When I was much younger, I met a poet who was in his sixties and married. He became one of my mentors in every sense of the word and to this day holds a special place in my heart. He was one part philosopher, one part poet and one part revolutionary. He breathed the fire of life. He lived life on the very edge. He pushed people publicly and privately to expand their limits and discover new dimensions of themselves.

The poet loved eccentric characters and celebrated those who saw the world in different colors. He distained consensus and believed its only purpose was to pull us down to the lowest common denominator of human thought so as not to challenge anyone. He believed deeply that if we were comfortable, we were not living. And he felt strongly that there should always be an edge to our contentment so that we wanted more out of life.

At that time in my life I had a horrible fear of heights and I would grow shaky in the knees climbing even a step ladder.

This poet’s summer home was on the Pacific Coast. We used to rock together on his back terrace which overlooked the ocean. The lawn of sea grass stretched out about fifty yards from the terrace to a steep cliff. It was the kind of dramatic cliff you might see in a movie from which a car tumbles down and then explodes. I had no intention of ever going to the edge of that cliff. It scared the hell out of me.

The poet at that time was experiencing cancer. While he had lost much strength, he was not submissive.

One day, we were rocking on his porch and I was tending to his needs since it was not one of his good days. We rocked quietly looking out over the ocean at one of the most magnificent sunsets that we both had ever seen. Being with him in such beauty and quiet was a moment I will never forget.

Suddenly, he took my hand and asked me to help him out of his chair. I thought he was tired and wanted to be taken inside to rest. I helped him up and started to lead him to the door. Without a word, he turned instead to the steps leading down to the terrace toward the sea. I knew instantly what he was up to. He was going to force me to confront my fear of heights. He knew that I had a young man’s ego and pride and that I was more afraid of showing fear to an elder than the origin of the fear itself. I did not want to be a coward.

Slowly and without speaking, he led me to the edge. I almost lost it and had some trouble walking. But my determination to be strong in front of him drove me on, as did his old weathered hand which firmly held mine. It was just another lesson. The poet insisted that we not stop until our toes were on the very edge of the cliff. I could feel little stones and rocks tumble down the side and I was sure that I would soon join them.

Finally, he spoke. “David, this is where you belong -- on the edge of life. You got here by walking through your fear. You are so close to the edge that by the law of physics no one can physically stand in front of you. As a result, you have the best view of the sunset and can see colors that no one standing behind you can see.”

He was silent for a long while and then continued, “This is the choice you have in life. You can walk through fear and see the colors of the sunset and describe them to others or you can hold back and have others describe the colors of the sunset to you. That is the choice.”

Finally, he squeezed my hand, looked over at me and smiled and said, “It is about you experiencing life or having others tell you about life.”

We walked back into the house and I suddenly felt that the world looked different. He had given me a great gift.

Over the years, I have attempted to live my life on the edge. But living on the edge of life can be very lonely because, at times, it feels as though you are the only one willing to take a chance. I’ve even fallen off that damn cliff a few times.

However, it has never been boring. I’m so grateful to the old poet.