I remember a few years ago when the kinks of American Airlines’ on-flight Wi-Fi were being worked out and I was lucky to be on a flight where the internet was free.  Today, not so much. And while I’m disappointed by the teasing Wi-Fi signs that mention nothing of the $12.00 fee, I figure I’ve got my computer out and booted up, so I may as well write something. So here are some thoughts on this particular voyage. I’m 30,000 feet above sea level with intention of landing at 6500 feet above sea level and remaining there for a week. I didn’t have to take time off work. I didn’t have to email my boss. I didn’t have to move things around. I just booked a flight.

The pre-flight anxiety I felt yesterday explains to me that I do, in fact, have someone to report to: myself. Not the self that Seth Godin and Steven Pressfield call the “Resistance”, the part of me that loves random trips to Wyoming, procrastination, and anything that leads me away from putting myself on the line and continuing to pursue a precariously unconventional career in music. Nope, I report to my creative entrepreneur, the part of me that knows I have music to write, gigs to book and a mark to make.  This part of me gets anxious before my trips and says things like “have you worked hard enough to deserve this?” and “you will be missing so many opportunities while you are away, are you crazzzzy?”.  This part of me is almost as bad as the Resistance, although not quite as self-destructive. It stresses me out to the core only because I don’t know the answers to its questions. That, and it is drenched in irony. I mean, this double-checking, schedule-following “artistic” part of me was the one who craved freedom in the first place, right? The side of me that became so overwhelming visionary I couldn’t do anything but create? The part of me that woke up and chose what would happen that day? So why is it now the thing that makes me uneasy when exercising my freedom?

Sometimes I think it’s all about money. If I had some great source of passive income that would be deposited into my bank account no matter what I did, perhaps the voices in my head would pipe down and get along. If I had that financial freedom, I often wonder if I would be able to live my life guilt-free. (Though, knowing my drama-driven neurosis, I’d probably create some other upset.) The only freedom I feel these days is that from gluten. So if my hypocritically creative side would sit back, enjoy the flight, and remember that IT got me here in the first place, I’d much appreciate it. Thank you for sharing, I’d like some more peanuts please.