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.

She was blonde, tan, young—wearing brown pants, a cut off brown t-shirt, hefty work boots and a cowboy hat. A real working farmhand. She lit up with an innocence and love of life that touched me to the core. And she couldn’t do enough for me.

The cashier directed me to her to ask about eggs, to see if they’d gotten the delivery. Yes, they had. But then there were other eggs from the farm that she’d gathered herself this morning. They were small, but very fresh. Would you like to see so you could decide for yourself? she asked, heading from the barn towards the farmhouse. On the way, she asked another worker, How much are our eggs? They were more expensive, and smaller, so she wanted to be sure I had my choice.

She quickly reached the front porch door. It was locked, which surprised her, and a woman I judged to be the farmer’s wife had to let us in. She wasn’t particularly pleased. The girl with the long blonde hair walked cheerfully past— I’m going to show her our eggs to see if she wants them.

This 20-something had created a heaven that no one else could steal. She delighted to show me three-dozen miraculous eggs. The first ones of the season, she said. She’d eaten some this morning and found a double yolk. She told me to pick the dozen I wanted and then whispered, These are the freshest. She loved the one little speckled egg. Did I want to trade that one into my dozen? Or trade in some of the bigger eggs from another dozen? How could I turn down all this love? Of course I wanted the eggs!

As we walked to the door, the farmer’s wife was leaving at the same time. The blonde farmhand called out, I can sell eggs today to the CSA people, right? The answer, with an edge: Well, we usually only sell them on Saturdays. My millennial friend shrugged and beamed. Oh well, I already told you could have them so… She took my cash and ran back to the cashier at the barn.

Returning with my change, she asked, Do you want one from the hen house? I was stunned. Sure! Off she ran to get me the freshest, most precious, warm, little brown egg I’d ever seen. Do you want me to trade one? I said, reaching into the carton I held. No, she waved me off with a smile as she walked past, heading to the farmhouse refrigerator, two more eggs held in her hand.

I left feeling more completely served that day than I’d ever been in my life.

A friend called the other day to share a waking dream (a way in which life speaks to us through an unusual event in our day). He’d gone to the garage to get into his car. Upon opening the garage door, he noticed an ant on the threshold. From the ant’s perspective, an enormous wall was suddenly gone, leaving it open to a massive, unfamiliar landscape. It appeared a bit befuddled by its newfound freedom. My friend felt the immense impact of the ant’s experience, perhaps reflecting some inconceivable shift to open up in his own life.

I wondered, would this be an adventurous ant—one who might dare to cross the threshold into the unknown? Or, would it be frightful and retreat to the three remaining walls that could keep its world smaller, safer and contained?

I read about the extraordinary capacity of ants. For example, the tiny leafcutter ant can lift and carry in its jaws something like fifty times its own body weight. That’s comparable to a human being lifting a truck with its teeth.

The ant parable continued to roll through my life like a ripple of resonant sound. In a matter of days, I was offered a business opportunity of equal measure to the fourth wall of my own container being removed. I had to make a decision. Would I remain in safe, familiar territory or accept the invitation to step out into a quantum new universe of exploration? When weighing my decision, I felt comforted by the story of the ant, knowing I wasn’t the only being on earth facing enormous possibility.

Crossing thresholds is a continuous cycle for one who is fully and humanly alive. We’re presented with a moment in which we either say Yes to life and expand, or say No and retreat. There is no right answer, except the one vibrating at the frequency of authentic response.

It may take the strength of an ant to carry forth the mission to which we’re called. We may feel small and insignificant, even powerless at times. Yet, if we’re being honest, something inside us knows Life must be met on its own terms, and that even the smallest within us is capable of great things.

Without expecting to, I took up the game of golf last summer. I was motivated by a desire to help out a friend whose regular partners weren’t available; I didn’t want him to be lonely. So one day I heard myself say, I can play 9 holes with you tomorrow morning before I meet my client. I’d only ever played twice in my life, but I love mini-golf, so what the heck. I had no idea the gift I’d discover.

The first blessing was traveling light, taking nothing onto the course but a bottle of water and a snack. No cell phone and not missing it. The second was how absorbed I became in the moment, paying attention to subtleties of the body that affected the trajectory and velocity of the ball. The third was a feeling of expansive freedom—walking the beautiful landscape in heavenly weather; the feeling of the pendulum swing and the whack! sound that sends a ball aloft; the bliss of releasing muscular tension for alignment, competition for simple enjoyment. When my ball went into the drink or I missed it entirely, my generous golf partner gave me unlimited “mulligans.”

Later that month, I shot a full round of 18 holes. On the 11th hole, I experienced a shift that changed my game. I realized I was holding tightly to the club handle, and I decided to loosen my grip. Whoosh! My ball traveled twice as far as my normal bounce along the fairway.

At Christmastime, a friend of mine gave me Ben Hogan’s Five Lessons, a thin primer on the essentials of grip, stance and swing. I read a little. Surprisingly, I didn’t activate my old pattern of overachievement, but perused the book lightly over the winter to see if I could learn a little about where to place my attention.

Now it’s summer and, with a few tips, I’m reaching scores that have actual names—like triple bogie, double bogie, or bogie. I even got my first par! More importantly, I’m practicing new habits of letting go of self-judgment, criticism, frustration or the pressure to succeed.

Truth be told, letting go is not my forté. I hang on to friendships, relationships, habits, thoughts and feelings way past their sell-by-date. But I’m slowly learning to release my grip. I wonder what life would look like if I let go in every way as much as I let go with golf? If I imagine new landscapes bringing as much joy and freedom as I experience on the golf course, might I even run towards my future?

Every morning, I begin my day with a spiritual exercise. This week, I found one on Love and Miracles. I learned from my reading that the order is important. It’s not that we see miracles and then love life; it’s that we fill ourselves with pure love for life, and then the miracles find us. As an experiment, I tried filling my heart first and surrendering to divine spirit, which knows exactly what will be of greatest spiritual benefit to me. I welcomed the miracles from that starting point, and here’s what happened.

First, a new client landed in my inbox. I received an email from a gifted writer who wanted to sign up for coaching— someone with whom I’ll very much enjoy working. Anyone with her own business can appreciate the value of a joyful client connection

Next, I decided to run a morning errand. I never run errands in the morning, and I’ve never just “stopped by” my hair salon. But I wanted to exchange a shampoo and conditioner, and for some reason, I got into my car. When I arrived, I greeted my stylists and, much to my surprise, found one of my dearest friends sitting in the chair getting a hair treatment! I had no idea of her appointment. Though we typically get together once a week, this week we couldn’t find the time. Yet, here we were with an hour to spend while she finished her processing.

When I returned home, I wondered if I could take any more miracles. I decided I would. I took a few deep breaths to allow the expansion of more upliftment. And, indeed, miracles continued.

The next one came from my health insurance company—a matter of significant concern in my coverage turned out to be resolved wildly in my favor. After that, I went to sit in the backyard gazebo and noticed that a few of the hanging flower baskets were bone dry. I wondered if my landlady was out of town, but immediately filled some empty bottles to bring life-nourishing water to the parched plants.

The sweetest miracle of the day had yet to come. As I sat in the gazebo, a bumblebee came to drink from the flowers I’d recently watered. I had a close-up view of the bee sinking into each small blossom to retrieve the nectar, then flying onward. In that awakened moment, I perceived that this gift of water to the plants had a pay-it-forward effect. I experienced my small contribution to the great world chain that begins with each of us and ends in the ocean of unconditional love and mercy.

Any simple act of love with a pure heart literally changes the world. Love first. Miracles follow. In this rhythm, we’re all connected.