For reasons that are in their own right moderately intriguing but not exactly germane to the topic at hand I recently ended up spending most of Sunday, July 5th, 2026, in the airport even though I had no flight of my own to catch.
Finding myself in the unusual circumstance of being surrounded by travelers while being one myself, my airport residency expanded unexpectedly due to a massive thunderstorm. Having no pressing aspirations other than an initial desire to not be at the airport, I chose to surrender to the reality of my predicament as a wingless bird in an endless flock of flapping holiday- weekend travelers as they collectively experienced their travel plans crumbling before their very eyes.
As if my circumstances as a non-flyer weren’t already somewhere between suspicious and auspicious, this particular midsummer season finds me in the midst of a once-ina–a-lifetime professional transition that has me in a reflective state of mind that I couldn’t previously have anticipated. After 18 cherished years at The Davis Academy passionately devoting my heart and soul to Jewish education, I have transitioned to the school’s Rabbi Emeritus and embarked on something new and, as yet, still taking wing. On more than one occasion during this season of professional change I have found myself looking at things in a different light and with different curiosity. Mostly, I’ve been looking for evidence of human connection. I’ve been looking for evidence of the fact that each of us yearns to transcend what a dear mentor and rabbi friend recently called, “the cave of self.” Perhaps unsuprisingly, the evidence is everywhere, including at the airport during a thunderstorm on a holiday weekend.
Knowing that air travel isn’t quite as fun as it apparently used to be or as we often imagine it still is, especially with flights being delayed and canceled, plans being disrupted, and general uncertainty and instability pervasive, I suppose I was expecting to witness a certain amount of disgruntledness. Agitation, frustration, exasperation, existential angst, and the usual stuff that comes with life unexpectedly interrupted. While there was surely plenty of that to go around, I didn’t register any of it. Instead, I saw something that suprised and ultimately delighted me even though, in retrospect, I saw exactly what I have come to expect.
It started with a spontaneous round of applause when a delayed flight finally began to board. When I first heard the applause I thought something really exceptional must’ve taken place. Even though it was just the sound of hands clapping, it felt true and genuine. It was heartfelt and enthusiastic, communal. The commonplace had become exceptional, and a group of people bound only by their common flight destination and shared recent history of inconvenience, collectively recognized the small miracle and gave voice to it, with their hands. I literally did a double take to make sure there wasn’t a celebrity, athelete or some other unicorn of a phenomenon as often happens at the Atlanta airport. Nope, just the commplace rendered exceptional but with the critical added component of people coming together, noticing and celebrating, together.
Meandering, I registered an unusual amount of chatter. But a particular kind of chatter, the chatter of strangers finding distraction in one another. The chatter of people who have no history, no drama, no agenda, and therefore no expectations or deeply worn grooves. The chatter of what Robert Hunter (lyricist of The Grateful Dead) called, “strangers stopping strangers just to shake their hands.” I overheard conversations that started with simple questions like “where are you headed” or “what did that gate agent just say”. Conversations triggered by gentle comments about clothing, luggage, waterbottles, summer travel plans, and university swag. I witnessed a group of strangers rally around the one Norweigan dude who sat stunned as Norway defeated Brazil in the Round of 16 commenting, “noone I know back home is sleeping tonight!” And then I realized that I too was a participant in this idle and yet completely delightful chatter. As I wandered and waited, I chatted with flight attendents who were supposed to be in Hawaii and folks heading to Vegas for “work” and people who were booking alterantive hotel accomodations in different cities than expected. I sensed little animosity and a lot of resignation. But not the defeated kind of resignation, more like a gentle surrender. The kind of surrender that comes with a front row seat when mother nature decides to put on her own fireworks show and there’s nothing you, or the thousands of other people around you, can do about it.
At the risk of sounding like an anti-tech enthusiast, I must confess that the moment of greatest delight was when I saw more people talking to one another than staring dead-eyed into their phones, tablets, and computers. As the lightning and thunder came down and the wind howled, so too did the human connection. All I can figure is that unwittingly, we were having a shared experience (the weather) and doing what people naturally do during a shared experience (connecting). I felt my blood pressure settle. My pulse too. I felt euphoric. It was a sacred moment. And I say that with the sincere belief that sacred moments are both incredibly common and generally under celebrated.
Eventually the weather lifted and the planes started to take off. Free of my circumstances, I left the terminal. Out in the baggage claim area I noticed a stark difference. More screens, more humans experiencing one another as inconveniences and obstacles to be circumambulated rather than as fellow participants in a great shared experience. More me and less we. The shared experience was fleeting. The human connection transactionalized. Had they too witnessed the storm?
A day later, I’m choosing to feel inspired, comforted, and reminded by this experience. It’s just one example of our natural inclination toward one another. Like birds flocking, like trees reaching toward sunlight, our connective instinct is just that, instinct. Forgetful, prone to distraction, and occasionally self sabotaging as we are, our instinct to turn towards one another, to celebrate together, to find distraction and solace in one another, solidarity and fellow spirit, can sometimes be quick to recede. But no matter how forgetful, distracted, or otherwise thrown we might be, all it takes is a simple thunderstorm to bring us back to each other.
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