Significance examined

This past week I took my bi-weekly trip to Los Angeles. While passing through first class I recognized Henry Winkler aka The Fonz sitting in first class. While the years have certainly put some lines on my face and changed the color of my hair, it can't be as dramatic for me as it has been for him. Instead of the leather jacket and jeans, the fonz now looks like a slightly rumpled, graying version of an English professor at some mid-western college. Time and space and gravity seems to catch up with all of us, but for those who have lived a rather public life while rather young, the change seems more dramatic. But at least he was sitting in first class, while I was making my way to my seat...28F, last row, window.
After I settled in I watched the folks make their way down the isle, novices looking for their row, veterans stowing their luggage, and trying to be stoic about who would end up in the seat next to them (all flights are completely full now, thanks oil companies for fuel increases)
Of course everyone is a nervous flier, it is a myth that veterans don't feel squeamish about strapping into a metal cylinder, which will be hurtling along at 450 mph, 6 miles above the earth in a jet that will exhibit the same glide path as dropping your car keys, should something go wrong. So we inwardly jump every time there is a bump or a wobble, but we keep our eyes on our computer, or paper, or book, and silently pray that the under-inspected contraption will go up at the right time and down at the right time.
But this experience is great for reflection. So my mind drifted to Henry and the comparison of my perception of his lot in life and mine. Significance is a sliding scale. But as I sat there, wedged between a lady from somewhere in the far east, and the thin metal of the fuselage, it occurred to me that my take on the significance of my life would have to be measured by others who had known me. In that sense, me and the Fonz shared a destiny. We would be evaluated by the friends we helped, the families we raised, the worthwhile accomplishments that contributed to the greater good, rather than the glorified, all-important "me."
It is a paradox that everything we do is motivated by significance, but the value of the significance is measured outside ourselves, by those who knew us.
Henry Winkler was long gone by the time I deplaned at LAX. I wish him and the other 150 strangers the best. We shared a common experience, that could have been tragically extraordinary. But the time of reflection was good, we don't do enough of it. Instead we careen through life, running from one spot to anther, dragging our stuff along, and hoping we don't miss the next flight. Then we look around, much too late, and wonder why the significance of our life has slipped away.
I think next time I will try to get an upgrade. In the meantime, good luck, Fonzi, Godspeed.
Don