In 2020, “Row the Boat”

by Emma Laurence

It’s the fourth quarter of the Outback Bowl and, at a game-defining moment, thousands of Minnesota fans are chanting, “row the boat” while pulling imaginary oars.  I reach for my phone as my baffled husband asks, what does ‘row the boat’ mean in football?

We did not expect the answer we found. 

Minnesota Coach P.J. Fleck lost his infant son to a heart condition in 2011.  In interviews, Fleck shares how holding his second son while he died changed everything—what he believed in, what he’d done to that point, and how he chooses to live going forward.   Row the boat represents his son’s life continuing through his own; it became a mantra meaning never give up. 

For Fleck, this metaphor has three parts—the oar, the boat, and the compass.

The oar is the energy we bring to life in every endeavor.

The boat represents sacrifice.  Coach Fleck asks, “What are you willing to give up for something you haven’t had?”

The compass is the direction in which we’re travelling and our all-important travelling companions.

What a cool way to look at a new year and new decade:  energy, sacrifice, direction.

Energy.  It’s interesting to note how many of us began to shift towards plant-based food sources recently.  Food as fuel, one friend said.  To balance mental and emotional energies, many people have gone on media fasts or become careful about the images they ingest, especially before bedtime.  Still others are recommitting to spiritual exercises as a source of sustainable energy—the kind that supports long-term health, clarity and happiness. 

What kind of energy sustains us?

Sacrifice.  A millennial friend once shared that when he makes a request of Life, he first considers what he’s willing to give in order to receive the gift. I’ve thought in terms of the work I’m willing to invest to earn my way, but this notion of sacrifice stretches and inspires me further. 

What are we willing to give up for something we haven’t had before?

Direction.  Envisioning the highest goals engages our creativity and heart. Then, we can listen to Life as it coaches us beyond our imaginings.  Trusting this life force opens an opportunity to actually reach the goals we’ve set.

How coachable are we?  And have we invited loving traveling companions to accompany us? 

Pivotal to my own success has been connecting with my inner coach, the wise voice within, the inspiration for all things great and small, the voice of unconditional acceptance and perpetual learning.

Coach Fleck helped set the direction for his team, then credited the players themselves as the number one reason for the season’s success.  The Minnesota Gophers haven’t had an 11-win run since 1904. 

Monitoring our energy sources, contemplating true sacrifice, and setting our own direction through inner guidance can give us the best opportunity to “row the boat” all the way to our end zone.

Our winning season is within reach in 2020, too.

Photo by Joakim Honkasalo on Unsplash

Have Yourself a Mister Rogers’ Christmas

by Emma Laurence

As my friend Larry drove back from a gig as Santa Claus, he called to ask if I’d seen A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.  He found the film life changing, and it even prompted a refinement in his approach to small children when playing Santa.

Kindness, humility, grace—Mister Rogers set out not to be famous, but to be helpful.   He inspired us to activate our highest and best.  He once said that we have the opportunity to demean this life or to cherish it in creative, imaginative ways.   

Mister Rogers himself was bullied as a child.  Overweight and shy, he once shared at an interview that he used to cry to himself when he was alone.  And I would cry through my fingers and make up songs on the piano.  He learned to look deeper into everyone he met, to perceive what he called the “essential invisible.”   

Fred Rogers may have been colorblind, but he saw clearly into the hearts of children.  He found a way to be completely present to them through the camera lens.

So it probably won’t surprise you that Mister Rogers answered all his own fan mail. I can’t imagine how he found time to respond to the 50-100 letters he received daily.  An assistant on the show told the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette (2005) that no child ever received a form letter in response.  He never thought about throwing out a drawing or letter, she said.  They were sacred.

Even Koko the gorilla loved watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.  When she met him in person, she gave him a hug and took off his shoes. 

Fred Rogers’ lifetime achievement award speech at the 1997 Emmys includes an exercise he often asked people to join him in doing.  All of us have special ones who have loved us into being, he says.  He asks that we take ten seconds of silence to think of those people, those who wanted what was best for us in life.  [You may want to stop reading and try this.]  He then completes the circle of connection by sharing that, wherever that person may be now, how pleased they must be to know the difference you feel they’ve made.

Among those who loved Mister Rogers into being was his mother who knitted all his cardigans.  In an interview with American Archive Television, he told how his mom knitted sweaters for her loved ones every Christmas…until she died, those zippered sweaters I wear on the Neighborhood were all made by my mother.

Jeff Erlanger made a big difference in Mister Rogers’ life on the night he was inducted into the TV Hall of Fame.  Watch Fred bound onto the stage in delight at Jeff’s surprise appearance.  They hadn’t seen each other since Jeff came on the show as a 5-year-old:

If Mister Rogers has inspired you to be more grateful, patient or kind, to be a better Santa Claus or a better person, feel free to share below. 

Warm and Happy Holidays.

Image Owned By TV Week (Dec, 1977)

3 Tips for Holiday Healing

by Emma Laurence

The emotional challenges that we face at this time of year fill my heart with compassion.  May these healing tips inspire a new viewpoint, breakthrough, or hopeful spirit as you address your own.

TIP #1:  Clear away the FOG:  Fear, Obligation and Guilt.

Ever since I first heard of FOG, I’ve been more aware when that cloud enters my consciousness.  And I learn how to protect myself.

In Mary Carroll Moore’s book How to Master Change in Your Life, she cites an imaginative exercise called The Fear Room.  Here’s a brief version:

Picture looking into a dark room with fog so dense that you can’t see.  A truck arrives with workers who wheel a machine up to a hole in the outside wall, and they vacuum out the fog.  Now, as you enter the clean, clear space, air and light bound, as well as a pleasing sound and fragrance.  You can open five large window shades to flood the room with sunlight.

What remains when FOG is gone? 

For me, visualization often works miracles in shifting to playfulness, clarity and right action.  

TIP #2:  Missing someone is integrating their memory.

I first came across this intriguing idea in The Presence Process by Michael Brown. 

I observed what happened inside me when I missed someone, especially one who’d already passed on.  There was a physical tugging in my chest with an accompanying painful grief.  This could also be true with a person at a distance or a lost dream that never manifested.

I wondered, what would it be like to integrate a memory, person or dream into my heart fully?  Could I accept the gift—allowing its essence to become such a part of me that we would never be separate again? 

TIP #3:  Become entirely ready to let go of the past

Years ago, someone approached me at a spiritual seminar, shook me gently by the shoulders and said, “You have got to learn to let go!”

Ya think?  The comment felt supremely unhelpful because I already knew that about myself.  What I didn’t know was how to let go. 

Step 6 in any 12-step program addresses the concept of being entirely ready.  After admitting the nature of your wrongs and before humbly asking for your shortcomings to be removed, you prepare yourself for the detachment process.

This intermediate step of becoming entirely ready for anything enlightened me.  My question morphed into how do I prepare to let go?

When dealing with past trauma, I ask myself:  What would it feel like to be entirely ready to release the past for this present moment?

*     *     *

If you have other tips to share, please comment below.  We can all benefit by learning from one another’s experiences, and I welcome your wisdom in this holiday season.

Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash

How to See in the Dark

by Emma Laurence

When you’re in a time of darkness and can’t clearly see the path ahead, how do you make your way? 

Many times in life, I’ve inched forward when I cannot see.  I followed the sound.  As an example, I saved myself during devastating teenage years by writing songs.  Later, I learned to chant sacred words that had the power to pierce the dark fabric of my thoughts, bringing peace and comfort.

What I try to do now is help others illuminate confusion, fear, doubt or lethargy, which means I have to keep learning how to do so myself.  Enter the owl.

Owls first appeared last summer when I moved to Minneapolis.  They perched on nearby treetops like dark sentinels, visible through the windows to our backyard.  Their cry pierced the darkness and, shrill as it was, I loved the sound.  Familiar.

But owls also see in the dark.  They have large eyes with far more rods than human eyes.  They have a tapetum lucidum, a layer of flattened cells covered with doubly refracting crystals.  This functions like a mirror behind the retina, reflecting light back through the photoreceptors. 

That’s like having a second chance to see.  

We humans typically call our second chance to see 20/20 hindsight.  Once time has passed, a challenging experience may be seen in a different light.

We may recognize spiritual tests for what they are—opportunities to know what we’re truly made of, to build strength and courage and compassion, to focus on appreciating the love that’s real here and now, moment by moment. 

But there’s another way to see that doesn’t require time, only practice.  That’s to gather all of our attention and focus it on the very best within and around us.  It may sound simplistic or mystical, but it actually brings light. 

And the quickest way I know to do that is to serve life. 

As we enter the holiday season, many join loved ones in laughter and thanksgiving.  Others experience deeper darkness and isolation.   

Do we want to be on the lookout for anyone—person or animal—who could use our help?  Or follow through on a nudge to reach out? What about quieting our own heart so that our presence is one of comfort and healing?

From an act of love, we may learn how to see in the dark.

A true heart blazes its own path.

Uncategorized

Do We Matter?

by Emma Laurence

Twice in the last week, I’ve encountered the term existential dread. 

One young woman described this state as “fretting over my non-existent influence on the world.”  As she struggled to make ends meet and balance her passion for activism, she found herself exhausted. 

When we feel overwhelmed, it’s easy to question our self-worth or impact.  We may find ourselves in the victim’s chair, wondering how we got there—again.   Or we fall under the wave rather than surfing its crest.

What’s important to remember is that our perception can shift in a heartbeat.  It can flip, just like a coin tossed into the air.

Two weeks ago, my husband and I were walking the loop around a nearby pond.  I’d been feeling pressured by the immense project of rebranding and launching a new website. 

The challenge of finding simple words to express the Life is Coaching You principle loomed large.  How could I explain something so experiential, so alive, so unique to each individual? 

To do so, I would have to be open to Life coaching me.  I checked in.  Was I listening?  Did I trust that the way would appear?  Would I follow through patiently on a task that felt like climbing an endless mountain with a full backpack?

In that moment, a white, curly-haired puppy on a leash rounds the curve up ahead. He’s excitedly sniffing the air and joyously jumping through fallen leaves. 

His owner walks slowly, watchful and smiling, letting the little guy fully experience the park’s sights and smells.  By the time they reach us, I can’t wait to meet this pup. 

As I always do, I ask the owner if that would be OK. 

“Absolutely,” comes the reply.  “He never understands when people don’t want to say hello.  Makes no sense to him.”

Four-month-old Biscuit leaps up to greet us, though his height at full stretch barely reaches our knees.  He licks our hands, and jumps back and forth between us. We can’t help but laugh and play with Biscuit.

There it is again, I realize.  The flip. 

Can you picture a dog fretting over his influence on the world?  Or worrying about how a website’s message could reach its audience? 

Not a chance.  Life is too fun, too full, too rich, too utterly enthralling!  A dead leaf on the ground is a cause for celebration.

After a time, my husband and I move on, and Biscuit continues his exploration.

Now comes the critical moment. 

Do I return to existential dread?  Or do I take the opportunity to release the old for the new, to step across the threshold into a state from which everything can be viewed with wonder?

Dozens of these choices—these open doorways—present themselves daily.  They may not all be as obvious as Biscuit, but they come. 

Puppies don’t care if they matter.  Because they just do.  And so do we. 

The Goose, the Crows, and the Dog Walker

by Emma Laurence

I’m delighted to write to you from the new platform, lifeiscoachingyou.com. Welcome.

The wind had died down enough for me to walk the paved path round a nearby pond.  I bundled up in my scarf and sweater coat and headed towards the cornfields.

Shortly after beginning the first loop, I was jostled from my thoughts by the sound of a goose. I peered through the brush to find a solitary bird floating on the water, honking in distress. 

I wondered about the goose’s story.  Was it lost, injured, or left behind?  I began quietly singing a sacred word that brings me peace and silence. This allows me to perceive inner guidance and surrender the outcome of a situation at the same time. If any action were necessary on my part, I’d know. 

As I rounded the far end of the park, the goose’s cries subsided. Its voice sounded tired.  I kept walking and singing softly with a compassionate heart.

On the third loop, a flock of loudly cawing crows passed overhead, landing across the pond by the parking lot.  Perhaps two dozen birds peppered the grassy area.  They didn’t land for long, but flew upwards again, together. 

The goose was quiet.  The distress call had been heard.

The landscape took on a slow motion quality that I notice when I’m experiencing a gift moment. I registered the response from the crows who’d come to help a member of their community.  Time stood still.  Gazing further skyward, I saw a singular hawk circling.

The crows flew back across the pond, continuing southwest over the field and calling out as they departed.  Would their cries alert another flock to come pick up the lone goose?

As I ended my third lap ready to cross the street to my neighborhood, I heard the goose honk again. I wondered if my part in the story was complete.

At that moment, a man approached walking a dog.  Fit and slim, in athletic wear with a woolen hat, he smiled warmly at me. 

I stopped him to ask, “Do you know anything about geese?”

I realized how ridiculous that sounded—coming from out of the blue—once I’d heard the question aloud.

“Not much more than seeing them around a lot,” he answered somewhat warily. “Why do you ask?” 

I told him of the lone goose and my concern that it might be separated from its flock.  He assured me that flocks come through this area all the time. 

“My family calls this Goose Poop Pond,” he admitted wryly. “I’m sure he’ll have company soon.” 

I felt complete—and as heard as the goose’s distress call.

Walking home, I was struck by how well Life cares for us all.  The crows came to help the goose; the dog walker came to assist me.  The hawk circled.

When we’re in service to one another, does our interconnectedness become more visible? 

I invite your insights or experiences below.

Inspiration

A Call to Greatness

by Emma Laurence

When I moved to Minnesota’s big-open-sky country this summer, I knew there would be nowhere to hide. My heart would have to expand to accept greatness in all areas of life. Hardest of all, I’d have to acknowledge this quality in myself.

The arc of accepting the highest within me began when I was eleven years old and my mother took me to her psychiatrist. My parents were getting divorced, and she wanted me evaluated. Dr. Diamond looked ancient to me. He had a round face with a bit of puffiness in the cheeks and belly. But he was kind. He didn’t talk much as he slowly handed me images from a Rorschach test, asking what I saw and taking notes on what I said. I kept apologizing for not seeing more.

After the test, Dr. Diamond consulted with my mother while I sat in the waiting room. When we got home, Mom shared one sentence of his assessment: She has greatness in her.

In that moment, I went still inside. I felt stripped of myself in a way I couldn’t explain. To a child who endured a traumatic early life, this was unexpected. For years after, I clung to the possibility, searching for something inside me beyond the darkness that I tried to hide.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us, Marianne Williamson is quoted as saying. I came to know this as a performing artist, shivering every time I stepped into expanded light. I kept being drawn to the stage, but often felt embarrassed by the outcome.

I’ve met those in the coaching field who claim your must “own” your greatness with a “You got this!” attitude. They pump up the ego with programs designed to step into a material abundance that is “rightfully yours.” Others incite emotions through a promise to impact the planet with your message, as if only this could prove your worth and success.

But there’s a deep humility and responsibility that accompanies the stewardship of greatness within us. Serving the world means surrendering repeatedly to an uncomfortable process of rearranging atoms in order to be strengthened. We are never measured by material wealth or by reaching millions of people. True greatness is quieter, farther reaching, more long lasting, and solitary.

I’ve been led to support those who’ve heard a call to something greater, whether it came through an inner nudge or an outer crisis. Three simple steps—listen, trust, follow— teach us to awaken to the guidance, answers and gifts that are right in front of us. We’re constantly invited us into a bright world of joy and service that only our greatness can answer. Will we accept?

Life’s coaching always matches our individual nature. In my world this week, two barn owls have frequented our backyard, perching atop a tree at night. Their call is a penetrating screech. I know they’ve come to support my transition, teaching me to answer the invitation to greatness.

If you’d like, you can consider this post your own invitation.

The Blue Dragonfly

by Emma Laurence

Since moving to Minnesota, I wondered whom I would meet and who might become true companions in this new landscape. A dear friend back east remarked that he’d recently met a woodchuck with a pretty high state of consciousness. Humorous as this was, it made me realize how much the wildlife behind our townhouse had already welcomed us. Bunnies, chipmunks, monarch butterflies, robins and cardinals frequented our backyard.

With this fresh realization, I stepped out to the patio and sank into my favorite hammock chair. I’d barely been resting a moment when a three-inch blue dragonfly zipped past, headed for a nearby bush. I watched him as he darted among the flowers. Then I turned my gaze to enjoy the breeze shimmering through leaves of a nearby tree.

Turning back, I was startled to find the dragonfly barely a foot away, hovering in mid-air just at eye level. Whoa, hello, I said aloud while breathing through my fear of insects that get too close. He rotated his body to face me directly, holding position with translucent, lightening-fast wings. Just don’t land on me, OK? I requested warily. He inched slightly forward—as if knowing exactly how close he could come without upsetting me—and backed up to his original spot. He then pivoted ninety degrees towards the sliding glass doors and peered inside to the dining room. Yes, I said, we’ve moved here. He turned towards me when I spoke, then back to the glass doors, and back again to me, taking this in. He remained suspended quite a while before flying off.

By time’s standards, I don’t know how long this being held himself in mid-air. My experience had entered a characteristic God-moment timelessness. I’d never perceived such presence from an insect, nor felt such clear communication—checking in with me, asking about the new home, and acknowledging me soul to soul. Something else, too. Something deep and important about being here, being welcomed here. Something that encouraged me to go beyond words to reach. An intention. If it had words: go deeper.

The older I get, the more I find communion with all life to be of paramount significance and value. I’m more connected to the planet hurling through space than the noise of our human chatter. Nature’s elegance calls to me in the wind through the prairie grasses, the stillness of a heron at the water’s edge, the dive-bombing of a swallow protecting her nest, or the grace of a Great Dane being walked round the lake at sunset.

Each moment holds the potential revelation of this sacred beauty, a demonstration of the invisible thread being woven through us all.

A Newborn’s Divine Intervention

by Emma Laurence

My husband and I stopped at a store for placemats. He’d bought some earlier that day, and when the big, farm style rooster design delighted me, we went back for more.

I paid in cash at the register. Moving fast, the cashier handed me coins, but accidentally shut the drawer before giving back the bill part of my change. The manager was filling Mylar balloons for another customer and couldn’t assist right away with reopening the drawer. So the cashier wisely asked the next person in line if she would pay in cash, too. Yes, I can, the woman replied. But when presented with a $100 bill, the cashier deflatedly responded, I can’t change that. And we were back to waiting for the manager to finish filling balloons.

There was no sense in getting angry or shaming the young clerk for having made a mistake. My husband left to get the car, and I waited for the manager to be free. After a time, I had my money and was on my way.

I pushed open the glass door to the vestibule and found a young mom struggling to exit the second set of doors. I didn’t think this through, she said wryly, as she tried to pull the cart towards her, backing out to the sidewalk. I laughed, reaching forward to hold the door. Yet I was far more interested in her newborn. His eyes were closed, and his little face was stretching in all directions as he lay in his carrier, perched on the cart’s child seat. So sweet to see someone so tiny, so new.

A woman entered to my left. She smiled warmly at the baby. Then, the scene suddenly shifted. When the mom pulled her cart a few more inches, the baby carrier tipped over to the left. In a split second, I noticed that the baby was not strapped into the carrier, nor was the carrier secured to the shopping cart. In the time it took to gasp, I watched an inevitable catastrophe play out.

Except that it didn’t. As if gently pushed up into place, the carrier tipped back into balance and landed the baby safely aright. Not by any reasonable laws of physics could this have happened. The incoming shopper held her chest, breathless, exclaiming My heart just stopped! The mom said disparagingly, I’m a new mother…can you tell? and I exhaled, adding with encouragement, You’re doing fine—despite the current averted disaster.

Back at the car, I said to my husband, Did you see that? THAT was divine intervention. There’s no way that baby wasn’t going overboard.

What precise timing. Tiny moments led up to my presence at the door—the placemats that sent us back to the store, the delayed manager, the customer with a $100 bill. All had been synchronized, the visible with the invisible, and I’d been allowed to participate in an astonishing moment of divine grace.

The Smile and the Albatross

by Emma Laurence

When I received two quarters in change at the Farmer’s Market, I simply placed them in my pocket. Later that day, I rediscover them while sitting on a park bench waiting for a friend.

Turning the coins over in my hand, I was surprised to see a yellow smiley-face sticker on the heads side of one piece. Since the metal felt lightweight, I wondered if someone had tried to disguise a foreign coin. I flipped it over, found an albatross on the tails side, and looked closer with curiosity. Which state of the Union would have chosen this symbol as its representation?

But there was no state designation. Turning it again, I discerned the words United States of America and quarter dollar peering out from either side of the sticker. Despite its slight feeling in my hand, this was a true coin.

Meanwhile, back at home, I was packing and preparing for my move to Minneapolis. Everything was unfolding gracefully. In certain moments, I felt nostalgic—for the view from my office window onto the white barn and field, the frogs in the back pond singing at night, the beauty of the landscape that supported me and my dear cat, Belle, all the way through her passing.

But home truly lies where the heart is and mine has moved on. Waiting for me in Minnesota is a new home with welcoming friends, a place to write, and even a nearby arboretum. Most of all, my husband—and a Temple that called my name. When Love calls, we go. There is no question, hesitation or resistance.

In 1798, the albatross entered the culture as a symbol of an encumbrance or burden with Coleridge’s poem Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The term, however, has a very positive connotation in golf where it refers to a double eagle, or three-under-par on a single hole. Conversely, the enormously popular yellow smiley face, created in 1963 by Harvey Ball to raise the morale of employees at a company in Worcester, Massachusetts, remunerated the designer only $45. Sad for him?

The gift of the quarter invites me to always search deeper than two sides of the same coin—the smile and the albatross—of this world. When I seek pleasure, I experience both pleasure and pain. When I seek purpose, I still have both, but a third emerges. A sure, steady, ever-present certainty in the reverence and power of a truth I cannot deny without betraying myself.

Life, rarely being what it appears, requires payment in true coin. I’ve learned to ride the flip-flops by focusing on my mission in this world. It’s not a thought or vision that I set out to conquer, but is revealed to me, moment by moment. Aligning with my North Star, ever listening for this essential purpose, I’m always home.