Let Me
Help You Remember--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 that 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 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 joels of Molokai, across the golden
sand beaches of Lanai, then over whales and dolphins cavorting in the
rich blue ocean channel back 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, à la 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.
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