IN SPIRIT ONLY ~~~ An Odd Story

I've decided to post something a bit non-Xena related in hopes
no one will get too upset. Actually, there is a connection.
Xena has helped me learn how to feel the love I have inside
for not only myself, but others. She has also always been
a source of inspiration. The woman I write about in my story
has given me those same gifts ~ Love and Inspiration. So please forgive me, but it's Christmas and I know you'll show great love
and compassion for me as I break the rules...by tellin' this
somewhat odd story.....*BG*

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One dark and cold December day in 1993, an old friend came to
visit. The love and warmth she brought into my life changed me forever.

In the year 1943 a young woman stepped into the cockpit of a
United States military plane and prepared to take off. As the
twin engine fighter left the ground one of its engines failed.
Evelyn Sharp was respected as one of the most competent and
experienced female pilots to fly for the military during World
War II. On that day in April of '43 she proved that that respect
was well warranted. She did everything right. Rather than try
and turn back to the field, she knew her only chance would be to
keep the plane level and make a forced landing. Finding a grassy
knoll, she successfully pancaked the airplane on the ground only
to have the front landing gear be driven up through the cockpit.
This thrust Evelyn up into the cockpit's canopy breaking her
neck. The young woman who had loved flying more than anything
else in life had made her last flight.

Fifty years later, Evelyn is passing on to me the knowledge
gained through her sudden exit. My communication with her has
occured through automatic writing and an emotional understanding
of each other. Through my contact with her there is no question
as to why she has *popped* into my life. It's a matter of life
and living. Living without the fear that stops us from loving
ourselves enough to believe. What follows is a story telling
of my unforgetable visit to Ord, Nebraska.

ONLY IN SPIRIT

I see a scene that is surreal to me. Denise and I turn onto the
small airfield named after Evelyn Sharp. It is 11:30 p.m., the
night before Easter and also the 50th anniversary of Evelyn's
death. The night is cold and my throat hurts so bad that I can
barely swallow. I'm wearing my World War II leather flying jacket
with its soft, thick fleece collar. As we turn into the
horseshoe shaped drive to the strip I see a scene that leaves me speechless.

I park and both Denise and I just sit and take in what is in
front of us. There is music playing in the car. It is magical
music that brings the images in front of us to life. At that
moment it is as if we are inside a Steven Spielberg movie. To
the left stands a 70-foot tower with a white rotating beacon on
top. As this beacon rhythmically rotates it gives the illusion
of moving diagonally rather than horizontally, with the beam of
light gently brushing the ground with each circling.

To the right of the beacon is the faintest of images, an airplane.
So dim is its outline that it seems to me a ghost image that
could vanish at any second. On the ground, just below the plane,
misty blue taxi lights lead out to a small, surfaced runway. The
glow of the lights is so rich in color that just looking at them
takes me deeper into myself.

I find myself in a state of great love and wonder. It feels as
though if anyone else drives up, Denise and I will still be the
only ones able to see this surreal scene as if it was created
for us alone. Standing next to the ghost plane is a small
operator's building painted the color of Nebraska fields after
the corn has been harvested - golden with a wheat brown trim.

After being taken in by this scene for some time, Denise
whispers,

"You know what we have to do?"

"What?" I say.

"We have to go walk down the runway."

"Okay." I reply.

We get out of our warm car and enter out into the freezing cold
Nebraska night. I zip up my leather jacket and button my fleece collar to cover my throat. I am amazed at how willing I am to
venture into the cold night when I could easily be sick in bed.
This entire trip to Ord, Nebraska has been strange in this way.
I began getting sick the day I arrived and find that the feeling
of having daggers thrust into my neck, every time I swallow,
doesn't seem to bother me. The pain is there, but it doesn't
affect my ability to experience the magic of the trip.

The lighted taxiway extends only 25 feet and by the time we reach
the small runway my hands, ears, and nose feel on the verge of frostbite. But again, it doesn't stop me from absorbing the experience. I look up to the sky and find it filled with the brightest, sharpest stars I have seen in years. The night is
dark. As Denise and I walk we are ten feet away from each other,
but it is so dark we cannot see one another. Denise seems
playfully frightened, so I poke fun. "What are you afraid of?
There's nobody out here except maybe a coyote or two. Nothings
going to happen. We're meant to be here." I realize I feel
opposite of Denise. I feel safe and at home.

As we approach the runway I want to walk alone, so I separate
myself from Denise even farther. Within seconds, I have no
clue where I am in relationship to her. We both sense the need
to go off and explore the runway alone, solo. Stepping onto the
runway, I look to the right and in the distance I see red lights.
To the left, at the other end of the runway, red and white lights
glow. I decide to go left. The red and white lights look more
inviting.

Walking alone, I suddenly feel expanded - huge. I want to
embrace the night sky with my arms, but the gelid cold prevents
that from happening. My hands stay warmly nestled in the pockets
of my jacket and I walk briskly. I look up to see an umbrella of
of stars that make me feel protected. In the far-off distance is
the barking of a dog. That, the constant swirling of wind around
my ears, and my rapid cold breaths taken are the only sounds to
be heard. In this moment I am connected to all I see and hear
and everything I cannot see nor hear. I am walking in total
darkness, on a tiny airstrip at midnight, in a remote Nebraska
town; it is frigid cold, my throat is killing me, and I am
feeling more connected to myself and my purpose than I ever have
in my life.

Walking further down the strip, my eyes latch onto a lighted
windsock that stands out in the middle of the field. The orange
sock, that aviators use to determine wind direction, is attached
to a tall pole that has four small lights atop, illuminating the
nylon cone. The brightly lit sock demands to be looked at. So
far out by itself, it is on center stage. I keep walking down the
surfaced runway in the direction of the windsock, my eyes never
leaving it. As I get closer I begin to hear the sound of it
rippling in the wind.

This lighted object, standing alone in the dark, commands every
part of me. I stop at the edge of the runway, transfixed. It
feels as though I cannot take my eyes from it. I just stand and stare. My mind and body have gone to another place. With my
eyes fixed, I realize that memories of this place are rushing
through me. It all feels so familiar, everything: the stars,
the wind, the cold, the windsock, especially the windsock. It
brings to me an encompassing feeling of love.

Then I begin to feel something that is not familiar. I look to
the left and then to the right. The red and white lights at both
ends of the runway do not make sense to me. Neither does the hard asphalt surfacing of the runway under my feet. The only thing
my mind and body can make sense of is the lighted orange sock,
off in the distance. The runway lights and surfacing seem so
unfamiliar that they give me a disturbed feeling inside. They
should not be here.

I step off the surfaced runway onto the hard Nebraska earth.
It all makes sense to me now. The windsock is my focal point
and the memories come. I am not a 35-year-old woman standing
in this field. It is 1937 and I am a 16-year-old girl named
Evelyn Sharp and this is the field where I learned to fly. My
energy and Evelyn's mesh together as I stand on the grassy field.
I feel as though I have been transported to another time. The
grass field and the windsock, this is what Evelyn knew,
understood, and loved. They didn't have red and white lights or
surfaced runways here in 1937.

A period of time rushed through my body. No definite or clear
visual images, just the feelings of her life as a young girl.
Some of the memories are sad, but most are of joy and happiness
at the chance to experience and feel her own memories through a
living human being: me.

I can feel the love she felt toward all I was seeing and
feeling: the windsock, the solid cold ground beneath my feet.
The same ground she walked as she dreamed of becoming a flyer.
I also feel waves of love directed toward me for participating
in this odd adventure. When I arrived in Ord I, in my mind, had
given Evelyn permission to come together with me and experience
whatever it was she wanted of her hometown. I never realized
that a shared experience would leave me feeling so connected to
not only Evelyn, but to myself.

As I stand in the cold night, transfixed on this orange sock,
whipping in the distnce, I find myself walking toward it. As I
begin the 50-yard trek it is as though each one of my senses is
magnified a thousand times. Each blade of grass reaching up
through my shoes to leave their imprint on the bottom of my feet.
The crunching ground as I walk, the brush of frigid wind across the
soft hair on my face, and a pulsing heart that wants to jump out
of my chest to better love everything in its path. I feel huge,
like a giant. I am filled with everything I see, touch, hear,
and sense. All increased now to what seems ten thousand fold.

The brightly lit sock pulls me closer until I stand directly
beneath it. Head cocked backward, my eyes still need to look up
as it ripples in the wind. As the remembering continues I can
feel myself get greedy. I want to know more. What exactly am I
remembering and maybe if I concentrate harder the memories will
become more clear.

With that thought, the memories stop. It's as if I just snapped
out of it. I still feel connected to all that surrounds me, but
the memories of Evelyn and her past leave. I pick up a piece of
pipe that has broken off the windsock pole, put it in my pocket,
and walk back to the runway to find Denise. Although the
memories of Evelyn had vanished, I knew I would return later that
night, alone.