 Let
Me Help You Rememberby Alan Cohen While
exiting a grocery store I noticed an unusual poster announcing, “You
already know how to meditate. Let me help you remember.” Ah, what an
empowering offer, I thought — a sharp contrast to the many
advertisements for products and services that tell us we are stupid or
broken and need intelligence or fixing. How wonderful it feels, and how
powerfully it works, to regard ourselves and each other as innately
wise — capable of accomplishing anything we choose; greater than any
task or challenge before us. Wouldn’t you like to be regarded as
magnificent? A few years ago I signed up for a
“You Fly” airplane flight which promised that I would be able to
take the stick of a small airplane and control the plane myself.
Flying an airplane had been one of my long-time dreams, so I eagerly
registered for the flight, a three-hour jaunt over three Hawaiian
islands. What a treat, I imagined, to be in charge of the aircraft for
a few minutes in mid-air. On the appointed day I drove to the commuter terminal at the
Maui airport, where I met the pilot, Scott. I informed Scott that I
had never piloted a plane before, and he told me that would be no
problem. Scott guided me out on the tarmac to a small twin-engine
Cessna, and he gave me a brief rundown about the various instruments
on the control panel. Scott strapped himself into the seat next to
mine and told me, “Now here’s how you take off…” Excuse me, I thought, I don’t
remember the advertisement saying anything about taking off. I started
to open my mouth to say, “Perhaps you didn’t you hear me say that
I’ve never flown before.” But when I looked over at Scott he was
on the radio setting up our takeoff with the control tower. Suddenly I
understood what was happening: he thought I could do it. To Scott,
taking off was not too much to ask of me. So, in spite of my
hesitation, I decided to keep my mouth shut. I decided that if I had a
choice between me being right about my inability or Scott being right
about my ability, I would rather choose his opinion. I would rather
fulfill his expectations of my greatness than my expectations of my
ineptitude. I decided to believe in his belief. I followed Scott’s
careful instructions, and within a few minutes we were airborne. I flew the airplane nearly three hours
that day. I flew over the dramatic north shore of Maui, past the
thousand-foot sweeping verdant cliffs of Molokai, across the golden
sand beaches of Lanai, then over whales and dolphins cavorting in the
rich blue ocean channel, then to Maui. There we buzzed my house and
made our way back to the airport. For nearly all that time I
controlled the airplane, with Scott stepping in occasionally to make
minor corrections. Eventually my nervousness had given way to
exhilaration, and my doubts yielded to confidence. As we approached the airport, Scott
surprised me again. “Now here’s how you land,” he told me in a
nonchalant way. Now wait just a minute, I felt like saying, ala Barney
Fife. Taking off and flying is one thing, but landing — now that’s
outright dangerous. Then I remembered a lesson from one of my favorite
flyers, Richard Bach, who suggested, “Argue for your limits, and
sure enough they’re yours.” I kept my mouth shut. As I guided us in according to
Scott’s instructions, the Cessna was rocked by a gust of wind.
“Sure is windy here,” Scott laughed. “I’ve seen pilots who got
their license on the mainland come here and try to deal with these
trade winds, and realize they didn’t really know how to land.”
Yow! Okay, just breathe, I thought. I kept following Scott’s
direction until he took over the stick just before touchdown. As I left the airport that day, I felt
higher than our flight. Scott’s belief in me brought out the best in
me. The airplane flight was three hours, the lesson was for a
lifetime. Then I remembered the powerful film
Stand and Deliver, in which James Edward Olmos dramatized the true
story or Jaime Escalente, a math teacher who went into the Los Angeles
barrios and decided to teach calculus to some of the school’s
lowest-functioning students. When the math department chairwoman
criticized Jaime, he boldly told her, “The students will live up to
the teacher’s expectations!” Everyone in Jaime’s class went on
to pass the state calculus test. At any given moment we have two voices
in our head: one which tells us we can’t, and another which tells us
we can. Which will prove true…The one we give the most attention to?
The one we act on? The one we make a stand for? You already know how to be magnificent. Let me help you remember. |
