Captain of the Ship, Stagecoach Driver, Rider on the Range,
F15 Jet Pilot,
Source of Thought, Initiator of Initiators, Creator of Creativity: what
qualifications are required of me to serve you?
I'm not asking about worship although, to be sure, there's
a level of adoration within a certain context when that's
appropriate. Here I'm simply asking pragmatically what's
the best way for me to be to serve you as you lead our world so the
whole thing works best for everyone. What can I bring (or
not bring), what can I do (or not do) to
support you doing best what you do best?
We're tight in our yellow oilskin wet weather gear, racing through the
night, shot out over the ocean by the cannon of the storm, hatches
battened down, laughing riding the wildest swells powered
by dragons of
excellence,
blown by the winds of
privilege.
A stagecoach
rumbles
over the rough terrain, pulled by a dozen horses galloping full speed,
moving in a blur as one. I'm sitting in the shotgun seat
looking out over the plains, watching everything, expecting anything,
surprised by nothing. This ride with you is pure energy. Horses with
this velocity leave the riders on the storm in the dust,
and it's all we can do to just hang on, ecstatic, exhilarated,
exuberant,
and ride them in the direction they're taking us. Everything's tied
down. Prior to setting out on the trail, wheels are thoroughly
inspected and oiled. Reins, bridles, and halters are replaced if
necessary in preparation. It's all handled, so we've no concern about
and no attention on the physical integrity of our stagecoach or the
well being of our horses. All there is to do is ride, ride, ride.
It's sunset. The posse's getting ready to set out for the
evening roundup. First the huddle, the game plan, then the
saddle and stirrup check. Standing just behind and slightly wide of my
mount's right front leg, I smooth the hard ridge between his eyes,
asking his permission to inspect his shod hoof. When I'm clear he's
calmly accepted my request, I take his shin and raise his leg which he
obligingly bends at the knee. The hoof's fine. So are the other three.
We're ready to ride the range, now merely waiting on your
go signal.
As my
F15 Strike
Eagle jet
accelerates straight up heavenward like a rocket, unbelievably powerful
G-forces ram me back into its reinforced seat, clawing me
to the brink of blacking out. I can barely see, flying almost on
automatic, wing tip to wing tip in formation, mere inches
separating the
F15
from the one above, below, to the left, and to the right. There's one
way to do this right and one way only: keep the instrument panel in
full view, adjust instantaneously and accurately when necessary (which,
at this supersonic speed, means instinctively), and stay present
to your voice coming through the speakers in my helmet. This is no
dress rehearsal. One move as an independent and the entire
team goes down in flames. This is teamwork to the nth
degree. If you can't play here at this level then it's best you don't
play here at all. Qualifying to play here at this level separates the
women from the girls, the men from the boys.
Sailing with you isn't for those expecting deckchairs on a pleasure
cruise. Instead, it's work requiring full
participation
and total responsibility from each crew member. Riding shotgun with you
isn't for the faint hearted. Guns for hire in your posse require a
certain listening, a certain recognition to follow
instructions like "Do it this way because this is the way it
works.". Flying in formation with you invites catastrophe whenever
I bring my own opinion to bear. While the opportunity's open to all
pilots with any measure of experience, those unable to (or uncertain if
they can) recreate your intention in flight best sit in the control
tower and observe, and not fly with this squadron at all.
In the normal course of events we'd expect a certain explanation, a
certain coaching, a justification to go with what
we'd only know to perceive of as arrogance ... until we distinguish and
align with the
dictatorship of
gravity.
But when sailing hurricane churned stormy seas, when riding the
stagecoach through hostile territory, when embarking on the cowboys'
last roundup, when
piloting F15 Strike
Eagles
in split second wing tip to wing tip formation, by the time it's given the moment's lost.
I've learned some of the things which I'm required to take on if I'm to
sail battened down with you. If I agree to them I get to
be a cabin boy. If I own them I get to be the
chief officer.
Be willing to take correction - accept it as opportunity rather than
invalidation
Stay aware of the surroundings
Pay attention to the details - handle them fast and impeccably
Don't sweat the small stuff
It's all small stuff
Nothing will get done today other than what will get done today
Go all out - have a blast
The measure of my life when I'm gone will be what I leave as a result
of serving you, and I would like to leave something when
I'm gone. But monuments aren't what I have in mind. I'd
like to leave ease. I'd like to leave
workability.
I'd like to leave possibility. I'd like to leave obviousness.
It's obvious to me
there's nothing to do
but serve you:
true Self,
common Good. That's all there is to do. That's all that's worthwhile.
Everything else, all other pursuits are meaningless. All there is for
me to do is stow the freight, secure the cargo, batten down the hatches
and set sail with you.