Flying Lessons

When I was a kid I wanted to learn how to fly airplanes.  Actually, I probably just wanted to be able to fly.  Period.  I can remember lying on the grass in the park across the street from my house watching glider planes float gracefully across the sky.  They were silent, having no engine to keep them aloft.  They were my favorite planes.  I’d watch them, promising myself that someday I would take flying lessons.

Somewhere between childhood and middle age that desire faded.  My earlier fascination with flying vanished after a few religious experiences flying in Southeast Alaska in the wintertime.  I recall one flight in particular when I think I may have promised God never to leave the ground again if I could just return to it safely this one last time.  I haven’t kept that promise, but somewhere along the way I did lose interest in ever learning how to fly.

Then one morning I was on my way home, in an airplane.  It was a beautiful morning, and a peaceful flight.  I was reading a book a friend had given to me and I came across a quote by physicist, Edward Teller.

“When you get to the end of all the light you know and it’s time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen:  either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly.”

Taught how to fly.  I started to tear up, and turned to look out the window at the ground far below.  That last part played through my mind again and again.  “Either you will be given something solid to stand on.  Or you will be taught how to fly.”

I tend to prefer the former.  I like to be in control.  To make the decisions in my life.  To be able to handle things.  I like to stay standing.  No matter what.  When the weight of all my burdens has me stooped over, unable to straighten up, I will still fight to stay standing.  Even when I’ve come to the end of all light I know.

Crises are a strange time.  Everyone asks how you’re doing in the middle of them.  I don’t know why that is.  Maybe they’re hoping that you’re not doing how they think you’re doing.  Which is exactly how you are doing.  But you don’t want to say that.  You don’t want to let on that you really are human.  And fragile.  And devastated.  So instead, you smile and nod your head reassuringly.  Mercifully numb with disbelief.

They pat you on the back again.  Or squeeze your arm.  They’re relieved.  Pleased to see that you’re doing so well.  Which, of course, you’re not.  And you turn away as quickly as possible so that they don’t see the tears welling up in your eyes.

Your mind grasps for anything.  Anything that will keep back the tears for a few more minutes.  Anything to bring you back to this moment in time.  And sometimes the best you can come up with is to remind yourself to pick up kitty litter and another gallon of milk at the store on the way home.

And with each passing moment the light continues to fade.  Until darkness is everywhere.  You can’t see.  You can’t think.  You’re alone. Absent of any light at all.  And it’s time to step out in faith.

The fear would have you stay there without moving.  Paralyzed.  But you can’t survive there.  So, you tentatively reach out with one foot, feeling for any kind of foundation.  Your mind plays various “what if” scenarios. You strain for the slightest bit of light.  Anything to see by.  You grasp for anything firm to hold onto.  Or something solid to stand on.  Anything at all, so that you don’t have to rely strictly on faith.

I sat on that airplane staring out the window for the rest of my flight home that morning.  It was a beautiful morning.  The sun was bright.  The water sparkled like a field of diamonds.  And I kept playing that statement over again and again in my mind.

“Either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly.”

As we started our descent, I wiped the last of the tears from my cheeks and started to smile.  All this time I’d been foolishly trying to stay standing.  Seeking in vain for something solid to stand on.  Some foothold in the darkness.  I hadn’t realized that I was, instead, being taught how to fly.