This week’s story is written by Silvana Messing-Notari from Castlemaine, in Victoria, Australia. Enjoy!

A week ago, I was feeling unhappy and slightly depressed. Wherever I looked, it seemed a smoke screen blocked the light from shining into my Soul. I spent a good seven days in a haze.

I prayed every night before sleep, asking the heavenly beings to help me, but I could not hear them. I was too deep into feeling sorry for myself. Then one morning just before waking, I heard the voice of one of my Spiritual Mentors. If you ever feel the light vanishing from your soul, do a good deed for someone else; there is no room for victimhood in the act of giving.

Yea, Yea I thought to myself, I already know all about that. I went about my day, dismissing the voice. In the hope that a good book would distract me, I went to the library. Once there, not knowing which book to choose, I felt worse than before. I left and went to the second hand store, only to walk out again because of a dispute between a customer and the clerk. This is not working, I thought, and I stormed towards my car to drive home.

On the way, I noticed that the fire brigade depot had their doors wide open— all the trucks ready to drive off on an urgent call. Suddenly, I felt as if someone’s hand was pushing me behind my head. Turn here, the voice said. Park around the corner and go and tell these people who are about to go and save lives how much you appreciate them. I knew I had no choice, so I stopped the car, crossed the road, and walked up to one of the truck drivers. He was a bit surprised, but asked, Can I help you? with a kind smile. I just came to let you know how much I appreciate the work you do. You people do such an amazing job putting your life at risk for the community. Thank you. I would love to give a donation.

Oh! Thanks for your kind words, the man replied. People don’t usually come to tell us this; it is always uplifting and encouraging to hear that we are appreciated. He passed my gratitude on to the rest of the team who also thanked me. Unfortunately, he explained, they were not able to accept my donation at the fire station.

While driving home, I remembered that once a month at the local market the Country Fire Authority have collection buckets at the entrance. I shall drop my donation in one of their little buckets, I thought. Within minutes, the haze had lifted. I felt lighter and more at peace. My heart opened.

We are blessed with the right to choose in this precious life. Here I chose to listen, to let the inner voice guide me, and to trust in the miracle of giving. The light returned to open my heart—and the act of giving and receiving came full circle.

Anyone who grew up in upstate New York (the real upstate, not Poughkeepsie) knows the true value of Wegmans, one of the best supermarket chains in the world. Years ago, I worked in the deli department for a short time, so I understand firsthand why Wegmans is revered. Beyond its multitude of quality offerings that other stores may provide, a culture of service is central, vital and vibrantly alive.

I drove to New Jersey this week when I discovered a Wegmans had opened nearly a year ago. In the parking lot, I texted my sister (living in the real upstate) a picture to prove I’d made it to grocery Mecca. Inside, I was suitably overstimulated by expanse and variety in a kind of culture shock. I meandered with my small cart, acclimating to the ambiance, then set off to find one of two items most important to my pilgrimage—organic almond butter. Wegmans sells its own store name brand for $9.99. I know! Granted it’s roasted, not raw, but this is half the price of any other brand.

In the nut butter aisle, the shelf was completely empty. I’d driven a distance, so I thought it worth checking at the customer service desk to see if there was more. I was greeted politely, signed up for a store discount card cheerfully, and my inquiry on almond butter was received with sincere interest.

Here’s where the word service begins to be redefined. The employee makes a phone call, talks to another worker, asks if I tried aisle 2B, then walks me all the way back to the shelf location. Seeing my conundrum, she takes a picture of the product shelf label bar code on her phone, and asks me to wait right there while she personally goes into the back to check incoming supplies.

Two minutes later I hear her talking to a man who’s describing another location in the store. Where’s the customer? he asks. She leans into my aisle—smiling—and waves me forward, saying come with me. We walk to an end cap in natural foods where, top to bottom, jars of smooth and crunchy are perfectly arranged. Waving her hand across the display, she adds this can all be yours, if the price is right. I delightedly thank her; place six jars into my cart; and, head to the meat section.

But the service isn’t over! As I peruse beef packages on a plentiful wall of organic meats, my phone rings. This is Ennea from Customer Service, she says. You left your coupons and Menu magazine at the customer service desk. Would you like them? From a mildly stunned state, I mutter that I’ll be happy to swing back around.

Ennea’s tone of service was simple, decent, human courtesy with a touch of playfulness that persisted until the job was complete. How many of us can say we serve like that? Just a great example of what’s possible for the holidays, and beyond.

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.