Taking Flight (Part 2): “It’s Now or Never”
- Lavavoth
- Apr 16
- 13 min read
Updated: Apr 27
The morning of July 4, 2018, was one of those sunny, unrelenting, sticky days that leave no doubt a Vermont summer is in full swing. You endure the harsh winters, holding out for days like this, waiting for what feels like eons for them to finally arrive, and when they do, everything feels momentarily aligned. All is well in the world, I think to myself, as I listen to the musical whistles and trills of a Winter Wren rising from the dense tangles of marsh grasses behind my home. In the distance, just out of sight, the corn stalks were, as the saying goes, knee-high by the Fourth of July.
Even then, my thoughts kept circling back to the end of the month. I was scheduled to undergo major surgery, with a minimum six-week recovery that would cut into my daily routine of walking the bike path in Stowe. I had just purchased a condo there a month earlier, and I wanted to take full advantage of it before the procedure. The issue was found by accident, and before I had time to fully process it, my doctor had already begun coordinating surgical referrals and ordering imaging. With the procedure now only weeks away, it was nearly all I thought about, what I could still enjoy and what would be put on hold.
Hans, despite his ability to access future events by way of post-death consciousness, seemed to move within a quantum field of existence where past, present, and future coexist simultaneously.
I was in the kitchen preparing coffee when I heard Hans say, “Conquer your fear of flight. Go gliding with me now.”
I let out a laugh, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. “Says the once fearless fighter pilot with a million sorties under his belt. Hard pass,” I replied, rinsing a dish in the sink.
“You won’t regret it. I promise to keep you safe,” he said, then added, his voice dropping, more measured now, “Let me show you what it was like for me to go gliding. You will love the thrill. It’s now or never.”
I shuddered at the words, it’s now or never, the thought landing with a thud. Was he telling me I would die during surgery? It was pointless to ask him to confirm or ease my fears. Hans, despite his ability to access future events by way of post-death consciousness, seemed to move within a quantum field of existence where past, present, and future coexist simultaneously. From the start of our relationship, he made it abundantly clear that one request was off limits: asking about specific future outcomes, and most of all, asking when I was going to die. We were in agreement on this. Knowing when I will die is not something I want. Like me, he believes my life has to unfold as it does, without the burden of a fixed timeline hanging over it.
But I clung to the phrase, knowing he had deliberately used it to offer clues about some unknown future event. Offering hints like this is permissible for him, because they become a kind of game between us, a riddle I have to solve, often with his guidance, and almost always initiated at moments when my faith begins to waver. Those are the times when he refuses to engage in ways that feel overt, ways that would disrupt everything, that would defy the laws of nature so completely it leaves you speechless, even shaken, faced with the realization that consciousness does not end with death, and that it can express itself in ways science still cannot account for. It is, by any measure, a sci-fi, supernatural, numinous experience.
I felt the palm of his invisible hand press into the low of my back, the sensation less like a human touch and more like a cold vibration edging just beneath the skin. “What do you say? If we go now, we can make it back for the parade,” he said.
I sat at my desk with my coffee, checking online to confirm I could just drop in without an appointment. Once I had it, I finished the coffee, got into my car, and drove to the Morrisville airport.
Gliding teaches you to trust what you feel in the air, how to stay with lift without overcorrecting. It gave [Hans] a way of responding to danger that depended on control, not force.
There, in one of the hangars, I met the pilot, Don Post, proprietor of Stowe Soaring. He was relaxed and easygoing, wearing a worn cap, with the kind of presence that held the space, a quiet confidence and leadership I instantly recognized. Hans, like other pilots he’s placed in my path over the years, carried these traits too, as if to make a point about the temperament of pilots, a disposition that remains composed under pressure. He registered my nerves, the way I stood there slightly out of place, shifting my weight, wiggling my fingers and toes to ground myself. “The ride should be smooth,” he said.
“You’ll get a clear view of Mount Mansfield. You picked a good day for flying.”
“You’re in good hands,” Hans said, stepping in behind me, a feathered touch at my back, as if to say, I’ve got you. This is my domain.
Before flying Messerschmitts, Hans, like many boys of his time, began in gliders. He started in his early teens, progressing quickly, eventually becoming an instructor. When he moved into powered aircraft, he carried that training with him. Gliding teaches you to trust what you feel in the air, how to stay with lift without overcorrecting. It gave him a way of responding to danger that depended on control, not force.
As Bob prepared the glider, I bought a white sleeveless t-shirt with the company logo embroidered at the left chest, over my heart. Before takeoff, I asked the other pilot, who would be towing us to Mount Mansfield, to take my photo with the glider. Within minutes, we were airborne, behind a small single-engine tow plane, the line taut between us. The aircraft itself looked like something from Hans’s era.
We flew above Mountain Road in Stowe, staying in view for people below to notice the glider drifting overhead. Stowe Soaring offered several flight packages with routes extending out toward the surrounding mountains. Although the Mount Mansfield flight was a bit above my price point, I chose it because I loved that mountain. I had hiked it, snowboarded it, eaten at its peak multiple times at the Cliff House.[1]
The view stretched out in a wide, uninterrupted span, unlike anything I had ever experienced. I felt fully present and, strangely, wanting more, held in an Icarus moment, reaching for the sun before my wings melted.
As we neared the mountain, Bob told me to get ready for the release, that it might feel like a drop on a roller coaster. The moment he released the tow line, the glider dipped sharply, dropping toward the cliff. Hikers who had already climbed to the top were no more than 200 to 300 feet below, looking up at us. I let out a scream, certain we were going to collide with the rock and the people, but just as quickly as the glider had plummeted, it caught lift and curved out of the mountain’s turbulence.
As we flew around, making our way back to the airport, Bob mentioned more than once that we might have to land in a cornfield because of the still air. I could sense Hans smiling, aware that this was glider thinking in action, always keeping an eye on open fields in case the lift dropped out. And because I already understood that from him, I wasn’t nervous. I even thought it might be thrilling to land somewhere unplanned.
As we continued to soar, I found myself inside Hans’s early world, the rush of being in the sky, letting the air carry us. The view stretched out in a wide, uninterrupted span, unlike anything I had ever experienced. I felt fully present and, strangely, wanting more, held in an Icarus moment, reaching for the sun before my wings melted.
We made it back to the airport, touching down so lightly I barely felt it. After we dismounted and returned to the hangar, I noticed the range of what Stowe Soaring offered, scenic flights like the one I had just taken, along with instruction for those working toward a glider pilot’s license. I told Bob and the other pilot that I wanted to learn to fly and obtain my glider license, but that it would have to wait until after my surgery, maybe sometime in September.
They turned to each other, exchanging a quick, concerned glance at the mention of surgery. I felt my stomach drop, as my thoughts returned to the “now or never” Hans had said, wondering if it was about my dying during surgery after all.
Surgery went well and, clearly, I didn’t die. Recovery was slow, as expected, but I focused on healing, eager to get back to my usual routines as quickly as possible. I stopped thinking about what Hans had said, treating it as a one-off, something people say to emphasize a rare opportunity. But even that didn’t fully make sense, since I was already looking forward to returning to Stowe Soaring to learn how to glide for myself.
The Pieces Coalesce
[Hans] was right. That small window of gliding turned out to be an opportunity that would never arise again.
On September 6, 2018, I was still recovering, but nearly ready to reconnect with Bob. It had been a busy day filled with coursework, and I lost track of time, missing my usual morning walk. By around 2:00 PM, I decided to skip it altogether, knowing the bike path would be more crowded with tourists in the afternoon. Despite my reluctance, Hans kept insisting that I go. More than that, he insisted that I wear my Stowe Soaring t-shirt, which I hadn’t yet worn in public.
“Park by the church,” he said, insisting that I not just go for a walk during the busiest time of day, but start it at one of the most popular access points.
“No way,” I shot back, irritated by all the requests, on the verge of tuning him out.
“Trust me,” he said calmly. “I know it’s a lot of directives, but it’s important.”
If there is one thing I’ve learned in all my years with Hans, it’s that when he’s insistent, it almost always turns out to be significant. And this afternoon was no exception.
I put on t-shirt and drove to the parking lot behind Stowe Community Church. When I arrived, I saw there was a major event underway, which only added to my irritation, knowing I’d be dealing with heavy foot traffic.
“Ah, I get it,” I said. “You’re trying to get me used to all the madness in this tourist town.”
He didn’t reply.
I got on the path and walked for nearly an hour, surprised to find it mostly empty. As I neared the church and the parking lot at the end of my walk, I saw people beginning to exit the building and filter onto the bike path. As they passed, they stared. It lingered just a little too long to be casual, their attention fixed on me.
“Are people staring at me, or am I just being paranoid?” I telepathically asked Hans, feeling self-conscious.
“You’re not being paranoid. They’re staring at you.”
His reply unsettled me, because the last thing I want was unsolicited attention. “Uh, why?” I asked, feeling my heart rate pick up.
He didn’t reply, which only made me want to get into my car and leave as quickly as possible. But the event at the church was letting out just as I was leaving, so I was stuck in traffic for fifteen minutes, which felt endless in that moment of anxiety.
When I arrived home, Hans urged me to find out what the event at the church had been.
“I’m two steps ahead of you,” I said, sensing this whole experience was significant. I got on my computer and searched “Stowe Community Church September 6, 2018.” The result revealed something I could not have anticipated. The gathering was a memorial for Don Post.
On August 29, 2018, he, along with two tourists, a husband and wife from Connecticut, had been killed in a gliding accident. The description stated that the glider had collided with Sterling Mountain at high speed. My stomach turned as a wave of nausea overtook me, a visceral recognition of how something like that could happen. I thought back to the moment Bob had released the tow line so close to the mountain, when the glider dropped into sinking air along the slope. For a brief but intense moment, it felt completely out of control, until we found lift and were carried away from it. I’ve never been able to verify the specifics of the crash, but the description tracked too closely with what I had felt in the air.
“I told you it was now or never,” Hans said, returning to his words from July 4. I felt his arms wrap tightly around me as I cried, dismayed, shocked, and unable to fully process what I had just uncovered.
He was right. That small window of gliding turned out to be an opportunity that would never arise again. The crash only cemented my fear of air disasters, an ironic tension between Hans and me, his love of flying bound up with my fear of it. Stowe Soaring closed after Bob’s death, taking with it any desire I had to ever get back on a glider.
How Events Unfold and Are Recognized Later: Synchronicity and Precognition
The way Hans makes me aware of events like this doesn’t arrive as a single coincidence, but as a sequence of moments that only later reveal their connection. At the time, each one stands on its own. Nothing about it feels significant enough to mark. What unfolds is calculated, though not in any way that can be traced through ordinary cause and effect. The closest language I’ve found for this draws from Jung, who describes synchronicity as the occurrence of meaningful coincidences that appear acausal, where inner states and external events align through shared meaning rather than direct causation [2]. This comes close to what I experience, though it still doesn’t fully account for the sense of orchestration that accompanies these moments.
In this instance, Hans’s insistence that I go gliding, his urging that I wear the Stowe Soaring t-shirt, and his persistence in getting me onto the bike path on September 6 all unfolded as separate decisions at the time. Each moment felt minor, even irritating. Only afterward do they gather into a single event. What first appeared fragmented begins to cohere into a pattern that I could not have recognized in advance.
Such events are more enigmatic than telepathy or precognition, a distinction that resonates here, as the experience resists reduction to any single explanatory framework. It involves timing, meaning, and the relationship between [Hans and me] operating together.
Hans compelling me to act, whether to go gliding, to wear the shirt, or to take the walk, arrives as a kind of psychic prompting that only later reveals itself as precognitive in nature. These moments align with a future event, where the smaller details begin to converge into something that feels less like coincidence and more like a structured unfolding. The experience does not sit cleanly within a single category. Synchronicity, precognition, and communication overlap, each offering only a partial account of what is taking place.
In this case, Hans’s intention was not simply to alert me to Don Post’s death, but to position me within it. While the community gathered inside the church, I moved just outside of it, wearing the shirt that connected me to him, unknowingly paying my respects alongside them.
Hans knew in July, and perhaps even earlier, that Don would die. He also understood that, given my fear of flying, this would be the only opportunity to bring me into that experience with him.
Such events are more enigmatic than telepathy or precognition [3], a distinction that resonates here, as the experience resists reduction to any single explanatory framework. It involves timing, meaning, and the relationship between us operating together. If synchronicity connects inner and outer events, then this experience suggests that those connections may also be shaped through an ongoing relationship, one that actively participates in how events unfold.
Synchronicity’s connection to creativity becomes apparent in the aftermath of such experiences. They disrupt ordinary perception, not only revealing meaning but generating it. In my case, these moments compel a response through creative work, (e.g., writing/blogging, drawing, collaging). Synchronicity can catalyze creative awareness, and I have found this to be true in a way that feels less like inspiration and more like continuation [4]. The event does not end when it is recognized. It extends into the work that follows.
This type of event can be referred to as “quantum aesthetics”, particularly in its embrace of ambiguity, uncertainty, and the interpenetration of opposites [5]. My use of collage reflects this structure. Fragments of images joined, allowing multiple meanings to be held at once. When I create digitally collaged artwork, piecing my drawings and public domain images together, while staying attuned to Hans’s suggestions during the process, the act mirrors the synchronistic event. Disparate elements align without conscious planning and only later reveal their coherence. The artwork becomes another site where these patterns continue to unfold.
What emerges from the awareness of such moments is a kind of transformation that shifts how I move through the world. Experiences like this deepen my sense of presence and draw me into practices of attention and gratitude. I spend more time at my altar, meditating, and giving thanks. I sing and dance more often, aware of Hans’s presence that continues to accompany me. From our respective corners of existence, we exchange gestures of care and recognition. It has taken me time to accept that he might feel as much devotion toward me as I do toward him. It is through these repeated experiences that I come to understand that the exchange is mutual and life altering for both of us [6].
NOTES
[1] It’s where I went the day before the surgery, including my bilateral mastectomy this past October, taking the gondola up to the Cliff House to eat and sit with the view. If I had died in either one, Stowe is the last place I would have wanted to remember.
[2] Piirto, J. (2011). Synchronicity and creativity. In Encyclopedia of Creativity (pp. 409–413). Elsevier. https://doi.org/10.1016/B978-0-12-375038-9.00210-7
[3] Ibid.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Ibid., 413.
[6] In the dissertation, I plan to substantiate this with additional sources compiled in my reference manager, Zotero.