“Be willing to be willing,” the old man said.
Too young to understand then, I flew fast
in the face of life, fueled by energy of ego,
blissfully unaware of danger inherent in
over-confident naivete.

Then came the first crash. And then another.
And another. Damaged but determined still,
I resisted change of course, insisted on control
and climbed back in the cockpit, willing
death to dare defy me.

Playing poker that day, the gods laughed, let
life happen to me. At altitude of my success:
unexpected storm. Flying blind in whirlwind,
I lost my way and those I hadn’t needed left
me to my own devices.

As my plane took a nosedive, destruction of
my life ‘til now flashed before my eyes. I understood
loss, long recovery that would be mine long before
I jumped, saving only this red parachute, never used,
self and wounded pride.

Months stretched out like a runway, but journey back
gave me time to reconsider my resistance, that
resolute, absolute certainty I thought would save me.
Slowly, I learned to “become willing,” as William James
put it, “to have it so.”

Then, one night last week, I dreamed of the old man
I’d met in my youth. Smiling, he flung arms open wide,
had that same glint in his eye. Mysteriously,
all he said as he gazed into the heavens,
was, “Blue skies. Ready to fly?”

Today I am beginning to think I am willing to be
willing, to follow my dreams up and away. And also
to walk this runway, remember to risk life’s journey,
eyes open, relinquishing not adventurous spirit
but need for soul control.