get your plane right on time

This song has been going through my head for days. It's been popping in, popping out, as my husband has prepared for his trip away.

And on our last afternoon together yesterday, we went to the beach. We were pottering around the rocks and the tide pools, the surf breaking on the rock edges, autumn sun at our backs. All my family close. All mine in this moment, with me…

…and just like that, I broke into song.

This song specifically. Suddenly there I was, warbling away.
I don't know that I could have kept it in!

And at some point mid-song, I realised…we weren't actually alone on the rocks. In fact there was a little family directly behind me…right behind my back.

So I slowly faded out, like someone was turning down my volume. And I then I started chatting to my son, acting all, "Oh, and anyway, look at this pool!" like I'd never been singing at all.

Not embarrassing in the slightest!


But even though it was kind of embarrassing, it kind of wasn't too,

because the song had to be sung.

Because my emotions were buzzing out of me, in that moment, by the sea, with those I love most close by and so dear.

Because my best friend was about to take off over this water. And be gone for some time. And my nerves felt a little like fire at the thought—of him going, away and without us. And I wanted to know he would be safe and I wanted him to be well and I wanted the trip to be a wild and beautiful success. And I wanted him close and I wanted him not to go and I wanted him to go, all at once, in a ball of tangled nerves and fire by my heart.

So I sang. Just like that. Out over the water.


I adore this song. Always have.

My whole life I've sung it, and now I wonder,

have I always sung it when I've felt life—and love—this hard and tender? This pure and this big?

Maybe I have.

I love you, Mr Beautiful.