Just returned from France and Switzerland where I had the chance to visit with a a good friend again. The same friend that unknowingly spurred me to buy a hot air balloon earlier this year.
Yes. A HOT AIR BALLOON.
At the time, she had no idea that she had inspired such an unusual purchase. Yet when we met in San Antonio at the end of February, she changed my life. "Hank (name changed for this blog) and I had treated the kids and grandkids to a trip to Hawaii," she said. "And as we sat there enjoying the beauty of Maui, we took a moment to appreciate our good fortune: Hank had just turned 60 and was on the verge of retiring, we were financially stable, our son and daughter were each happily married, we had two wonderful grandsons. Life was good!" Two months later, she was in surgery for advanced ovarian cancer.
She's been battling this unwanted invader ever since, almost two years now. Her CSA-125 is down (that's good), then it's up (not so good). She starts chemo, stops, starts again. This time she may lose her hair again. That, more than anything, is the clear, outward proof that there is something really wrong. And it's disheartening. Although she knows - we all know - that there is something funky going on even without the thinning hair and daily visits to the doctor. Her life has been changed forever. And she's not alone.
Another friend - OK, to be honest we were estranged by the time I found out that she was critically ill with advanced breast cancer - died last fall at age 52. She left behind not only her husband but a five-year-old daughter, their only child. My friend and I were exactly the same age. We graduated from high school the same year, different cities, same baby boom era. I think of her often these days. Our differences seem trivial now. I feel her presence "through the veil" and appreciate the depth of her grief at leaving this life prematurely.
And my former executive coach, who worked with me for four long years, was at the top of her game when she found out the numbness in her legs was multiple sclerosis. Two years later, she walks with a cane and falls a little too often. She struggles with depression and wonders how the heck she can convince the people at disability that she really can't work any more.
My best friend since the seventh grade is a breast cancer survivor. But she has lymphodema. Her left arm is permanently swollen to twice its size. And a paper cut on that hand can send her to the hospital with infection, a threat made more difficult due to her teaching schedule. First-graders use a lot of paper.
Everywhere I turn our fragile human bodies are breaking down, turning against us, reminding us that mortality is inevitable. We don't get out of this alive, after all. It's HOW we live that matters in the end. Because there WILL be an end.
My husband is on intimate terms with the brevity of life. He has cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease that clogs his lungs and digestive system. For a decade and a half I have listened to him work for breath; he takes two breaths to my one. I can gauge how he's doing by the intensity of his cough. He was supposed to die at 12. Then at 20. Then at 30. And now, at 54, he kids me that he is cured, although we both know that each new infection scars his lungs. He has no time to feel sorry for himself; he's too busy living his glorious life. What an inspiration!
And so I decided to live like I was dying. Because I am. My friends are. We ALL are. One of these days will be my last. Who knows what kind of revolt my own body is planning RIGHT NOW, without my knowledge and certainly without my permission? Life is unpredictable. I might not even be here a year from now. But if I die next month, I decided that I will have died owning a hot air balloon!
So I bought one, even though I AM AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!!! Then I bought a big gas guzzling van (not proud of that but how else do you haul around a 500-pound balloon?). I flew to San Antonio, Texas by myself, picked up my red stained glass balloon, which I had already dubbed the Passionate Possibility balloon, and drove 1300 miles alone all the way back to North Carolina (more about that later).
It was an odessey. I was living directly from the heart, chest thrust forward, head tilted back, letting my heart lead instead of my mind. Yeah, there were some bumps. That happens when you lead with your heart. But I wouldn't give anything for the experience of taking that leap of faith. Like Luke Skywalker putting a foot out into thin air and finding a narrow bridge that was hidden until he trusted himself. For me, this adventure has always been more about BUYING the balloon than FLYING it.
Will I go ahead and take flying lessons? Of course I will, fingernails digging into the basket to steady my nerves!
I will FLY, lift off and float into the ether. Fearless and Free. A fitting epitaph for any of us.
And now I listen to Tim McGraw sing about a friend who went through exactly what my friends have endured.
"I spent most of the next days, looking at the x-rays...this might be the real end ... man what d'ya do?"
And the answer is loud, clear and vibrant:
"I went skydiving, I went Rocky Mountain mountain climbing...I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu
I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter and watched the eagle as it was flying...
Someday I hope you get the chance to live like you were dying!"
I refuse to wait until I am face-to-face with death to be fully alive.
Living at full throttle makes my skin tingle, my gaze soften and my heart overflow with absolute love.
Your turn. Wanna fly?
