I miss gazing upon tiny things out of a plane window, feeling awe and connectedness
After the virus came, the human species returned to a state of flightlessness. A multi-billion-dollar industry was razed in a matter of weeks, and the vast bulk of us were jettisoned to the Earth. To walk or drive or pedal. The sudden loss of such a lovely thing – to be swept miraculously into the air on an exciting journey – has turned forgotten memories into aching nostalgia.
No more gazing through a tiny porthole of a plane window on to the landscape below. No more marvelling at tiny trees sprouting from tiny patches of green and gold and brown, or tiny gabled roofs, or tiny roads with their tiny cars and even tinier pedestrians. No more deciphering with squinted eyes the tiny pools for the wealthy, and tiny rusted car chassis for the poor.
No more the undulating hills of Masai country; the rugged clifftops of Timor-Leste; the S-shaped Thames; the flat, unassuming suburbs of Melbourne; the endless lights of Tokyo. No more.
I am struck by how much I miss this gazing upon tiny things. And struck also by the strange irony that all of it has been taken from us by the tiniest of tiny things, a near-invisible thing.
For the best part of a century, humanity – or at least, select portions of humanity – were indulged with this inhuman form of travel. We were given a chance to see the world through another beast’s eyes, a privilege not rightfully ours. And yes, we have found other ways to triumph over our own flightlessness. At the footy, we watch tiny men and women race for an invisible ball. From the highest heights of the Melbourne Star, we strain to see the farthest edges of our city. For those who live in a high-rise, a once-unnatural view becomes over time predictable and banal.
And still we are drawn to replicate that feeling. At the museum, my children are charmed by the models of tiny objects. “Look, Mummy,” one will say, pressing a freckled nose against glass. “A tiny caravan being pulled by an oldfashioned car, and tiny people and tiny signs.” At the model of goldminers circa 1860: “Look at the tiny sluice boxes, Mummy, and the tiny wells, aw, they’re so cute.” Also, one moment later: “What is a sluice box?”
So, why do we love tiny things? There is a power in it. And there is also humility. There is the knowledge that all of us are tinier than specks in space, even mad presidents and Hollywood stars, schoolyard bullies and sporting gods. All infinitesimally, fantastically miniscule. And then there is the tiny great rock we live on. With its tiny great oceans and tiny great mountains, and tiny great continents that perpetually steal into motion, drifting
and oozing like molasses.
In 1943, my grandfather flew a modified Spitfire Mark IV up to 43,800 feet, an awe-inspiring altitude for a singleengine plane fit for a solitary human. (By way of comparison, a commercial airline today typically flies between 31,000 and 38,000 feet.) Many years later, he would describe to us the sensation of climbing so high he could make out the curvature of the Earth, and it was clear by the twinkle in his eye and the endurance of that memory, that it had been something quite special. My imagination tries to conjure the moment. To be one single man held in by sheets of metal. To ascend that high. To see the deserts of Libya and beyond stretched out below. To see this rock we live on for what it really is: a miraculous molten core that levitates in space, that carries the only signs of life for billions of light years.
After returning from space, the Apollo astronauts famously recounted feelings of awe, connectedness, timelessness and bliss. It’s been dubbed the overview effect. Perhaps when we fly, if we allow ourselves to pause and reflect for a moment, we experience something similar, albeit smaller and less profound.
Of course, my logical self insists it is good for the planet that the roar of jet engines have been silenced, however impermanently. That as we teeter on the brink of a climate tipping point, we must be thankful for whatever small contribution our travel hiatus might make to saving the planet. Perhaps we will learn to appreciate the ground beneath our feet, the landscapes within easy reach, and most critically, how to be happy with less. Perhaps also we will learn to connect across oceans in new and less ecologically destructive ways, to use the marvel of human creativity to gain perspective like never before.
I pray we do. And yet, still I wonder what we miss when we forget we are tiny.