The Moment Between Past and Future

Morning Thought

Now that I am retired, I see more clearly how I once lived suspended between two horizons. The schedules would summon the past—previous routes, familiar airports, accumulated hours—and at the same time they would project me forward into a future already outlined. Between those two stood the present moment—fragile, fleeting, never fully still.

As a pilot, I was rarely “in” the now. Even during layovers, there was movement within. I was either preparing for what was coming or carrying what had just been. Every moment held a dual weight: anticipation and recollection. The present felt less like a resting point and more like a narrow corridor between departure and arrival.

Evening Thought

In the quiet of evening, I recognize the deeper truth of that existence. The timetable was not merely a tool of organization; it was an embodiment of transitional time. It subtly reminded me that I was always on my way—never simply settled. Going to a flight. Returning from one. Preparing for the next.

This is perhaps the hidden essence of the pilot’s profession: a permanently temporary life. A constant movement between a point left behind and a point not yet reached. Between a past that was and a future that waits. The pure present—if it ever appeared—was brief and almost intangible.

Now, grounded at last, I understand that this perpetual transit shaped my inner life as much as my career. I learned to live without clinging too tightly to arrival, and without fearing departure. And perhaps that is the quiet wisdom flight leaves behind: life itself is a journey between what has been and what will be—and the art lies in walking that narrow passage with awareness.