It was a USAir flight from Pittsburgh to Boston, and at twenty, I had just graduated from university and was still deep into my period of intense period of spiritual searching and constantly reading the likes of Herman Hesse, Joel Goldsmith, Krishnamurti as well as delving into Eastern philosophy and meditation. This trip would not only be a major step in striking out on my own, but was to be my first airplane ride as well. It was a commuter flight consisting of business men in tidy suits with leather briefcases who seemed slightly annoyed at the inconvenience and drudgery of having to sit in a crowded plane before landing in Boston to carry on with important meetings and business. For me, however, this first flight was more than an exciting adventure—it was a sign of my growing independence and the beginning of a spiritual journey. It was, as the cliché goes, the first day of the rest of my life.

How could some people be reading nonchalantly or attempting to become comfortable for a nap, while the star ship was actually about to start moving—first at one quarter impulse power and then at warp speed? My eyes were glued to the window as the ship lumbered out to the launching area to find its place in the line behind the other starships big and small. The powerful currents of air that were spewing from near the warp engines, violently assaulted the green foliage surrounding the area, causing it to bend submissively. When the ship finally began the quick acceleration for takeoff, I braced myself needlessly to prepare for the acceleration to warp speed. As we ascended, I was thrilled at the sudden fall away of the land and relished the panoramic view on this clear July morning. We turned for a pass over the city, and I saw for the first time all the familiar places, buildings and streets from a new, wonderful perspective--the Civic Arena, the US Steel Building, Forbes Avenue, the Hill District, local Starfleet Command and the Duquesne campus on the bluff where I had spent the last four years trying to study music and shed the last vestiges of my post-adolescence. My mind raced quickly over the many people down below whom I knew—from my closest friends and family to the familiar, nameless folks working in stores and shops around the city. I enjoyed the fact that now I was so aware of them down below, while few, if any, were aware of me high above at this frozen and wondrous moment in time.

As we climbed quickly into the northeastern sky, leaving the city far behind, I reveled in a feeling of detached exhilaration. My separation from the activities and life below kept me in a state of wonderful awareness and contemplation. From this altitude everyone and everything below seemed so small, so fragile, so temporary, so dear. In addition, everyone in the plane seemed so vulnerable, everything seemed so ephemeral. Now only a carpet of clouds could be seen below. How easily we see things in perspective under unusual circumstances, yet how quickly such objectivity passes in the midst of busy, unconscious living. Everyone in the cabin had settled down to reading newspapers and magazines, munching on salty peanuts, drinking ice-filled soft drinks and coffee, napping and looking over important papers. The flight crew stood around the galley, talking quietly and occasionally giggling as they went about their routine tasks. Everyone seemed totally absorbed in what they were doing, unaware that they were being observed or blessed. At that moment, I also wondered if anyone might be observing the observer among them. I relished this feeling of detachment inside me, this awareness, this objectivity, this aloneness. Time seemed to stop.

Over the many years since that wondrous, youthful moment in time, I have struggled sometimes successfully, sometimes not to recapture that joyful awareness from my first plane ride that felt like a starship, when everything seemed so clear, cosmically simple and full of hope and promise. I have flown many, many times to many parts of the world since then, but I still remember with an inner smile that first taste of joy-filled attachment, that naïve but deeply felt post-adolescent longing for truth, thrilling like a first kiss—never to be repeated, never to be forgotten.

Now many years later, I find my older self on flights, impatiently eating the peanuts, quickly gulping the diet drinks, browsing through the magazines and looking over my important work. But every now and then a youthful memory breaks through the mundane, and I put down the soft drinks and peanuts, close the magazines and scores, and take the time to look around the cabin and try to see things as I once saw them and experience things again as I once felt them with youthful hope, spiritual detachment, wonder and thankfulness.