I was on an overnight flight from Los Angeles to London recently. Next to me was seated a little boy and next to him, his sister. His parents were on the other side of the aisle from them.

Within a couple of hours, the lights in the cabin were turned off to allow us to get some sleep.

I drifted off into dreamland.

Nudge! I felt the boy’s elbow prod my arm. He was fast asleep, but somehow sleep made him more active with his limbs. Perhaps he was dreaming he was Batman.

I put his arm back on him and drifted back to sleep again.

Nudge! I felt the boy’s fist on my shoulder.

He was clearly violating my airspace. You know what I am referring to. There is this imaginary wall that extends vertically up from your seat and armrest. We all know that you’re meant to keep all your limbs on one side of the wall, and I am meant to keep all of mine on the other side.

So the third time it happened, I became very, very displeased. I weighed my options.

“You can’t wake him up and complain to him, because this is happening in his sleep and he won’t be able to control it.”

That was not an option.

“Go and speak with one of the flight attendants! You paid for your seat, and you deserve your space. This is their problem to solve, not yours!”

But once I put myself in the flight attendants’ shoes, I realized they too wouldn’t have any easy solution to this.

“Why did his parents not seat him next to one of them and have the other parent take the seat he is in beside me? Instead here they are, sleeping soundly, blissfully oblivious of the blows Batman’s striking me! Let’s get them to move him to the other side of the aisle next to one of them, and then the other parent can be here on his seat.”

I started to unlock my seatbelt to go over to them. And then I remembered.

When my daughter was a little girl, she would at times kick in her sleep. It wasn’t a welcome experience if you were sleeping next to her, and yet, as her father, I found it so endearing.

I looked back at Little Batman, nestled in his seat. I remembered how he had smiled shyly and thanked me when I helped him pull out his tray. How he listened attentively and responded when I had guided him about what the flight attendant wanted to know about his food preferences. He had been a very quiet, sweet-natured presence by my side.

I looked back at his parents. It mustn’t be easy, traveling such long distances with two small ones.

“They need their sleep”, I thought.

And then it hit me.

“What if you see him as your own son?”

I made peace with the situation. And drifted back to sleep.

There were perhaps two other occasions where I felt a prod from Little Batman’s elbow, but my emotional response was much different now, like that of a loving father, gently moving his arm to his own airspace.

As we awoke to the morning light, high up in the skies, I silently returned Batman to his parents’ care.

How quickly a situation improves when we are open to a shift of perspective.

What breakthrough may arise if you were to open your heart to a whole new way of understanding and relating to someone who has been disappointing you in life, someone you continue to have a practical or emotional connection with?

Warmly,
Hitendra

Like This Newsletter?
Share it with someone who might find it valuable.