Surrender at 30,000 Feet
You were never the pilot. You were the passenger
A few years ago, I watched a man in tears on a park bench within the vicinity of my job. The thirty seconds or so of noticing what was going on seems to have left a didactic groove in my memory. This man wore a crisp navy suit, polished shoes, and because I was close enough, I could see he wore the kind of watch that would easily signal a ‘fashion statement’. His frame had folded in on itself, as something inside must have given way. My strongest guess was that he had lost his job, from the less audible murmurs I could hear. I noticed how his hands covered his face, shielding what he could no longer contain. No one was paying attention or stopped. I didn’t either—well, not with my feet. But something in me did. I slowed down and was more conscious of my thoughts and projections on what may have been going on with this man. Times like these, I thought, he would either find himself completely broken or he would be breaking open something more valuable for his life journey. And I could relate to that moment where one loses everything despite one’s best effort. I could relate to the effect of waking up to a type of day and not knowing that would be the last time I’d step into an establishment or relationship.
You see, there comes a time when all the scaffolding of understanding we’ve built—ambition, logic, faith in cause and effect—begins to crack. I don’t know when that happens for each and every one of us. But if you’re the type who pays attention, you may begin to see that the solid structures of safety that you kept in place was not as solid as you thought. The systems that we were told could never fail begin to show their soft bellies. In the US right now, we are beginning to see those previously rigid structures begin to crack under the weight of a different administration. In all of this, it is not because we failed or that we weren’t diligent enough. Surely, it’s not that. Perhaps it’s because life never promised to follow our plans in the first place. If one has been conditioned through a religion that has a narcissistic deity as its God, then when life turns sour, it’s often because we didn’t do well enough, didn’t pray hard enough, didn’t tithe consistently enough or it could be that sin that one committed in college that finally caused our demise. We instantly tie a cause to the effect then scramble to find a solution, further reinforcing the belief that we somehow have the levers of control over life. Don’t get me wrong, I am not advocating for passivity when it comes to dealing with life. I am only pointing out something we do so reactively that we don’t realize that solutions to the tough patches in our lives are not generated through reliance on thoughts but in the reckless uncompromising trust in an intelligence that transcends the personal. That man I saw on the bench could have been any of us. The grief I saw in his posture didn’t look like just the result of one mistake. In my projection, it would seem like the grief was the realization that he never had the reins at all.
We like to think we’re in charge. That if we apply enough effort, enough insight, enough caution, earn all the degrees, choose the right jobs, be with the right partners, we can steer the plane. Culturally, we have been taught to hold the steering wheel, to sit our asses down in the cockpit and fly the plane in whichever direction we would want. And it does seem like we are ‘doing something’. But the deeper truth, the one we resist until we finally see it, is that we’re passengers more than pilots. Yes, passengers of life who believe that there’s truly something personal about our odysseys.
This is where the contemplative path begins. It’s a delicate path. One where we have to also watch that we are not bypassing the work of seeing through the ego and all the ways it wiggles out of view. This delicate path is not for escaping life but being fully present to it and learning what it is to truly surrender. It is the path of unclenching—of slowly opening the hand we’ve kept tight around certainty, and letting ourselves be led by something far larger than the mind can grasp. In that letting go, something becomes clear: the one we thought was doing all the choosing, all the fixing, all the efforting—was never really there. There was only the Divine. Moving. Guiding. Pulling every lever behind the curtain.
To see this is not to lose agency, but to wake up from a smaller story. One where we were alone, striving, calculating. In its place, a vast intimacy emerges. We’re not isolated fragments trying to manage chaos. We’re part of a whole we’ll never fully understand—and don’t need to. Life becomes less about directing, more about listening. Less about imposing order, more about aligning with the mysterious flow that was always carrying us anyway. Oh, just look outside, see how effortless all of life unfurls.
So when I say “you were never the pilot” I’m not articulating an abdication of responsibility. I’m acknowledging reality. I’m bowing to what has always been true. That this life, with all its twists and ruptures, was never mine to control. And the more I see that, the more I can live—not as the author of my story, but as its witness, its participant, its offering.
I am reminded of a portion in Bal Natu’s book, Conversations With The Awakener, that I am excited to share. In the chapter Friendly As Well As Fiery, his metaphoric dialogue ends with him asking God, “Will You bless me?”
God then replies, “Asking creates a distance. When you offer yourself to My will, you know that you have already received what you seek. Wait and see”.
What an expression of what it feels like to be so aligned with life that we can trust the proficiency of the pilot.
Contemplative Currents is a free (bi-weekly) newsletter that aims to shed light into our daily experiences as opportunities for contemplation of this glorious Mystery. If you'd like to support my work, please consider subscribing and/or sharing this free Substack. If you’re looking to monetarily support, buying my book, This Glorious Dance: Thoughts & Contemplations About Who We Are, is enough. I'm grateful for your support in whatever capacity.