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.