"Within the span of 3 years, I felt like I had earned a Ph.D. in loss and grieving. It's a degree I never wanted.but now that I've got the experience, I want to share it with others. I learned a lot, and much of it was not contained in the shelves of books I read on the subject. If I can help one person hang on to hope through life-altering loss - if I can help just one person know that it is through the process of grieving that one can find the path back to a rich and fulfilling life - I will be profoundly grateful. Because to help illuminate the way for someone else will mean that the insights I gained during my darkest nights will not have been in vain. And then that person might light the way for someone else." - Nancy Lynn
I didn't know Nancy as well as I would have liked to...though we've shared many a hot ramp at air shows along the East Coast. I've watched her perform countless times, broken bread with her in the performers' tent, and listened with no small amount of awe to whatever she happened to say. Nancy was a dynamic and inspiring person. She had guts...moxy. She believed that a life well lived required some risk. She loved aviation, and revelled in any opportunity to inspire young women to fly.
Perhaps it is inexplicable...the love of flying. Some people are bitten by it, and are incurably infected. Others remain either aloof or even repelled by it. I absolutely fall in the bitten and infected category. Flying, for me, is like kissing God on the mouth. It is a sublime and incomparable experience. The perspective is unlike any other (though on the ground, a motorcycle comes closest). When the wheels lift away from the runway, there is a shift...an unfettering of the surly bonds that a favorite poem, High Flight, by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., speaks of so eloquently. There is peace. When you explore the sky, you also explore your self.
As tragic as Nancy's death has been, I feel a deep need to revisit these thoughts. I want to somehow reassure her that, despite this, I will fly. I know that she would loathe ever being the cause for another person not to fly, no matter what. I know this because that is how she lived. I know this because that is the choice she, herself, made.
I have been to too many funerals. When many of your friends and acquaintances fly warbirds and stunt planes, the sad fact is that many of them "go west." As hard as it is to live this, I would not give up having known any of them in order to be spared such grief.
Nancy's passing has been the hardest. There is no question. There are many reasons why that is true...Nancy's own loss ranking at the top. Worse, I witnessed the crash. Worse still, most of the best friends I have in this life witnessed it with me...and it is harder than anything I can describe to see what I feel mirrored on their faces. They say misery loves company...they lied. Misery would prefer a sympathetic ear, a solid shoulder, and a large box of tissues. The icing on all this cake is that this tragic and inexplicable thing happened at my home airport. It may as well have happened in my living room. It is too difficult to explain the meaning of the location...there are those who already understand it all to well. That will have to be enough.
On Saturday, October 14th, 2006, the sky spit Nancy's red and white Extra 300 onto the grass beside the runway at Culpeper County Airport (CJR). What had been a stunningly beautiful and lighthearted day was suddenly buried in billowing black clouds and flames, and a sense of helplessness that defies any description. I will not speak more than that of the event, itself. This is grief, not a spectator sport...I am not writing this to entertain the curious. I am writing it because writing is part of how I process things...and I want to understand this. I also want to never understand this.
Nancy would want everyone who knew her to celebrate her life, rather than mourn. I am failing that test...it is impossible not to mourn. But celebration may become an important part of how mourning heals. I wrote this thoroughly inadequate poem last night, after returning to CJR to face my particular demons. They were there, waiting for me. I met them in the scorched grass, beside the runway, beneath a sky that looked at me like a mirror.
Closure In memory of Nancy Lynn By C. E. Laine
Crossing the runway, my feet are nearly silent. Like an orange finger, the windsock points:
There. As if I needed any reminder.
Someone else left roses.
Red ones - like those paint chips kissing the scorched grass.
They are wilting - petals and paint.
The scarred earth offers only blackness. I want closure, but the wound remains open, still damp with Tuesday's rain.
Learn more about the fascinating aviatrix Nancy Lynn at http://www.lynnaviation.com/. Nancy leaves behind a son, Peter, who is now without either parent. In lieu of flowers or condolences, the family requests donations towards Pete's education:
The Pete Muntean Education Fund c/o Bank Annapolis 1000 Bestgate Road Suite 400 Annapolis, MD 21401
About the Author
Christine E. Laine lives in Virginia, in the shadow of crow's wings passing over as they fly off buildings shorter than the Washington Monument in nearby DC. She is left-handed, was once an extra in a movie with Nicholas Cage, and spends spare time (when there is any) flying around in old warbirds.
She is a two-time Pushcart Prize Nominee (2004 and 2005). She has written three full-length volumes of poetry (Allegory, The Weight Of Dust, and Postcards From A Summer Girl) and two chapbooks (Suburban Fairy Tales of Brilliant Ash and Blue Sins). She is the editor of Little Poem Press, VLQ (Verse Libre Quarterly), and co-editor of Erosha. Her work has appeared in several anthologies and countless publications, both in print and online.
My curse is my gift. My nightmares, deep sensitivity, and emotional instability gives the best (and most uncomfortable) inspirations I could ever have. For me, art is passion - and visions are the mirror, which show my feelings and connect me with the rest of the world. Read More...
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