd grade class entered one by one. I was wearing a red plaid jumper. 

Though my husband and I had opted to not find out the sex of our baby until birth, a not-so-shy very small Amish boy in a lagoon-blue collared shirt informed me that, "You are about to have a foal! You better be ready!"

His intentions were as sweet as a spatula sliding Mama's homemade pancakes onto a plate at sunrise. His excitement matched the little girl in a white bonnet who had just announced her twinky. I felt the shock physically. Very pregnant mothers are sensitive to comments that compare with large farm animals!

Fortunately, his taller stockier friend 2 steps behind him courteously corrected his error.

"...a foal?" He said, rolling his big brown eyes and clutching his art supplies to his chest. "You're so big; it's probably a MOOSE in there!"

Granted, I was not a petite pregnant cherub, but neither did I consider myself a candidate to birth a moose. In the midst of a flash-flood of pilot's error goosebumps streaking from my forehead to my feet and back to my hairline, I managed to produce a similar brand of smile as was gifted to the little girl who announced a twinky in her lunch.

That smile depleted my stash of self-control for a week.

I could nearly smell the mix of fast-food grease and exhaust fumes in my nose as I reached a hand up to stabilize my offset balance. My hand felt heavy with the memory of holding a full grass green bottle of shampoo in a frozen shower.

Fortunately, there are other colors in the palette of the heart. Both a teacher and a mother's heart has to be big enough and full of grace.

Grace is creamy white like the inside of a twinky. Turning offense into humor sizzles musically like a yellow fried egg on a hot tarmac. The red of love is a plaid jumper-covered belly with a foal inside.

Pink...was the color of the blanket wrapped around our fresh baby moose a few weeks later.