It is undeniable now, spring in New York. The magenta tulips on my kitchen table blend with the fuchsia azaleas outside my kitchen window. The fountain has been turned back on to aerate the pond. Streets are lined with trees in emergent spring green—a favorite, annual color. Once again, the miracle that life returns to blossom through and around us reminds me of the cycle of nature and the invitation to spiral ever upwards.

This spring, something permanent shifted within. I discovered it yesterday while sitting across from my dear millennial friend and co-worker as we wrote, together, a distillate review of a project for which we’d been program directors. Over his Monte Cristo and my lamb shanks, we shared the mutual recognition that the darkness no longer holds interest for us.

We’d both served often in dark places, experiencing tragedy and trauma, witnessing the suffering of others, facing the places within where fear or frustration, anxiety or overwhelm, grief or loneliness lives. Yet, here we were, in a small town diner of a Hudson River town realizing that this landscape no longer held our curiosity. Compassion, yes. Curiosity, no. It was as if we were coming out of winter for the last time. As if we’d learned to face darkness with hearts as firm as diamonds. We’d learned to bring the Love.

It’s time to serve in the light. Focusing on the darkness in our world only feeds it. We’ve come with a different purpose, and we know it. It’s not denial. It’s free will.

How this shift happened can only be compared to the miracle of spring where there appears to be nothing for a very long time. Then, in a precious revelation, life breaks through its shell, or the surface of the earth, or a hardened consciousness.

Something about our intergenerational collaboration in the spiritual seminar project we just completed broke us both open to next level. Who knows what comes of this. No doubt we’ll meet others who’ve reached the same realization—artists, poets, musicians, bankers, executives, hair stylists, plumbers, teachers, saints. We’ll recognize one another, no matter our age or culture or background, and we’ll take another step together into a God moment.

When I began to explore what other professionals in my field could teach me, I came upon an interesting metaphor. One world-renowned coach said, Focus on bringing the lotus flower within each person you meet out of the mud.

Lotus flowers are considered one of the most beautiful flowers in the world. They’re often a symbol of spiritual unfoldment. And they only grow in mud. Sometimes, we may find ourselves stuck in mud—emotional mud, relationship mud, career mud. Coaches can and do help us get unstuck, allowing for a fuller, more visible emergence of the blossom within.

Yet this needn’t be a practice relegated to coaches, teachers, counselors and inspirational speakers. When we focus on the lotus flower within each person we meet— from listening deeply to a loved one’s story of the day or interacting briefly with a stranger in the street, we call forth Soul’s singular beauty.

There’s a wonderful story of a woman who was working in a mining operation. She had a boss whose behavior and appearance she found very hard to take. He had piercings and tattoos all over his body, and he would overpower anyone who tried to get in his way. She found him so abhorrent that she actually challenged God—show me how you live in this man! Surprisingly, she heard an inner answer in return—through his love for his son.

Shortly thereafter, the woman heard the plight of another contractor in the mine. This man’s young daughter had leukemia since age two, and now she was being given the chance to perform on stage with her favorite rock star. The performance was to take place in the man’s hometown, miles away from his place of employment. Upon hearing the news, the woman emailed her odious boss to ask if her co-worker could at least have a couple of hours off to watch his daughter on TV.

A day or two later, the boss met up with her in the break room. I’m so glad you told me about this man’s situation, he said. Of course he can have the time off. If it were up to me, I’d fly him clear across the country to be there in person. The two then got talking about the important things in life, like family. And sure enough, as the boss began speaking about his son, his manner softened and his eyes began to tear up.

When this deeper truth unfolded like the petals of a flower, the woman realized she’d had no right to judge her boss by appearances. In effect, she’d been paying attention to the mud. Her request to be shown where the lotus lived within him brought its beauty to the surface, forever changing her perspective and opening a way for him to give.

A few months ago, I began a new habit. On Thursday nights around dinnertime, I turn off my computer and my phone. I purposefully disconnect to slow myself down, to calm the incessant mental agitation, and to bring peace to my inner worlds. I might read, or do a puzzle, or draw, or play guitar and sing, but nothing plugged in.

I began this new practice in preparation for Fridays. For many years, Fridays have been a fasting day for me. When I was younger, it was a food fast or partial fast, like just eating dinner. Then it morphed into juice or liquid fasts. Much more frequently now, it’s a mental fast of keeping my thoughts in the highest spiritual place that I can for twenty-four hours.

And while Thursdays have supported Fridays successfully, sometimes this night-before preparation brings a sense of loneliness. I try to lean into the feeling and breathe while I watch myself detach from being electronically fed. This week, I had help from a rainstorm that came on quickly. It had been unseasonably hot and humid all day. Suddenly, a wind seemed to come from out of nowhere, whipping through trees as if in a circular pattern. By the time I got back to the bedroom to close the windows, water had already soaked the rug.

I went downstairs and opened the front door. I stood just inside, allowing the freshness of the wind and water’s spray to enliven me. In a matter of minutes, the downpour stopped and I stepped outside, barefoot in the grass. I saw my neighbor standing in her doorway finishing a phone call. She hung up, then pointed to the lamp that hangs above her front door. There’s a huge bee, she said. She’s not a fan of bees. I went to look and sure enough a bee the size of a horsefly was crawling inside the lamp near the bulb. As I watched, it flew away, and my neighbor carefully stepped outside.

We chatted about the weather, about the theater, about the property on which we live and the opportunity we’d have soon to star gaze from the field once I get my astronomy binoculars a proper tripod. I felt as if I’d stepped back in time into a gentler rhythm when neighbors connected with each other instead of their TVs.

What a peaceful and pleasant moment on an unplugged Thursday night. Real physical presence. The virtual world is such a gift to connect us globally. We get to explore and find our tribe among the peoples of the world. Yet, there’s nothing so fulfilling to me as simple, casual conversation shared amidst the clean, rain-soaked air, barefoot on my front lawn.

I filled out the online form. It contained my name, address and billing information. But could I press the “submit” button? Could I say yes to the opportunity that had emerged, to invest in myself and my work through a one-on-one meeting with someone I knew could help me unfold my mission? I’d received clear guidance in dreams the night before. Why did I hesitate?

I took a breath and dropped into the God moment. I held the opportunity as if in suspended animation, revisiting the dream symbols—my keys, a changing room, hearing myself say “Ohhhh…” as if “I get it.” And then the sound of beating drums. If I’d somehow misinterpreted the images, the sound was undeniable.

I pressed the touchpad on my computer and watched the processing circle while I surrendered a blessing. And then it was done. Surprisingly, I felt a deep sense of peace. Is this what true alignment with one’s destiny feels like? I don’t recall feeling this before.

What is it about opportunity that frightens us? Something calls from just beyond our threshold, and we tremble to answer by taking another step. Yet, there is no past to return to in these moments. We now know what’s possible. The investment of time, money or love looks steep. It would be so much easier to say no. But then we’d die a little inside without even realizing.

I prepared to go into Manhattan to teach a class. When I arrived, several people commented on how different I looked. This continued into the next day. What is it about you? one person asked. It’s as if a weight I’ve always seen you carry is gone.

If following our destiny makes us weightless, no wonder we fear this state. How will we ground ourselves? Support ourselves? Where could that much love possibly come from to provide a platform for our gifts to be offered to the world? Especially a world that often appears hostile, insane or overrun with greed.

Maybe we keep our truest heart always among the stars. Or maybe, we find a way to share a piece of what’s beyond time and space, beyond words, beyond all but keeping our promise to Love Itself.

Picture courtesy of the Orion Nebula

When I was a kid, my mother used to take us to a specialty shoe store. We’d sign in at the tall giraffe stand, like putting our name on a list at a restaurant. As one of the salesmen became available, he’d call us and we’d be fitted for shoes, old-school style.

This week when I needed dress shoes, I headed to a large discount shoe warehouse. Finding nothing of value in my hard-to-fit width (someone once told me I could start cars with my feet, like in The Flintstones), I finally looked up a specialty retail shop. I surrendered to the fact that if I wanted to be comfortable as well as fashionable, I’d have to pay the price.

Stepping into the store was almost like stepping back in time. Three men waited on customers the old fashioned way, disappearing into the back room to find the requested style in the right size—God willing. I found a simple slingback in bone, and while a young man searched the back room stacks, I discovered a snazzier option on the sale rack.

Simon (I later learned his name) took pride in his work. He had an easy, yet attentive manner, and he knew the finer points of various shoemaking companies. He said I could get away with a half-size smaller in one brand whose shoes were built like a house. I enjoyed sitting across from him, perched on his shoe-fitting stool, surrounded by half-opened boxes. Being tended at a retail store had become a rare experience over the years, and I appreciated the one-on-one service.

Next to me sat a woman with long, dark hair who waited as her husband negotiated a simpler process with another salesman. When Simon disappeared again to find black pumps in my size, I turned to speak with her. No more cheap shoes, I said. You know what I mean? She agreed, and we shared solidarity in the value of self-care.

The pumps turned out to be the best dress shoes I’d tried on in years. I also bought the slingbacks, knowing they’d last much longer than their lesser-quality counterparts.

It wasn’t until I was driving home that I remembered an assignment from my Awakened Wealth program. We were to peruse our environment for what we were tolerating—a faulty showerhead? A closet door off its track? A trunk full of junk or a pile of unopened mail? It could be a relationship that had become taxing or a job that no longer inspired our creativity. Whatever we were tolerating, we were asked to fix, change or address in a loving way. This would release energy tied up in old, worn-out habits, letting go of attachments to circulate a better quality of life.

Whether it’s finer footwear, a more organized desktop, or a deeper alignment with our life’s work, renewed energy pours into the space created by releasing what we’re tolerating for a refreshed—and welcomed—upgrade. Any ideas what yours might be?

It’s often said that what we’re seeking is seeking us. I seek connection. In the gift moments of life, this connection is simple, clear, heartfelt and true.

Last Thursday at the self-checkout area of the supermarket, I realized I’d forgotten my discount fob. In an aisle with a live person at the register, I would have given my phone number. But I didn’t know how to negotiate this simple transaction with a machine. I stepped over to the cashier in charge of self-service who, at that moment, was ringing up a few items for a fellow worker heading home at the end of a shift. She noticed me and turned to ask how she could help. When our eyes met, we both smiled as if recognizing an old friend. I asked my question, and she gave me the answer. When she finished helping her co-worker, she came over to be sure the instructions had worked. Indeed they had. Minutes later, when I had a coupon snafu, we enjoyed a good laugh—just two souls from different cultures sharing the recognition of a joyful life.

Later, I walked the Hudson River trail at a nearby park. A man with two fishing poles secured in the bank of the river stood quietly by. He interested me—an older fellow with long gray hair, moustache, cap—Native American looking, I thought. I was drawn to his energy, thought about striking up a conversation, thought that might seem weird, and decided to do it anyway. Catch anything? I called out as I walked by. Oh yes, he replied, yesterday I got a carp this big! He held out his hands to more than two feet in length. Wow, I said, assuming by his enthusiasm that was a good catch. I’m going for striped bass. He added, It’s a good river. I agreed, and then I pointed to a small tree nearby. The leaves are finally budding! His eyes got big. He hadn’t noticed. He’d been focused on the river, and I on the trees. When he looked back at me, he smiled warmly. His eyes were now lit up. Connection.

A friend with young children once shared this story with me. A few families who’d been shopping later at night found themselves piling kids and groceries into their cars at the same time. As my friend’s wife called to him to get in the car, he hesitated. He’d just seen another dad give a good push to his empty cart in a direct line with the shopping cart return corral. In a moment of synchronicity, a small group of dads watched as the cart sailed across the parking lot, landing in graceful precision between the “goalposts.” Arms and cheers went up in this shared bonding of parking lot athleticism.

What a gift when we are present to this moment to find that someone else is awake, too. What is hidden is revealed, what is sought is found, and we are connected.

The other night I took the bravest action I’ve ever taken—and as my life has proven, I’m no stranger to courage. But this was the one thing I hadn’t wanted to face. The box. The one I assumed I’d open only at the end of this lifetime.

Did it contain something traumatic? Not at all. Inside were cards, letters and email print outs from those who’d written to thank me, celebrate me, or share their love for me. Notes I’d only given a cursory, Oh how sweet of him/her before tossing aside. Yet something within me was wise enough to toss them into one place.

Then, why so daunting? It was evidence. It required me to actually receive back the love I’d given out, and I dreaded it. I knew it would hurt. I’d have to open my real heart—not the one I claimed to open, but the one ever deeper.

But it was time. I turned off my phone, poured a glass of water, and took the oversized shoebox into the living room. I opened it and pulled out the first card. 1989. My dear friend James with whom I’d worked the streets of Brooklyn for a political party had been diagnosed with AIDS. Before he passed, he wrote to say how much he loved me and how I was to remember that I possess the inner strength to surpass any obstacle that comes my way. Your love for life, he wrote, your love for music will pull you through it all. I sat for several minutes to fully absorb his words. Yes, I am that strength.

Next, a note from someone who’d heard me give a talk in Toronto, Ontario in 2016. She wrote, It is a joy to listen to you share the pure love of God. Again, it took several minutes to alter my self-perception.

One card looked spookily similar to the cover of The Abundance Project, a book by Derek Rydall whose life-changing course in Awakened Wealth Mastery I’m currently studying. Another thank you note signed with love from Larry had no last name, and I’m still trying to remember. But it contained a quote from my favorite inspirational teacher, Harold Klemp: It is truly the rare person adventuresome enough to explore his inner domain.

I read slowly. I had to stop at five cards as my heart was overflowing. I have perhaps hundreds—from former students (and their parents) whom I taught and directed, from colleagues and co-workers, friends and family, co-stars and audience members.

Now I don’t have a choice. I cannot turn back. I must relinquish my mind’s belief that my life has been a failure, that I’m not loved, and that I’ve done nothing valuable for God. I can no longer feed others while starving myself out.

As I read one a day, I’ll keep learning to receive. I’m finally willing to take responsibility for what I’ve circulated for decades. And I am among the wealthiest of people.

If I had a bucket list, I would have crossed off a top item this week—being in the presence of Dr. Edith Eva Eger. The 90-year-old holocaust survivor, clinical psychologist, and extraordinary soul is the author of The Choice: Embrace the Possible—a book Desmond Tutu called A gift to humanity. One of those rare and eternal stories that leaves you forever changed. I know that was true for me.

Dr. Eger spoke to students at The Horace Mann School with a message to take any situation and look for the gift. Auschwitz was about discovery, she said. I had to find some way to flow and stay in the situation. I created a part in me that no Nazi could ever touch. I bring you that spirit today, to find a gift in everything; and, I’m telling you about Auschwitz as an opportunity. It was an opportunity for me to discover my inner resources, the strength that I have within me.

At their age, Dr. Eger had been named to the Hungarian Olympic team as a dancer and gymnast, then expelled for being a Jew. Shortly thereafter, she and her family were taken by cattle car to the concentration camp. Her mother gave young Edith a gift on their journey to the unknown, one that ultimately shaped her survival: we don’t know where we’re going or what is going to happen to us, but no one can take away from you what you put in your mind.

Edith often put in her mind the memory of Eric, the man she’d planned to marry, telling her she had beautiful eyes and beautiful hands. And when Dr. Mengele came around to identify the talented ones (the other girls pushed her forward), Edith closed her eyes and imagined Tchaikovsky’s Romeo & Juliet Overture. With full focus, she danced for the man who’d sent her parents to the gas chamber—a choice that saved her life and the lives of others.

How do you cope with the unexpected and unanticipated? Dr. Eger asked the students. The biggest concentration camp is in your own mind—and you can find the key in your pocket. Then she shared this story.

One day, in yet another line to determine her fate, Edith reached the guard who was to tattoo her arm. He pushed her away saying he didn’t want to waste ink on her. About to be separated from her sister, Edith got creative. You see survivors have to be quick decision makers, she said. On the way to the gas chamber, I saw my sister in one part, and I was in another part, so I looked at the guard and I began to do cartwheels—and my sister ended up with me.

As Dr. Eger travels the world to speak with students, she brings generosity, humor and grace. She models self-love and self-care. She is free and selflessly giving. My book is about you, she says. I came here to celebrate you.

On Friday night, my friend Kitty Callahan was honored as Person of the Year by the Yonkers Police Department. At the 102nd Annual Installation of Officers & Awards Dinner, this recognition typically granted to local politicians or business people was given to a social worker for the very first time.

The evening began with presentations for notable or heroic acts in the line of duty, including the efforts of a detective who had spent four years solving a cold case, and the bravery of several officers who’d been engaged in a full 15-minute shoot out. A young cop who’d been shot in the face during that violent incident was sworn in as a detective by the Mayor—much to her surprise. I felt privileged to witness the sense of community and family within the culture of those who serve in this way.

When the President of the PBA took the podium to give the final award of the evening to Kitty, he held no notes in his hand, nor could he share stories of personal triumph or heroism. A man of significant physical stature, Detective Olson’s humble presence and simple, heartfelt words honored the moment and the woman strong enough to tend those who face dangerous situations. When Kitty began as the department’s Employee Assistance Professional, he said, she was warned that no one was going to talk to her or trust her. Yet since that time, literally hundreds of officers have sought her counsel. Detective Olson offered his sincere gratitude for Kitty’s gift to the Yonkers Police force, for helping keep officers sane in their often-chaotic world.

Kitty received citations from the Mayor, the City Council President and the New York State Assembly for her support of the department through the toughest of times. A beautiful plaque honored her years of commitment and dedication. One line engraved therein most caught my attention, resonating with the words of her presenter: We thank you for all the help you have given to the members of the Yonkers Police Department throughout the years. Your compassion is unparalleled.

There is a level of listening to the grit and grace of life that very few people can do. This kind of deep listening creates a sacred space through knowing that every experience, no matter how painful, has the potential to lift us to a higher place. Yet only as that experience is fully heard and honored can its true gift unfold. Kitty gained the respect and trust of an entire police force without ever having been a cop herself because she is such a listener.

If you are so fortunate as to have someone in your life who truly hears and supports you, you may want to take an opportunity to thank that person. Perhaps they are your Person of the Year.

On Friday night, I attended a one-woman show with a playwright friend. We didn’t know we were walking into immersive theater, which neither of us favor, but the actress won us over with talent, kindness and ease. “Every Brilliant Thing” by Duncan MacMillan and Jonny Donahoe explores the subject of suicide with grace and comedic vulnerability—initially through the eyes of a child who makes a list of every brilliant thing in life to present to her mentally ill mother. Starting with what a seven-year-old would treasure like ice cream and water fights, the list grows as the character grows up to joys such as the smell of old books and hairdressers who listen to what you want. After the show, audience members were encouraged to add to a master list posted on the wall. I added, astronomy binoculars.

The play reminded me of a gift moment from college that I experienced with an extraordinary young man I’d met my freshman year. John had just returned from a semester in Nairobi the fall that I started school. He was the son of dairy farmers, and he grew up in the North Country region of New York State. Something about his sincerity, gentleness, connection to nature, and deep commitment to the truth of the moment started me on a quest. Then also, there was his humor.

John once instigated a water balloon fight with me around the dorm. On a spring afternoon, armed with colorful water bombs, we ran at top speed down hallways, bursting through outside exits to re-enter by other doorways, hiding and finding each other in full-out strategic water warfare. The crowning moment came when I, complete with weapon ready to fire, ran out the back door of the north wing, certain that I’d just seen John run out seconds before. I was so sure I’d seen him that when I stepped out of the building, I paused to look for which way he’d turned. At that exact moment, splat! — the latex landed atop my head and burst, thoroughly drenching my body. I looked up in complete disbelief. There was John, laughing so hard over my reaction to his unexpected attack that he nearly fell off the second floor balcony.

That water balloon moment always lights up with joy, freshness, vitality, and the gift of exploding laughter. Everything about John’s presence in my college days inspired me to be true to every part of myself. He goes on my list of brilliant souls who steered me toward the unmasked—presence over pretense, authenticity over authoring—a lesson that unfolds continually as its fearless vulnerability settles into my heart.