#TBT-The View From Here

To get to the top of a mountain you first have to walk through a valley or traverse some pathway from below. Once you reach the top you can look down and see where you’ve come from and enjoy the view.

Once upon a time I was afraid of heights. I didn’t want to climb, drive or take an elevator to the top of anything. I had been in some high places, but it wasn’t something I wanted to make a habit of, plus I didn’t like the feeling of vertigo I would sometimes get. I knew it was really a sense of mind over matter, but didn’t know how to overcome it until my son Ben challenged me to go skydiving with him for my 40th birthday. What better way to face your fear than head on! I had flown in an airplane a few times and didn’t have any issues with that, in fact,

I usually requested a window seat so I could look out and marvel at the view below.

“Maybe we all can’t spill up into the sky, but if we dream enough about it, we can all fly.”

This a quote from a 1986 movie called “The Boy Who Could Fly.” It’s message was that we can do whatever we believe we can. I hand wrote this quote in calligraphy on fancy paper and had it on the wall in my bedroom for many years. It was a reminder that believing I could fly was a matter of perspective and I was my only obstacle.

Ben and I made a date for a tandem skydive near my birthday. I told him I wasn’t scared. He said I was crazy to not be scared. I countered with the notion that it was something I wanted to do so why would I be scared? He wasn’t because at this point he had earned his Airborne wings as an Army Ranger and had completed five static line jumps out of an airplane to do so. When the day arrived for our jump, I still wasn’t scared - until we pulled into the parking lot. I told Ben I wasn’t going to do it. He snapped back, “Yes, you are!” I said, “No, I’m not!” We went back and forth a few times with this as we were approaching the check in. I still suited up and listened to my jumpmaster give me instructions while fighting a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. As I sat in the tiny 12-seater Cessna awaiting takeoff I started to panic. What do I do? What do I do? We were picking up speed on the runway, the only option was to run to the door and jump out. Wait, isn’t this exactly what I was here to do? I want to do this. Deep breaths. I liked flying because I loved the view from being up high. I suddenly realized that I was the obstacle to overcoming my fear and was allowing it to take over and spoil the experience. At that moment I took a deep breath and turned to look out the window as we were rising off the ground. It was spring in west central Wisconsin. The ground below was a grid of lush green grass and dried up amber grains divided by the dusty dirt roads of the rural landscape getting farther underneath us as we rose to 13,000 feet. It was beautiful. Mind over matter. I slammed the door on my fear and jumped out of that perfectly good airplane.

My fear of heights disappeared the minute I was airborne. I had thought skydiving would be like riding the ultimate roller coaster. It wasn’t. It was one of the most peaceful and serene experiences I have ever had. It was quiet up there, almost a deafening silence, one that brought an incredible sense of awe in what I was seeing from my birds eye view. I saw where we had started. I saw the highway that lead to where we started. I saw the campground next to where we started. I saw wispy clouds painted all around me in the azure sky. The three minutes I was flying ticked by in slow motion. I was relaxed and breathing easy by the time I was back on the ground.

Since that time, I have done whatever I could to find the highest point of places I have traveled. I have hiked an old lava trail in Kauai, driven through the Rocky and Sierra Nevada mountains, stood on the edge of the Grand Canyon and Lookout Mountain in Tennessee with a glorious view of the seven neighboring states below. I saw the Finger Lakes in upstate New York from my airplane window and hiked on the same mountain trails that George Washington did near West Point. I even jumped out of an airplane once more, this time over the islands of Key West in Florida.

All of these places provoke memories I haven’t forgot. They all share a reminder that flying is a matter of perspective, and so is fear. Flying to me doesn’t necessarily mean being in an airplane or attached to a jumpmaster at 13,ooo feet. Flying to me is the absence of fear. Flying to me is the freedom I have given myself to not fear standing or sitting on the edge of a beautiful mountain. It’s the freedom to appreciate the view from where I have come and being grateful to have reached the top of such a pretty place. There is actually a place in SC that is called Pretty Place. It’s the top of Standing Stone Mountain and houses the Fred W. Symmes Chapel. It’s elevation is only 3,200 feet above sea level, but the views will take your breath away. The chapel stays busy in the warm months with weddings on the periphery of some of nature’s greatest beauty. I have been here several times and sat on the very edge taking it in one breathe at a time. The last time was with my dog. He’s been flying with me for eight years. We met a couple who had made this Pretty Place their last stop on a week long honeymoon road trip.

These are all living parables of my life story. I have let fear hold me back and keep me from flying. I didn’t believe I could. It’s not in the dreaming that I found my wings, it’s in the flying itself from dreaming enough about it and realizing I was standing in my own way.

Maybe we all can’t spill up into the sky, but if we dream enough about it, we can all fly.