Getting from A to Z: A Short Guide to Tuning In, Tuning Out and Turning it On

I’m never late.  I set multiple alarms, prepare diligently and build in time for unforeseen circumstances.  I also never stress in advance; but, it takes fail-proof preparation to ensure this model is successful. The key, I have learned over time, is to know when to tune out, when to tune in, and when to turn it up! Way up.

A very wise companion- ok, my husband- once assured me that in anxiety inducing situations I needn’t worry ahead of doom as should it actually come to pass, I’ll have adequate time to stress about it then. The assurance that I would be afforded the opportunity to worry eventually, allowed me to give up the privilege of worrying about things beforehand.  As the old adage goes “If it ain’t happening now, it ain’t happening”. I was previously sure that if I fretted ahead of time, the exercise might avert the anticipated crisis. I was unwilling to surrender my right to the uneasiness. Assured I’d have this chance should the need arise, I truly now let it go until the impending disaster is upon me.

For example, as I vigorously bobble on this tinker-toy of a regional jet in turbulence-the likes of which I've never before experienced- I'm soothed by the notion that I will indeed get a chance to shriek all the way down should we ultimately plunge to our deaths. Rather, I resist the urge to allow anxiety to take hold, my palms cooperate by not sweating, and I’m able to flash a smile of assurance to the nervous woman beside me.

Back in my skydiving heyday I was on a jump plane once where a jumpmaster was lecturing us experienced jumpers on the importance of wearing helmets. A follow skydiver, who was also a pilot, remarked that actually in the event of a crash the helmet would only melt into our heads as we burned in the fiery fuselage.  We all had a laugh and wouldn’t you know it, not a one of us perished on that day.

I am always prepared, but never too far in advance and this seems to work. Over the years I have accepted that I, in fact, do not blow deadlines, miss airplanes, or sleep through alarms. If my daughter were reading this she would no doubt remind me of the time I forgot her 2^nd grade science fair, and the other parents had to come look at her creation out of pity since she seemed to have no other support, but I was younger then. I had not developed the tools I have today, and this is only a blog, not an exact science. Everyone is perfect in a blog.

I travel extensively these days.  In the next 3 weeks I will take 12 airplanes, experience 24 takeoffs and landings, and meet with well over 100 people. I’ve become a master at tuning out things that don’t require my mental presence; thus amassing critical cerebral reserves. I don’t pay attention most times to where I’m connecting through and don’t look ahead much further than the next few hours. The key though is in knowing how to innately tune back in just in the nick of time. Most trips, I tune out the connecting city and often find myself looking at my boarding pass to see where I am. So this is Chicago? Good to know. However, when I take a call, respond to an email or meet a client or colleague for dinner, I don’t miss a minute, a look, a vibe, or a word.

When I travel, I sleep well, drink very little and make sure that my A game comes with me into every meeting. Someone once told me as I was preparing for a negotiation not to worry because my “B game was everyone else’s A game”. That felt good, but the truth is home and work get my A game. Everywhere else? Well, you’re lucky if you see my Z game.

Come to think of it, where did I park my car?

A Bird in the Hand

I get pleasure from irony! It wakes me up, smacks me on the tush and makes me walk taller. It is incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs. This morning while balancing my latte as I drove, I swerved my minivan to avoid a Robin that had made a most daring left bank into my path. In doing so, I nearly caused a head on collision with an oncoming SUV. It was a dazzling start to my day!

When my children were small I felt sure that I would meet a regrettable end careening down our staircase after tripping over a Polly Pocket playhouse left precariously at the top of the stairs.  I made my husband swear that, upon such an ill-fated occasion, he would write a wonderfully descriptive obituary that would claim my demise was a result of a heli-skiing accident and that he would groom the kids accordingly so they would support the bleak tale in their preschool, thus leaving me in memoriam with some shred of dignity.

Even now the idea, that I would perish trying to avoid the great Turdus Migratorius is fitting in an oddly satisfying sense. I have leapt willingly from airplanes, flown them solo a time or two, taken 1200 pound horses over stone walls, and dove down to the ocean depths with sharks, but today my obituary nearly read “died tragically and suddenly while irresponsibly drinking her morning coffee and maneuvering her minivan out of the path of an oncoming songbird”. As I brought the vehicle I fondly refer to as the MomBomb, which ironically emits a gentle airplane-like engine hum, back under control I remembered the days behind the yoke of my Cessna and laughed at the irony of this day and the many many days that had passed between then and now.

How had so much changed? There is a canyon like chasm between bypassing ultralight aircraft or even birds in flight under a parachute canopy and this. As an avid skydiver, I have spent many days mixed among clouds and azure skies doing the former and yet to use the term 'distant memory' is hardly descriptive enough. Continuing my drive to work, I laughed out loud at my choices, and time, and moments that force us to see ourselves clearly. I put my coffee mug securely into the cup holder and surrendered to reminiscences of the past.

Twelve years ago my husband and I boarded a King Air at Bay Area Skydiving in Byron, California. Our three month old daughter was on the ground with friends as we enjoyed another skydive. The engines revved and the smell of jet fuel filled the fuselage; a rush of adrenaline that I had become so dependent on filled my veins. A deep breath, a look around at my fellow jumpers, no doubt a smile from ear to ear and we rolled down the runway. Perfect blue skies. Seated on the floor, I leaned back between my husband’s legs and pressed my back up against his chest.

I had jumped hundreds of times, but the anticipation was different that day and I remember it well. I leaned back with my mouth near my husband’s ear and said “What are we doing? We are throwing both of our baby's parents out of a plane.” I can't remember if he heard me over the engine noise, but I heard me loud and clear. I love skydiving, I miss it, and I believe in it for everyone, parents included. But the irony of our actions that day made me see something about myself I had not seen before. It was my last jump.

I do love a thrill and admittedly adrenaline is still my drug of choice, though my fixes are few and far between. Life is kind that way, there is irony in the ordinary - subtle wake up calls to grab onto gratitude and acknowledge the value of simply being content.

I hope that Robin appreciates what I did for him this morning? He owes me a thank you. And I him.