When I’m on the course, I enjoy playing with golf balls of different colors. Not only are they much easier to find when my drive doesn’t land on the fairway, they’re fun. The most fun golf ball I owned was bright yellow with a picture of the cartoon character Spongebob. My golf partner, Larry, found it one day in a wooded area and gave it to me.

For months, I’d place the ball on the tee, saying you know what to do, Spongebob. I was careful not to tee him up on a hole where I thought I might lose him. The couple of times he ended up in a gulley or under a tree, Larry always seemed to be able to locate Spongebob.

Until two weeks ago. I hit a nice drive on the 16th hole, but it bounced left, down the slope, and into the weeds. We searched, but to no avail. We didn’t want to cause a delay for other golfers, so it was time to surrender Spongebob. Perhaps someday another golfer would come upon him and have as much fun as I did.

Surrender can be challenging. For some, it’s easy. For others like me, not so much. Attachments form quickly and letting go can feel painful or empty—especially when releasing loved ones or facing challenging relationship dynamics.

Larry shared his perspective one day, using a term he called spiritual mechanics. He described the comings and goings of life as far less personal or emotional than we make them out to be. It’s more like how the stock market corrects itself every so often, he said. People analyze the data, but basically the ups and downs of the stock market are emotionally driven—fear of loss and hope of gain. But the adjustment is not; it is more related to the spiritual nature of balance. Perhaps because of the emotions, mechanics have to come in periodically to equilibrate.

This happens in relationships, too, he added, when certain energies need to balance out. We analyze the causes, most often resulting in blame, but it’s just a necessary shift. All energy has to move like water seeking it’s own level. Analysis and emotions are filters of perception we use to explain these mechanics to ourselves.

I found this viewpoint fascinating and chose to apply it to a business situation I was facing. I decided to write an email where I would surrender my own hurt feelings, ignore all the potential drama, and simply state the facts of my request for future collaboration. The tone would be kind and professional, and I’d move forward with grace and tact without reference to the past.

I’ll share the outcome of this approach in a future blog. Meanwhile, two weeks after surrendering my favorite golf ball, Larry’s wife texted to say they found Spongebob on the 7th hole! How he got from the 16th to the 7th is a story in itself, I’m sure. But isn’t it nice to be rebalanced?

Unconditional self-love has been knocking at my door.

A dear friend recently shared a photo of the newly painted pink door on their Victorian-style home in Leicester, England. I thought it a wonderful, bold choice, and quite amazing that her husband picked the color. Neighbors have begun commenting, and I have no doubt that, at the very least, the pink door will inspire conversation.

Only later did I make a connection with how Life has been coaching me to open doors to love in new ways. I’ve been drawn to the deep shade of pink associated with unconditional love; I’ve been guided to envision a tele-seminar on self-love; and, I’ve seen how the presence of this one quality is more transformative and lasting than any other I might bring to my client sessions. Love is, after all, the essence of any fine craftsmanship or truly giving work in the world.

Perhaps it’s cultural that we’ve been duped into believing that self-love and narcissism ring the same bell. They don’t. One is the beginning of all healing, connection, truth and service. The other engenders only suffering. Unconditional self-love means being able to embrace the good, the bad and the ugly within us—fearlessly and shamelessly. We are beings of Light who have, at times, misunderstood the universe. In our misconception of love, we’ve acted out of fear or pain, anger or undue attachment to material things. Then, Life needed to teach us better. Not punish, just teach. We’re learning.

A while back, I watched an attentive, devoted father teach his pink-helmeted daughter how to ride her pink bike on a paved path adjacent to the Hudson River. She’d gotten past the training wheel stage, and he was coaching her to keep pedaling to maintain two-wheeled balance. When she got up to speed, he would jog along side her, quietly cheering her on. After perhaps 50 feet, she’d get scared, put on the brakes, and wobble to a stop. Dad would acknowledge her success, and then begin building up her courage to try again. Even though she judged herself as “failing,” he never faltered in his steady, patient clarity—you’ve done it, and you can do it more.

This is the message I keep sending myself. You’re doing great. Just keep peddling. If you’re afraid, it’s OK to stop, regroup, and try again. I’m jogging right beside you.

There is no more potent voice than our own, speaking to ourselves. We have the power to protect, heal, nurture or encourage. We can build up or we can destroy. And thus we create our world, moment by moment, choice by choice—with our voice.

One night this week, I was already in bed when I heard a sound like loud sparklers crackling. I looked out my window to see white-gold bits of light flying in every direction in the neighbor’s yard beyond our backyard trees. Sparks flew far enough for me to wonder if nearby shrubbery would catch fire. My first instinct was to call 911, yet a feeling of festivity and audible expressions of delight shifted my call-to-action.

September is not a typical season for fireworks, nor is a late weeknight customary party-time. Yet a fountain of colorful light poured forth, and I settled in from my secure vantage point, elbows propped on the window sill, smiling broadly. In the silence afterwards, it was the children’s voices I loved most.

I climbed back into bed to do my evening contemplation and took that joy inward. It set off a spiritual wave. I found myself wanting to be part of children playing and people of all ages enjoying each other’s company. The feeling sent me into a blissful state as I pictured myself amidst happy family, outside of an evening, enjoying fresh night air, musical voices, brightly colorful flying lights, and the sizzle of sparklers. My inner senses were fully engaged.

Years ago, I read that it is the power of imagination rather than the power of will that determines our experiences in this world. It has taken me years to begin taking responsibility for my imagination, turning away from criticism and negative images, thoughts or fears, to what lightens my heart and brings joy. In the past, I felt that simply being content or happy wouldn’t serve Life enough. I had to be in the trenches, suffering with those in their darkest hours (or my own) in order to be serving God. Lately, I see that I may have sentenced myself to an unnecessary fate. I can go to those dark places to assist others, but I don’t need to stay in the dark to serve in the dark.

The next day, a kind of miracle appeared. Someone contacted me looking for a coach and asked what kind of coaching I did. I explained that I help people listen deeply to their true heart’s desire, trust what they know, and actualize that divine purpose in their lives. I asked if she had a dream she was looking to realize, and she wrote back, Yes. Family, community and marriage.

This outer reflection of my experience the night before—and an opportunity to serve as I learn—keeps surfacing in my world. Life Itself is the coach. Connecting each moment that Life peeks out around a corner to wink in my direction, I begin to see a pattern, a structure, a path of joy to follow. All great spiritual beings do what they do out of love, unconditional and true. How could that be anything but joyful?

Brain inflammation is a challenging health condition. It can produce headaches and neck pain, mood changes leading to depression or anxiety, and incessant obsessive thinking.

The week before last, my brain went into overload and I wasn’t thinking straight. Fear dominated my thoughts, and my head pulsed with a low, consistent throb throughout the day. It was difficult to sleep; so, by day three I was squirming with overheated discomfort.

Then I remembered the willow tree.

In my backyard is a magnificent willow that’s perhaps over a hundred years old. With a craggy bulbous trunk, large sturdy branches and delicate leaves, it’s my favorite tree on our land. From the gazebo across the pond, I can take in the cascading wispy beauty of its leaves swaying in a summer breeze. In closer proximity, with my back propped against its trunk, I can feel myself absorb its strength.

Last year, the landscapers considered taking it down because one sizable branch had died and it looked like the rest would follow. But over the winter, a fierce storm came through that just happened to prune the part of the tree that would most allow it to regenerate. This spring, the willow stood stronger than ever.

I approached the tree and, rather than sitting down in my usual spot, I walked around to the other side. I noticed a protrusion nearly at head level if I stepped my feet out a bit and titled back to rest on the trunk. My skull fit underneath the protrusion such that the top and sides of my head nestled into the bark. I rested into the willow, inhaling the oxygen of its exhale.

Minutes later, my brain noticeably cooled down. While not an instant miracle healing, enough of the heat and fear I felt released, allowing me to regroup. If you’ve ever experienced the sacred cathedral of California redwoods or the healing scent of an Australian eucalyptus forest, you’ll know how this was possible.

There’s a spiritual law called the Law of Strength, which says that only the strong enter the kingdom of heaven or can withstand true unconditional love. When I read about how Soul becomes strong and bold by rigorous trials that try to shake It loose from the Tree of Life, I knew why I’d sought the willow’s presence.

Everywhere, in every way, support is here and now for those who choose strength. Perhaps it’s learning to be humble enough to receive.

I’m very sound sensitive. If I walk into a store and the music is jarring, I’ll walk right back out. I’ve often asked if the music can be turned down in a restaurant. I crave places where there’s no human sound at all. Not to live in all the time, but to get deep rest in nature.

So when my downstairs neighbor (whom I’ll call Kathy) brought in a houseguest over the summer, I was not happy. The fact that he was a man posed more of a problem because his deeper voice carried further. I’d taken great efforts to cultivate a good neighborly relationship with Kathy so we could make requests of each other directly and politely. But this one was up to the landlady.

I was afraid to lose my tentative camaraderie with Kathy, so I didn’t act quickly enough to share my views of this houseguest. It’s the moment I’ve played over and over again, trying to shift from self-punishment to self-forgiveness. Ever had one of those?

The morning after I found out that Kathy wanted her friend to stay for two more months, I saw my landlady walking across the parking lot towards one of the cottages. I thought to myself, I should follow her and let her know this is a major issue for me. But I was working intently on a project, and I easily let fear kick in and stop me. What if Kathy sees me and realizes I’m the one who has spoken up? It might destroy the connection I’ve spent a year to build. I further procrastinated, I can talk to her later today. I’ll text her— she’s quick on the uptake with texts.

What I didn’t foresee was that Kathy and her guest would run into our landlady in the parking lot 15 minutes later. I saw the train wreck happening outside my office window as if in slow motion. Oh, no! I ran for my phone to send a message Please don’t agree to anything with them until you’ve spoken with me. By the time she got back to me minutes later? Sorry, too late. But talk with me anyway.

I did share my concerns. Very fortunately, the agreed length of stay was one month. But that still left four more weeks of discordant sound. So I had to find a way to deal with this, at bedtime in particular.

I got out my iPad and headphones. I looked up reruns of TV shows that made me laugh—like the BBC’s Miranda or old Carol Burnett Show sketches.

Then I took a deep sigh and gave myself a lot of credit. Yes, I’m learning to speak up, to forgive myself, to let go of the little things, to breathe into the moment. None of these are easy. But my state of mind is my own responsibility, and I refuse to be a victim. If the situation requires I get more playful and creative? Guess I might as well laugh.

On a hot summer day, my friend Larry and I headed to the mall for a smoothie. Entering on the fourth floor, we walked into a large group of young kids with teen counselors, all in matching summer-camp-logo blue t-shirts. Parents think they’re sending their kids on a wilderness adventure, but they’re really just being taken to the mall, Larry quipped. We had a good laugh and continued on our way.

Riding the escalator down to the food court gave us an unobstructed view of a giant ropes course extending the full four-stories of the building. Ah, we speculated, this must be where the camp kids were taken to simulate the great outdoors. We reached Mr. Smoothie, and I didn’t give the matter another thought until I heard a child’s voice in a panic. I don’t want to do it! I don’t want to do it! A small boy of about six, with round glasses, clung to a railing at the edge of a walkway. Wooden planks 18” apart and strung together by ropes provided a bridge to the far platform. Poor little guy, I thought, and then turned back to the attendant customizing my beverage.

With drinks in hand, Larry and I walked over to watch the kids climb. I began to study them more closely. The little boy had made it to the other side, and I continued to watch as he—shakily but bravely—faced the next obstacle, and the next, and the next. There was no adult cheering him on from the sidelines. This kid was finding his courage all by himself!

Above us, an older boy practically ran across the highest wooden walkway, fully confident and self-directed. A group of three girls navigated crossings together, and a small child was held up by one of the teen helpers while stepping slowly onto a rope bridge. All the children were tethered by harnesses that connected to a track above them and pivoted on a single wheel. It’s interesting what kids can do when they feel safe, Larry noticed. Adults, too, I added, reflecting on the challenges my coaching clients bravely faced that week.

I kept an eye on the little boy with the glasses throughout his adventure. Though strapped in and safe from falling, he still stood at the edge of his own fear. Yes, he trembled at first and cried out. And then, he moved forward at his own pace. He stayed true to himself in every single step, focusing and taking slightly greater risks each time.

This brave heart touched mine, reawakening an appreciation for true, vulnerable courage—the kind that can only be accessed in the present moment, one step at a time, once we know (really know) we’re safe.

Have you ever agreed to a deadline before you had any idea how you’d meet it?

At the end of a business coaching call this week, my mentor asked me to send him my 90-day plan before our next meeting. What 90-day plan? I thought. I had seen things quite clearly until a bump in the road threw everything up into the air. I had no idea where to begin or what to map out. Of course what I said out loud was, Absolutely.

What typically happens to me first is that a panic comes forward, followed closely by the mind spinning with ideas and thoughts on how the task can be accomplished. I find neither of these very helpful. There’s a value to brainstorming, but to be honest, there’s enough of a storm inside my head without trying to invite one. And while it’s good sometimes to stretch my creative thinking capacity in this way, I find it better when I’m already in a tizzy to simply hold and wait.

And so I did. I spent days calming myself as best I could, being with my clients in the present moment, slowing my pace by hiking or swimming or lying under a tree at the river park to watch the wind shimmer through beech tree leaves like sunlit chimes. I stopped the car once to witness a magnificent sunset glow with brighter and brighter gold, then soften to rose, then fade to gray. I enjoyed breathing in and out, reminding myself that I need do nothing else.

Gradually, the layers around my heart began to dissolve.

And even as these inner icebergs melted away by day, at night I felt that familiar tension in my throat—the one that gets stuck, the one that says I must speak, I must be heard. The voice pushes, and the more it pushes, the more my throat hurts. I say I’m listening, but it won’t speak up.

It’s only when I create a safe space of divine love for the message to emerge that this voice will share. It will not respond to any other quality or technique. It must feel the resonance of authentic, unconditional love. And I’m the one responsible for bringing that vibratory truth.

I held the experience much of the night, and by morning the pressure had released. Within hours I knew what needed my attention in the next 90-days. It wasn’t a list, though it will turn into a series of physical, practical tasks. It was a consciousness, a container. Around the perimeter, a circle of protection surrounds the sacred work to be tended. And as I embody this living sanctuary, Love flows through the work and through me, unobstructed, into the world.

The workers came on a Tuesday morning to finish installing the molding around the base of the kitchen floor. My 20-year-old cat, Belle, made her escape from under the bed, through the cat door, to the picturesque landscape that surrounds our carriage house. This time, I decided to follow her, curious as to where she might go in her outdoor travels.

Belle trotted down a short stone pathway to the swimming pond where water sprays from a central fountain during daylight hours. Intent on watching her, I didn’t see the bird until I was nearly upon it—a great blue heron standing at the edge of the water. Having sensed our approach, the bird unfurled its wings to a full six feet. Belle stopped in her little tracks, and I stopped short with an intake of breath. We watched as the bird lifted into the air and landed gracefully on the other side of the pond.

Beauty like that silences me.

Moments later, Belle continued to the pine tree grove on our right, jumping across a little ravine and disappearing under the lowest branches. I continued to observe and receive the gift of the heron as it settled on the far bank of the pond.

The image and presence of the great blue heron lingered throughout the day. My mind wanted to make this symbolic, to have the bird mean something, to provide a message of guidance or wisdom. I researched great blue heron, but nothing about the animal medicine opened my heart as I read. I didn’t know that something more alive than symbolism was about to unfold.

On Wednesday, I went to my chiropractor’s office for what’s called a Network Spinal Entrainment—a light touch technique that accesses spinal gateways to invite healing. My brain/nervous system is reminded how to re-pattern itself to release stress and tension easily, to be healthy and whole on multiple levels. That afternoon, I experienced a wavelike movement in my spine that I’d never felt before. I could breathe freely from deep within my abdomen to the top of my lung capacity at the clavicle. I felt grounded in the middle of my chest at my heart center. My arms wanted to lift up off the table. Though I’d flown in dreams before, I’d never experienced this sensation of freedom in my physical form.

That’s when the image and presence of the great blue heron—its enormous, graceful wingspan widening—returned to my awareness. Beyond symbolism and meaning, through worlds of silence and stillness and release, the power of flight moved through my body.

Perhaps the beauty we observe is simply what we’re meant to become.