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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The hallway into the main room is lined with framed pictures of dogs, cats and birds. A glass display case houses a picture of Eric and his former K-9 companion. Tasteful jewelry, keepsakes and urns lend an atmosphere of comfort. Someone truly cares.

I’d called Eric at Rainbow Bridge Crematory the afternoon my 21-year-old cat, Belle, passed on to her next spiritual journey. I had no idea I’d be entering a kind of way station to heaven when I walked in the next morning.

I’m the only one here and that feels purposeful. I sit at a simple, round table in the center of the room to fill out paperwork. Eric brings me a small metal tag, asking me to write the number in the space provided on the form. It’s a special number for me.

We’re the only tagging crematory for pets in the country, he explains. A buddy of mine had a funeral parlor, so I knew how tags worked for humans. If you don’t have a tagging system, the government shuts you down. So, why not with pets? You put the tag into the box with your pet and when your ashes are returned, the tag is in there.

A former fire inspector for the state of New York, Eric worked with a K-9 friend for nine years. When his dog passed, he went to a crematory, but wasn’t allowed to witness the process. That’s when he decided to open his own pet crematory with a different approach to service. He offers 24-hour pick up. Families (or the Board of Health) may view the entire process via camera system. He gives back to the community through free, private cremation for active and retired police/fire K-9s.

Mostly, Eric offers me authentic kindness and compassion as he meets my eyes. He gazes at Belle’s body with the same respect. The day we meet, he wears a Harley Davidson sweatshirt. He’s the real deal.

Pets give unconditional love. Why shouldn’t they be treated with the same respect as humans? he asks. Why, indeed?

I look at the choice of three urns— wooden, floral tin, photo—and choose the floral for Belle’s ashes. I can have a paw print in clay, a lock of fur in a laminated pouch, and a framed rainbow bridge poem with a picture of her, if I e-mail him a photo. At the time I choose none of these, though later I opt for the poem. I tell Eric I don’t want to lock her into that form, now that she might take on another. He gets it, and I imagine he may know reincarnation in his own way.

For more than two decades, Belle and I shared daily life. She’d even left her body while lying across my lap. Eric’s choice to activate his unique purpose and mission—tending animals and their people—provided me a most welcome bridge to acceptance, grace and gentle closure.

One of the guiding principles in mastership of any sport, art, or spiritual endeavor can be summed up in the words, Be the Best You Can. We live in a culture of striving, often believing that the best we can be involves some sort of superhuman effort or achievement. Yet the story of a high school wrestler who surrendered a match he could have won stunningly clarifies what this principle looks like in action. Marek Bush is one unusual teenager, and this is his humble, heart-opening choice.

As a sophomore and champion wrestler from Utica, New York, with yet another state championship on the line, Marek faced his rival on the mat. He’d practiced hard, and he wanted to beat his opponent, Logan Patterson.

But when Logan badly injured his elbow in the last 30 seconds of the match, an extraordinary spiritual opportunity unfolded. Marek had been losing up to this point. All he had to do to win the championship was pin his compromised competitor. Instead, after telling his coach I got this, he went back in—and did nothing. He surrendered, allowing his opponent to win the match. https://www.cbsnews.com/news/marek-bush-champion-high-school-wrestler-surrenders-a-match-he-could-have-won/

The video shows fans on their feet and in tears. The subsequent interviews crack open the heart. Marek assumes his choice would make him look kind of like a weakling, but that’s all right, he says. The referee’s voice cracks as he shares that he’s never seen anything like it, and that Marek is no weakling at all. State championships come and go, he says, but that—you can’t take that away from a kid. Marek’s father is the most overcome with emotion. When the reporter asks if he’s proud, he quickly answers, very proud. He must have passed along his own values to his son. As he puts it, Winning isn’t everything, it’s about doing what’s right. And he did.

Even the reporter highlights what he saw as the most important element of this story—that Marek thought his choice would make him look weak, and he did it anyway.

Everyone takes away something a little different from this story. I’m seeing a key to mastership with greater clarity. Being the best we can means following our heart and acting courageously upon what we know to be true no matter what appears in the outside world. In each experience, the choice is ours. And even when we’re wrestling with the world, there’s always that one defining moment—that opportunity to tune in to our highest self and surrender to what’s most true. Love is always a choice.

We may consider maximum-security prison as the place of least freedom on earth. Valentino Dixon has proven otherwise. His exoneration last fall, sparked by a surprising journey involving colored pencil golf sketches, serves as an example of the highest we can choose in the most limited circumstances.

Dixon’s trial reads like a classic crime drama meant to incite our sense of injustice. Yet it’s the alignment of his lifelong path to freedom that most caught my attention. Dixon shared that in the worst nightmare imaginable…for whatever reason, God kept sending me signs. And I wasn’t a strong believer in God before that. But He kept sending me signs, and each sign He sent was like “Hold on.” Here’s the unfoldment.

Dixon’s uncle brings art supplies to the prison to encourage Dixon’s love of art. It takes seven years for him to begin drawing again. He’s not allowed oil paints, so he explores a new method of layering colored pencils.

Louise Piromalli finds his art on the Internet; they marry in the Attica cafeteria in 2002. She prints and distributes his greeting cards designs until an expired visa requires her return to Australia.

Enter the next catalyst—Attica’s superintendent and avid golfer, James Conway, who brings a photograph of the 12th hole at Augusta National, asking if Dixon might draw it as a favor. Dixon’s response? After 19 years in Attica, the look of a golf hole spoke to me. It seemed peaceful. I imagine playing it would be a lot like fishing. Within that peace, Dixon draws over 100 “golf designs” in the next two years, often referenced by photos in back issues of Golf Digest lent to him by a fellow inmate.

Eventually, Dixon reaches out to editor Max Adler, answering a story request from the monthly column called How Golf Saved My Life. The small golf drawing included opens Adler’s heart and mind. Max gets involved with the case, bringing the media attention that attracts key people who eventually secure Dixon’s release.

Though many played their part, only Dixon himself could maintain the spiritual state that would allow events an opportunity to play out in his favor. He chose not to hold a grudge against the man who actually committed the crime because I knew it would kill my spirit. He accepted all gifts that came his way, whether challenging or uplifting. He focused on creating what he loved and spent much time imagining freedom.

Everything good that I have now, like sharing delicious food with my family, sleeping under my mother’s roof, I dreamed about for so many years, it’s like I’ve done it already. All that time, you see, my mind was on the outside. Drawing and reading, I was living in a fantasy. Now that I’m here, it’s no shock.

In a sense, was Valentino Dixon just as free behind bars as outside the prison walls?

Dixon’s humility and heart is evident in this interview. May it help you find your own freedom trail.

The video has gone viral, but if you haven’t yet seen the under-two-minute floor routine of UCLA gymnast Katelyn Ohashi, may I suggest you do so now? https://www.inc.com/minda-zetlin/katelyn-ohashi-viral-video-ucla-gymnastics-ncaa.html. Rarely do we get to see such alignment with joy, with sharing one’s gifts with the world.

Katelyn was an Olympic hopeful. She beat Simone Biles to win the America Cup in 2013 before Biles went on to win an Olympic gold medal. Ohashi was expected to compete in 2016, but instead left the elite gymnastic world. Why? Not only did training and competition fracture her back and tear her shoulders, it broke her spirit. She was constantly told she wasn’t good enough, she didn’t look a certain way, and that she had gotten too big. At 13, she wrote that she was used to waking up with the taste of blood or iron in her mouth, as if she might almost throw up from being so hungry.

Katelyn left elite competition to compete instead in the college circuit. It was with her coach at UCLA that she rediscovered her joy, giving the world one of the best examples of what it looks like to be full-out love in motion.

Even more than the floor routine, which brings me to tears, is watching Katelyn after she finishes. She high-fives all of her teammates. The perfect 10 score appears—and watch what she does next. There’s no over-dramatization of the moment, as if her whole life has built to this crescendo of success. She hugs a friend and then stands in casual conversation with her colleagues, being fully present for the next moment. No ego. No theatrics. Just natural, calm, self-possessed and poised. I was stunned.

We’re so used to seeing athletes strive for perfection, for record-breaking, history-making victories. But what’s the lasting gift in relative perfection? A lifetime of remembering and reliving that single moment? A constant, relentless desire to one-up oneself? Perhaps a celebration of championship followed by a grace period of floating on air before the temporal dissipates, as it always does.

What I saw in Katelyn was the true genius of knowing all is in its right place—the routine, the body, the seemingly effortless effort, the music, the crowd, the playfulness, the rhythm, and the grounded joy that lasts a lifetime. This young woman appeared to have nothing to prove and nothing to lose. I imagine that’s why she was able to deliver such a performance.

No matter what you see when you watch Katelyn, there’s no doubt she landed more than a perfect score. She found an alignment of character, the grace of a true champion, and the freedom that comes with choosing the highest happiness.

Photo credit: Ben Liebenberg/AP