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.

Imaginary Bacon

by Emma Laurence

My sister, Kat, and I began walking up the gravel road. Bristol Mountain, a ski resort in upstate New York, provided an ideal location for a springtime hike. With 1,300 feet of elevation in 1.7 miles, we anticipated some exertion. My brother-in-law and his cousin ran on ahead, planning to take a lap at the top and run back down a slope. They left us with Mickey and Molly, two lab/Pomeranian mixes whose well-groomed coats glimmered in the morning sunlight.

We weren’t far up the path when I realized I’d forgotten to eat. A small protein shake upon rising requires that I eat mid-morning to maintain blood sugar levels. I’d planned to fry up some bacon as an easy, portable snack. Neglecting to do so put me in a compromised position.

Kat asked if I wanted to go back. I didn’t. Picturesque hills in shades of green, a cyan sky with bright white clouds, and my love of hiking urged me on. Would my body cooperate for the duration when running on empty? To help, Kat took over both dog leashes.

Then I remembered reading about the power of the creative imagination. In many circumstances, what we imagine can be as powerful as actual physical practice. Think of the Olympic athlete who rehearses a high dive or floor routine over and over in the mind, experiencing every bodily sensation, to prepare for the Games. OK, I thought. Let’s test this out. I’ll imagine eating bacon and see what happens!

I first tasted salt, and my salivary glands physically responded. Good, I thought, an electrolyte. Then I savored the crispy texture, as make-believe pieces broke apart in my mouth and the hickory-smoked flavor dissolved into my senses.

Up ahead on the trail, we noticed an orange plastic fence blocking the road. If the gravel pathway to the top was closed, now what? The only option was to trudge directly up the slope under the chairlift. We began plodding. In full sun and tall grass, I soon felt the cardio workout and stopped to catch my breath. Molly sweetly circled back to check on me.

When we finally reached the summit, we crossed to a slope on the far side, assuming the descent would be easier. But with grass at thigh level, and uneven ground, we had to watch our every step. Only brief glimpses of the scenic valley landscape took my attention off my complaining knees.

Near the bottom, the guys walked up to meet us. Their run had been rigorous, but successful. I asked how they navigated the road closure and was told the fencing we saw didn’t actually cross the roadway, though it appeared so from a distance.

I’m not sure why Kat and I had to take a steeper shortcut rather than a gentler grade. But my body held out. Back at the car I downed a coconut water, surprised at my physical endurance and chuckling to myself at the power of imaginary bacon.

From Darkness to Light

by Emma Laurence

What are the steps that take us from a place of frustration, stress or despair to one of hope, new choices and clear vision? Are you aware of how you get from dark to light?

A client of mine writes her way out. Not that she intended to, but the progression emerged when she began writing about her life. I often experience the same with writing. The upward spiral is magnified exponentially when I imagine sharing with someone who already understands me completely. The pressure is off; grace enters; and a door opens to a higher viewpoint with more options and more hope.

This week I found myself sinking into a tired, dark place because of physical injuries and illness. I decided to witness the mechanics, and I discovered some keys to the prison of gloom. One is that I don’t exit discomfort just because I want to; I have to take action. The action can’t be running away from the problem, but rather giving myself every advantage to solve it. This might involve creating more space or time around a situation before I respond. It could mean choosing to take full responsibility for my experience so I don’t feel like a victim of anyone or anything. Most of all, it’s about shifting my perception and listening to Life as It tries to lead me. The message could be as simple as getting good food or good rest. Will I follow?

I also saw that I must calm my emotions before I can address what’s troubling me. If I’m churned up, I won’t see the simple solution right here. The other night, I found myself practicing this detachment from overwhelm in a dream: I was in a dark, crowded and low-consciousness city. I’d been asked to speak at a spiritual seminar, but I couldn’t find my notes, didn’t know where to go for the event, and was beginning to panic. Then, I remembered EFT [Emotional Freedom Technique], and I began tapping meridian points on my body while speaking uplifting words. I balanced out. A woman appeared to help me decide what to wear and get backstage. I knew I’d be fine giving the talk.

A third key I noticed involved waking up to how Life is supporting me right now. For example, I drove past a garden of bright, colorful tulips, and even though I’d been in a fog, I knew this was a gift—a flash of beauty to remind me that life is beautiful. When I arrived at the store to pick up medical supplies, a kind pharmacist helped me. Then the cashier, full of good humor, inspired me to shift my mood. Life kept bringing me these not-so-small gifts so that I could connect them, one to another, and hoist myself out of the quicksand.

Linking Life’s moment-to-moment gifts supports practical, upward momentum, step by step. Like climbing a ladder out of a swamp, we pull ourselves up to where we can breathe again in the light.

Uncategorized

Accepting the Love

by Emma Laurence

What I’ve learned about love is that it needs to be accepted to be realized. My cat Belle, who passed on recently, taught me very specifically how this works. She showed me many forms of surrender—in this case of this story, surrender to love.

When Belle was a kitten, she came to us as a skittish being. She hid under the bed. She was born outdoors, so we set up a way for her to go outside on her own. Over time, she learned that she could explore the local “wilderness” and still be given everything she needed when she returned home. However, as much as she was clearly a tender heart, she remained hidden most of the time.

Our other cat, Oscar, welcomed her as only cats who’ve previously established their territory can do—by hissing in her face. She didn’t seem to take it personally, but it meant that, for the time being, she was on her own.

I could tell by the way Belle looked at me that she could feel my love for her and that she appreciated it. She just didn’t trust it completely. Until one day when a young girl visited, and my husband at the time picked Belle up to let our visitor pet her. Even though they were both being gentle, Belle panicked. She leapt out of his arms, onto a windowsill and, imagining she could escape, banged her head full force into the glass pane. Dazed, she turned around and meowed in distress.

I looked at Belle lovingly and asked if I could come over to pick her up. This is the first time I remember spending many minutes waiting, moving slightly closer to her, asking again, and waiting again. It became a pattern of gentleness and patience that she was here to teach. After many minutes building trust with eye contact and soft vocal tones, Belle allowed me to lift her into my arms. I brought her to the bedroom and placed her on the bed, whereupon she immediately leapt down and slinked underneath for safety.

Over time, Belle learned that she could safely sleep on the bed when we weren’t around. Perhaps a year later, she jumped on the bed while we were actually in it, and she let us pet her. If we sat up, though, she’d jump back down. Maybe four more years passed before she discovered that she could be petted if she came up onto the couch. I coaxed and encouraged her for months by placing a blanket next to me. It took more years before I could pull that blanket onto my lap.

By the time she left her body, at 21½, Belle was lying across my lap in complete surrender.

I watched my world open, and my heart open, over the decades that Belle and I lived together. Many more lessons on surrender, patience, devotion and grace ensued. For me, these are the timeless gifts of an eternal love story.