Plane Painting

I’ve been traveling more than usual lately.
Airports. Aisles. Window seats.
Those in-between spaces where shoes come off, phones charge, and people—if you’re paying attention—quietly reveal themselves.

We have 7 adult kids, 3 adult kids by marriage and 1 perfect grandbaby. This adds up to lots of kids living in many states across the country. As I write this, I'm visiting my son, daughter in law and grandbaby who I adore !

Here’s what I’ve noticed as I crisscross the country:
no matter our political beliefs, the color of our skin, our faith traditions, or the stories we were handed growing up, there is a deep sameness among us.

We all want the same things.

To be seen.
To be known.
To be loved.

I titled this piece Plane Painting, and yes—you’re right to pause for just a second. Some of you probably wondered if I misspelled plain. I can assure you, I did not. I love painting on planes. Truly. There’s something about being suspended between places that loosens my hand and quiets my mind.

On my flight yesterday, armed with nothing more than a water-filled paintbrush and a few precious inches of tray table, I painted a small bouquet of flowers. It was quite lovely.
Or was it quiet lovely?

And there it is—the kind of wordplay that makes me smile.

Plane.
Plain.
Plane.

Three words that sound exactly the same and mean entirely different things.

As a self-confessed word lover, this makes perfect sense to me. I delight in it. But I often think about those learning English as a second language and how complicated this must feel. Same sound. Different meaning. Context required. Patience necessary.

And isn’t that true of people, too?

We often sound alike on the surface—polite conversations, shared smiles in TSA lines, the universal sigh when a flight is delayed. Yet beneath that, we carry vastly different experiences, histories, losses, and hopes.

Different perspectives.
Same longings.

And then there’s this painting; another Pinterest inspired painting.

At first glance, it’s rather plain—soft washes, generous white space, nothing trying too hard. But the longer you sit with it, the more you realize it isn’t empty at all. It’s spacious. It’s breathing. It’s leaving room—for interpretation, for imagination, for the viewer to bring their own story along for the ride.

The shape curves like a flight path on the in-flight map—no straight lines, no rush to arrive. Just movement. Direction. Trust. The dark ink anchors the piece, like gravity reminding us where we’ve been, while the lighter wash fades gently into what’s next. Not gone. Just becoming.

And that small burst of warm color?
That’s the human part.
The soul.
The unexpected joy mid-journey.

It reminds me that life is rarely a direct flight. There are layovers. Delays. Weather patterns we didn’t anticipate. And still—we move forward. Quietly. Faithfully. Plane by plane.

Painting this on a plane felt almost poetic. Suspended between destinations. Feet off the ground. Surrounded by strangers who, for a few hours, become traveling companions. We may not speak the same language fluently—literally or figuratively—but we understand the universal ones: fatigue, hope, kindness, relief when the wheels finally touch down.

English is complicated.
Life is complicated.

But beauty? Beauty is surprisingly multilingual.

It shows up in curved lines.
In shared smiles.
In quiet moments at 30,000 feet when no one is asking anything of you except to be.

So yes—this is plane painting.
Painted on a plane.
Appearing plain.
Holding layers far deeper than they first appear.

A reminder that we don’t have to be loud to be meaningful.
We don’t have to be identical to be connected.
And sometimes the most healing thing we can do—

is sit still long enough
to notice the beauty
already traveling with us.

Where are you in between right now?

Not where you’ve been.
Not quite where you’re going.
Just suspended—learning, waiting, becoming.

What feels plain in your life that might actually be full of quiet beauty if you sat with it a little longer?

If you were to paint this season—not with details, but with movement and space—what would your lines look like?