I was having a recent summer conversation with a fella (we say fella in the south) and as expected, we covered the five basic acceptable tenets of polite conversation: football—not really my thing, fear of hurricanes—not really my thing, beer—not really my thing, good lookin’ women—well, not really my thing and fishing—BINGO—something to talk about.

It’s not that I’m an avid fisherman at all; it’s just that I have a whopper of a fish story and it’s not about the one that got away.

In 1978, after my freshman year in college, I toured in a summer music group for Oral Roberts University.  I was the ultimate hypocrite—not wanting to be there, weary of the dogma that had been a part of my whole life until then but desperately feeling the need for help in paying my tuition.

Auditioning for and landing a spot in one of these groups guaranteed a big chunk of scholarship money.  It also meant proselytizing and luring unsuspecting youth to consider coming to ORU.

I got in.  In spite of “just being a freshman”, I found myself whisked away on one-nighters for three months singing about the glories of God, Oral Roberts and that space-aged looking university.

I was miserable—hot, yet learned how to eat around gnats when given a cucumber and mayonnaise sandwich outdoors in the middle of an Arkansas summer church social.

Jerry Florence, who would later become one of my singing partners in the 80’s trio Alliance, was in charge of these ORU music groups.  He was a graduate and worked for the university overseeing tour schedules, bookings and accommodations.

Jerry and I bonded during that summer.  He’d become privy to the fact that he was getting fired when the tours concluded and I lamented over how I would survive another 3 years.  We considered doing something wild and crazy the week after the tour ended and before school resumed.

Jerry came up with the idea of Deep Sea Fishing somewhere off Padre Island in South Texas.  It wasn’t a particularly “wild” choice but neither of us had ever been and it sounded like one of those rugged things you would have on your lists of 100 things to do before you die.

We took Dramamine for 24 hours before our departure and yet, as we bounded out to sea, I still felt as though everything I had ever eaten was about to revisit me and show its revenge.  As the boat rocked and hurled from side to side in the darkness of the pre-dawn, we traveled miles and miles out on the choppy waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

After closer inspection of our fellow journeymen, I observed that Jerry and I were the only ones on the boat who weren’t fishermen by trade.  We were faux fishermen surrounded by seasoned laborers wearing caps with hooks and carrying extra lures in their moist pockets.  It became apparent after leaving the dock that Jerry had gotten us onto a commercial charter—not a tourist charter—not a—“oh let’s just cast a line out and enjoy the day” charter.  No, this was one where each man looked at the other with a sense of distrust, wanting to taint the others bait buckets with some homemade, concocted fish repellant.  This was competitive fishing.  This was ESPN fishing.  The crazy part of the wild and crazy intention had surfaced.

I decided to pretend I knew what I was doing.  I baited and cast my line.

The next hour became a salty sea air blur.

No sooner had I settled in for some ripple watching when I got a hard jolt on the end of my line.  The reel began to swiftly spin dispensing the line faster than an Olympic sprinter.  I hesitated for a mere moment but it was long enough to empty out most of my line.  The pause wasn’t from not knowing what to do but more the mere astonishment of getting something on the first try.  Suddenly I was pulling back and bucking the line and gripping the handle of the pole like a tug-of-war rope.  My knuckles were white from lack of blood flow and the fish on the other end seemed hell-bent on having a little fun.  Grunting and gasping out, “Excuse me,” I started crawling over and under the rest of the fishermen that encircled the deck.  Round and round I went, and every time I got to starboard, they would all shout Three!—then Four! Five! Six! Six times around the boat it carried me, the fish’s amusement turning competitive.

On that sixth round, several sympathizers had gathered and with a net and a bunch of extra hands, offered assistance in raising the mystery out of the water.

There it was—the results of my efforting—a 74lb King Mackerel.

It was the largest catch in those waters all summer.  Some high-fived me, saying “Congratulations,” but the majority of those men simply gave me the hard stare, muttering under their breaths—“beginner’s luck.”

Ah, but was it?

As metaphysicians we’re never ones to subscribe to the notion of luck.  There is no happenstance involved in creation.  Creation is deliberate.  We understand that everything unfolds according to consciousness.  So it stands to reason that this anomaly seen as beginner’s luck is really nothing more than beginner’s allowing.

As beginner’s in anything, we haven’t yet developed the muscle of disappointment nor the resistance accompanied with doubt.  In beginner’s, there’s still a sense of hope and optimism—a child-like clean slate of acceptance where all kinds of possibilities stand on tiptoe A natural expectancy of good that seems to whisper to us, of course—of course you caught the fish—of course you got the job—of course you made a perfect score on your exam.  It is our BEING on COURSE, unencumbered by the jaded perspective that sometimes accompanies those who’ve been around the block.  As a beginner we are in a much greater state of allowing.  Consciousness responds to that, creating demonstration the way it always can be—swift and natural.

When we look at our relationship to what we expect, so many of us have planted seeds of futility, disappointment and judgment based on our collective history.

How do we go back and allow—allow without the attachment of futile conditions—allow with the zeal of a child at Christmas—allow because we understand thatnothing is separating us from our good but our directed thought?

Begin by simply breathing in and saying to yourself, “I Allow.” On the exhale say, “I Release All Resistance.” Inhale—I Allow.  Exhale—I Release All Resistance.

I go for weeks where this simple breathing mantra is my entire meditation.  My aim—to become more and more a vessel for conscious allowing—more and more to look at the victories in life and say, “Of course.”

My friend Jeff was explaining his new spiritual practice.

Over the phone he said, “I stand in front of the mirror naked and send appreciative thoughts towards what I see.”

“Okaaay,” I said, drawn out—spoken with equal parts cynicism and suppressed humor.

“No, really.  I’m totally serious.  It hasn’t been easy," he continued.

"The first thing my eye gravitated towards were all my perceived flaws.  But, believe it or not, with each passing day, it got easier—my focus got clearer and more deeply rooted in the simple appreciation of this body that has been given to me.  Something so simple has literally propelled my heart, my mind, my attitude to greater degrees of love than ever before. Go figure!”

Something about his sincerity and enthusiasm captivated me, melted my cynical resistance and urged me to try it myself.

At first, identical to Jeff’s experience, all I could see were the things about me I didn’t like.  It was remarkably uncomfortable to stand staring at my 5′10”, 48 year old frame.  This body relationship which had been flying under low radar for most of my life felt as if it suddenly were being broadcast in high definition.  How easy it would be to discount the exercise and find something better to do.  To be totally honest, I was a bit shocked at the brevity of hidden judgment I felt towards my body.  All this self-love I teach and talk about—well, you can only imagine the echoes of "physician heal thyself" resounding in my head.

A few days later, I returned to my house from a brisk walk with my golden retrievers.  The next thing I remember, I’m standing in my kitchen, clutching my chest, now tightening with pain.  Having had a defibrillator implanted there a few years back to counter a genetic “flaw", my mental diagnosis raced towards some possible malfunction.

Then, in a panic, I wondered, "Am I having a heart attack?"

The continuing pain and unbearable heaviness stifled my breathing.  Don’t ask me why, but I stood by the sink, grabbing the counter—waiting, telling myself I could tough it out.  The insecurity regarding my health insurance status only compounded my discomfort.  “What could I do?” I was still signed under an HMO in another state—a non-transferable policy.

Finally, surrendering my worry and my control, I drove myself to the emergency room.

My heart had gone into atrial fibrillation but the acute source of the pain was rooted in a near septic gallbladder.  I underwent surgery, a stint in ICU, and a frustrating recovery.  I finally made it home 2 days before Christmas, nearly 14 days after the attack.  And, now for the first time since this medical adventure, I stood in my bathroom recalling the mirror exercise. 

I approached it again, only this time there were tremendous additions under the flawed column of my mental descriptive page.  With surgical scars and a shaved chest hair pattern that resembled something like a spastic crop circle, I made attempts to send appreciation and love to what I saw.

It was far from easy.  In fact, as I continued, there were mornings of such tremendous sadness and vulnerability that I questioned myself, my work, my path, my life.  Yet I stuck with it and with each dedicated day, each golden thought, I began to take whatever misguided criticisms and broken feelings I had manufactured and began to slowly piece together a new view of me.

Some time around then, I received an e-mail that ended with, “Blessed are the cracked, for they shall let in the light.”

I smiled.

“Maybe that’s what I am—blessedly cracked.”

It seems so many of us are expending great amounts of energy in avoiding the cracks of life or, if they are undeniably in our face, masking them—burying the seeming uncomfortable vulnerability they bring.

Yet I can testify now, more than ever, that it is the cracking—the surrendering—the loosening of our grips of control which usher in the next great dimensions of growth.

So, I continued.  Day after day I stood before the mirror naked, attempting to love the scars, the “flaws”, the external and internal “cracks.”

A similar story could be told of the artisan and his own journey of acceptance.

Day after day, this artisan would fill the molds and start the assembly line process of creating the clay pots.  One after the other, these containers emerged from the kiln, each identical in shape and detail.  They were displayed to sell.  Yet despite his best efforts and accumulated inventory, sales were meager.  He worked even harder, producing more of the identical pots.  Still nothing shifted.  Finally, there were so many of the unsold pots stacked within his shop that he began running out of room to house them.  The floors were covered from side to side, corner to corner—the windowsills stacked high, every nook and every cranny piled high with pots.  With little to no room to move, it was inevitable this system would eventually breakdown.  And break it did.

One morning, while making his way through the crowded shop, the artisan caught his foot on a pile of pots, sending them to the floor with a resounding crash.

With a defeated spirit, he began picking up the pieces and placing them in burlap bags.

It was hard to fathom throwing the pieces away.  After all, he had worked so long, extracting the clay from the earth with his own hands, separating and removing all the pebbles and foreign matter out of the mixture before fashioning them into the mold.

He sat and stared at the pieces and uncharacteristically began to cry.

“How long has it been since I’ve shed such tears,” he questioned?

So much of his current life had been spent doing, thinking, planning that he’d pushed away his sadness and feverishly continued going about his work.  Yet sadness had never left and it pressed at his heart and eyes with an undeniable presence.  His crying continued until eventually, just like the final note of a song needs to be sung to feel complete, a last tear rolled from his now swollen eyes.

It was then that the artisan felt a strange sensation.

Best described as relief, he discovered an ability to breathe easier, fuller, more calmly.  It was as if releasing the tears had opened up more space within him and allowed fresher air to fill his lungs.

As he continued picking up the fragments of the broken pottery, his swollen, moist eyes spotted an old can of glue and a dusty tube of gold filigree resting on a forgotten corner cabinet.

Suddenly the fresh air in his lungs was accompanied by a fresh idea.

He began gluing the pieces back into pot formations, adding the gold in between the haphazard cracks.  The result was so startlingly beautiful that the artisan further expanded his experiment by adding color from old paint stock he had also long forgotten.

He sat them outside his entrance to dry.

The response was immediate.

People began buying the one-of-a-kind pots with a feverish zeal for now; the artisan was offering something so unique, so wonderful that everyone kept coming back for more of these treasures to claim as their own.

Today, the artisan continues pouring the clay in the mold just as before, but as soon as the kiln has fired them, he places the pots, one by one in the burlap bag and smashes them.  Thus begins the joyous process of gluing them back together.

Most of us have, at some point, approached life and love like the artisan in the story.  We go about seeking love and offering what we think is love based on our observations of others.  We go about our lives focused on what to avoid rather than how much we can embrace.  We make considerations about our career path by what family and faculty recommend or by what statistics dictate is the next sure thing.  All the while, this safe, cookie-cutter approach to life is suppose to generate satisfaction.  It’s suppose to make us feel comforted, and keep us away from the pit-falls and disappointments in life.  Yet, ironically, it is those exact “pit-falls”—the heart brakes (or heart expansions as I’m learning to call them)—disappointments, stumbles and recoveries that bring about such rich and beautiful spiritual character.

Greg Baer, author of Real Love, says that true, unconditional love is “caring about the happiness of another person without any thought for what we might get for ourselves.” That and that alone is real love.  Not “if I do this, if I say this, if I give this, what will you give me in return?”

Real love has no agenda.

Turning that real love inward proves even more powerful.

At first, like the artisan with his broken pots, I simply wanted to hide all my perceived physical flaws in an imaginary burlap bag.  But something bigger was requiring me to change.  Something evolutionary was pressing to crack me open and usher me into a greater expression.

My healing process was considered remarkable and swift by most standards and I continue feeling exhilarated and renewed like never before.

After reading this, I encourage you to consider trying the exercise.  Stand vulnerable and naked before the mirror.  Cry if you need to.  Allow yourself to take all of you, even the “broken” parts and start the process of piecing your essential self back together.  Do so with an expansive, golden intent of who and what you truly are and consider the unlimited potential that lies before you.  By your willingness to own the attractive, unique aspects of you, the world, in kind, will honor the attractive work of heart that I trust you will come to embrace.

Noah was a great listener.

In his meditations and prayers, he heard benevolent guidance.  And, being a man of great faith, trusted what he heard and acted upon it.  Regardless of what the rest of the world thought, he prepared for something that his community could not comprehend as possible.

He began construction on a massive sailing vessel.

Those around him gathered to mock him and his reasoning.

He continued to build anyway.

You know what followed—a flood of infinite proportions.

However, because of his faith and intent, Noah, his family, and two of each species of animal that he had gathered were spared.

But how long would Noah have to float upon these flood waters—waters that had come as his guidance had predicted and cleansed race consciousness?

When or where would he land?

What would he find when he did?

My favorite part of this classic fable actually comes from Noah’s involvement with the infamous dove.

Once the 40 days of rain subside, Noah begins releasing the bird from the floating vessel.  The dove, you see, would be the key to discovering if there was land in sight.  For if the dove did not return, then Noah understood dry land had once again emerged and that all aboard this blessed arc would be able to start the new chapter of their lives.

Over and over again he releases the dove and each time the dove returns.

Still, Noah’s faith remains undaunted.  Surely the divine knowledge and guidance that had successfully instructed and carried him this far wouldn’t leave him to drift aimlessly forever?

And, as the fable unfolds, the day finally does arrive when the dove returns but not as before.  This time it carries with it a historic message.  Resting in its beak is an olive branch signifying that indeed, the flood waters are subsiding.  Soon it will be time to land.

Noah continues setting the dove freely into the sky, day after day, until finally it does not come back to him.  It must be resting safely somewhere, creating a new home and a new beginning.

Noah’s relationship with the dove represents our ideas, visions and dreams.  Our lives provide continuous windows of opportunity to release these ideas in order to find receptive places to land.  If they are not received on the first or even the thirty first time, are we to discontinue releasing them?

It depends.

In Noah’s case, he felt there was really no other option.  He believed wholeheartedly in his mission.  Divine guidance had impressed upon him an opportunity and by obeying it, he had thrived.

If our vision has been divinely guided and if we wholeheartedly approach it with our pure intent—if we understand on a soul level what our personal path or life contract is, then the likelihood of its evolution is a natural given.

Then, yes, we must keep releasing our vision to the world.

Letting go of the form and the timeline of its materialization can, at times, take discipline.  Yet by surrendering to that greater and grander design, we can be assured that at the right divine moment—it will land.

Even understanding this assurance, it can be challenging to keep the faith when for inexplicable reasons, the help doesn’t come when or how we thought, when promises are broken or outside enthusiasms wane.  The floods of disappointments can seemingly eradicate all reasons for further pursuits.

Still, Noah’s persistence teaches us to maintain our belief in the dream—understanding that if the idea “landed” in our consciousness then it carries the same potentiality to land in demonstration.  Someone or groups of someone’s will welcome it by extending their olive branches of acceptance and support.

I’m continually reminded of this time and again in my own human experience.

My expanded vision to create more avenues in spiritual music, inspirational books, producing expos, retreats, facilitating sacred travels and other endeavors through my company, Conscious Mile, Inc.  has met with sporadic enthusiasm from venture capitalists.  Nonetheless, the small nibbles must be and are celebrated.

My inner work impresses upon me that one of my karmic opportunities this lifetime is to follow Noah’s example—learn to listen more and continue to release the dove(s) of my vision(s).

This involves releasing the judgment of asking for help—a sometimes heavy, stale fear which seems based on what can only be bluntly described as unworthiness.

Yet, as uncomfortable as it can be, I know my willingness is there and I have no other recourse but to allow myself to press through—to continue to release my doves and allow trust to manifest the right and perfect landing spot (person or organization) that already eagerly awaits.

Can you relate?

Are you continuing to release your ideas as regularly as Noah released the dove?

Are you willing to continue in spite of the doubts and criticisms that may come from nay Sayers or even from your own inner critic?

As an old song lyric of mine reads:

Dove in flight
You know how to pave the way for me
Day and night
Wings of wisdom bring me to awakening
Dove in flight
Carry me on winds of joyful certainty
No force or fight
New horizons now are born in me

©1996 Conscious Mile Music—David Ault

As I allow myself to remember that new receptive horizons already do wait for me, I pray you will as well.

Trust your vision and trust the process.

Keep releasing the dove.

To learn more about David’s vision and Conscious Mile, Inc. , visit his website at www. davidault. com and click on the Share the Dream icon located on the home page.

Did I express love this year—real love?  The kind of love that doesn’t announce itself in flashy circumstance or structured conditions—but an authentic, quiet, internal love?  The kind of love that bubbles to the surface when I gaze at another with understanding, a love that places me in their shoes, granting freedom from judgment and deepening my compassion?  A philanthropic love that expresses because it simply feels compelled to, because it knows there is more than enough and everyone can benefit.  If not, then I resolve to be and do better in my authentic loving. 

Did I forgive this year—really forgive?  The kind of forgiveness that cracks open my heart, peeling away one more layer of righteous indignation, thus allowing my soul to breathe?  The kind of forgiveness that loosens my clinched fists held high at a situation so that I don1t enter into the next one with guarded mistrust?  The kind of forgiveness that comprehends there is a difference between understanding a behavioral choice and condoning it?  If not, then I resolve to be and do better in my forgiving. 

Did I stop this year—really stop?  The kind of stopping that can’t help but make me vulnerable by becoming more familiar with who I am without distraction, smoke screens, excuses or self-imposed numbing?  The kind of stopping that turns me, naked, towards my feelings, giving them permission to express?  No right or wrong—a stopping that simply lets me hear what I need to hear so that I can live more effectively?  If not, then I resolve to be and do better in allowing myself to stop. 

Did I seek adventure this year—real adventure?  The kind of adventure that requires me to not only take a leap of faith off my cliff of familiarity but actually sends me back to get a running start?  The kind of adventure that shakes the dust off my capable but underused wings and gives them an opportunity to catch the gorgeous wind of change?  The kind of adventure that knows there is no outside safety net in this physical world, only an internal one?  The kind of adventure that shouts, "I choose to live fully!" If not, then I resolve to be and do better in seeking adventure. 

Did I seek wellness this year—real wellness?  The kind of wellness that requires me to be fully conscious of what I put in my body—the kind of wellness that requires me to practice what I preach when it comes to self-love while understanding that the power to dissolve poor habits starts by simply choosing to change?  Wellness that says, "This is the only body you’ve got.  Treat me with respect, praise me daily and honor me as the holy temple that I am? " If not, then I resolve to be and do better in allowing wellness in my life. 

Did I play this year—really play?  The kind of play that gives value to the heavenly activity of fun -knowing that fun is sacred, that play is the equivalent of work and that during play—renewal and relaxation usher in the newest ideas and the clearest choices for better manifestations?  Did I view play as a necessary life function and not a debatable luxury?  If not, then I resolve to be and do better in my relationship to playing. 

Did I set a goal and see it to completion this year—really complete it?  The kind of completion that lets the vibration of satisfaction and confidence in my abilities heal any opposing ideas of not being good enough?  Did I honor my life and its sacred purpose by utilizing my time with forward thinking and letting my mistakes be motivators not antagonists?  Did I dissolve my insecurities and procrastination by understanding that my untapped genius has but one mode of expression and that is through idea, thought, word and action?  If not, then I resolve to be and do better in setting and completing my goals. 

Did I open myself up to learn this year—really learn?  The kind of learning that entices me to enroll in being a student of life with thirst and enthusiasm?  Did I set an intention for uncovering more of my potential, letting divine intellect eat from my plate and stepping deeper into the waters of wisdom?  Did I open a book, take a class, study a language, learn an instrument, write a poem, visit another culture?  Did I learn to surprise and thrill myself with the infinite capacity I have to master more than I thought I could?  If not, then I resolve to be and do better on my personal path of learning. 

Did I clean up my relationships this year—really clean them up?  The kind of cleaning that requires me to break open the lock, pull back the curtain, throw open the window and start removing the dust of harsh words, grudges, false accusations and misguided choices that have layered my heart?  Did I make amends for the fearful ways that disheartened another, for neglecting to honor their point of view?  With careful examination, did I communicate my truth, understanding that sometimes all we may be able to do is agree to disagree and to do so without judgement or malice?  If not, then I resolve to be and do better on cleaning up my relationships. 

Did I share my good this year—really share?  The kind of sharing that comes from the pure joy of seeing another succeed, not from what I think they can or will do for me in return?  Did I tithe back to where I was spiritually fed, transformed and inspired?  Did I practice random acts of kindness and give of my time, talent, and treasure realizing that my good is a part of a never-ending wellspring that cannot run dry -whose source is and always will be the infinite wellspring of the Divine?  Did I commit to walking the altruistic path, remembering that every step brings healing and enlightenment to the world?  If not, then I resolve to be and do better in my sharing. 

Did I pray this year—really pray?  The kind of prayer that is spoken not to God but AS God—prayers that affirm rather than beseech, are pregnant with knowing rather than bloated with doubt?  Did I make my every day activities a prayer—realizing that every thought I think carries with it the responsibility of an effect on the world?  Did I remember how truly powerful my own prayer actually is and that by simply devoting myself to the practice of it, I become the change?  Did I remember that my prayer takes what I seek and introduces it to me, the seeker?  If not, then I resolve to be and do better with praying. 

Did I do all these things because deep down inside I fully understand how precious I am and that these activities will help me to see that I am held in the light as a perfect idea?  Did I remember that I have been perfectly conceived and am always held in the perfect mind of God as perfect being?  Did I know that there is nothing that I can ever say, nothing I can ever do that will separate me from the love of God?  If for any reason, I forgot my divinity this year, then I resolve to be and do better in my knowing of it, to fully understand and embody the truth that it is done unto me as I believe.  And I believe in the power of Good, for me, for you, for all. 

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.  They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts…

~ Sir William Shakespeare

Life will always contain drama.  Just as darkness shares the experience with light, so we share our years of conscious evolution with circumstances that contain challenges.  This life has taught me that I have the opportunity to let my free will direct dramas that hopefully contain deep, life-altering meaning rather than vacuous soap operas.

This particular drama involves two brothers—players as different in temperament and personality as in age.

My brother Doug was an anomalous creature.  Ten years older than me, he seemed to have entered the world swinging.  The constructive swinging came in the form of a baseball bat as he channeled that energy all the way to the major leagues.  The destructive swinging came in the form of fists and fits of rage that were as unpredictable as the hurricanes that sometimes visited our little corner of the world in Texas.

As a child, I learned to stay out of his way.  Having once unknowingly provoked him, I found myself hurling through the air towards a wall, where on impact, I nearly bit my tongue in half.

Doug left home right after his high school graduation, pursuing dreams of playing baseball through various college scholarships, eventually landing a spot in the majors.  He was as charismatic as he was volatile, and at 6′4" tall, he was a handsome, giant presence that seemed to endear himself to sports fans as a destined iconic hero.  He had managed to rise above the poverty of our upbringing and fashion himself into a seemingly successful sports figure.

My life path, my world was vastly different and there was little to no interaction with him through the rest of my adolescence and early adulthood.  It was rare that my family ever found themselves fully together. Usually, Doug was the one who never made it back. If he wasn’t playing ball in the states, then he sought out ball playing opportunities in other continents. He had married, had a child, divorced, remarried, had another child, divorced again. 

In the ensuing years, the skills at which he had played baseball waned and he fought for and occasionally won various coaching positions with triple A franchise teams.  He also fought years of substance addictions.

It was never really discussed in the open, but at some point, my immediate family knew that the absences were no longer about his work, but more about his lack of work and the dark descent one travels when you have robbed Peter so many times that Paul doesn’t even expect payment anymore.  His career had dried up and so had the 6 figure income he had relied on to sustain his habits.

In our particular drama, I thought Doug had systematically begged and borrowed from just about everyone and that I would somehow be exempt.  I never expected that our characters would share dialogue on life’s same page.

I was wrong.

My mother’s voice over my cell phone was surprisingly frantic.   "Your brother is in LA.  You have to go help him!" she pleaded.

"Where?" I questioned.

"Somewhere on Sunset Blvd," she answered.  "He called and told me he had taken a bus there.  He’s sleeping on the streets. Please! You’ve got to go help him!"

I hadn’t heard my mom this rattled in awhile and all those adolescent jealousies of how she loved Doug the most—he was the first born male child—he was the sports hero—the one she had been able to brag about to everyone—came flooding back at me.

"Mom, Sunset goes on for miles and miles.  I gotta have more info than that."

She relayed some landmark that he had mentioned and at least it narrowed my field of searching to a 3 block radius in the heart of Hollywood.

I got in the car and headed that way.

"What am I suppose to do with him once I find him?" I thought.

I was scheduled to be a keynote speaker the next evening at a conference in Austin, TX and my plane was to leave at 6:30 in the morning.  I could not miss this conference.  My entire predicted monthly income was derived from this event. 

My stomach churned and tightened at the thought of missing the work and at what unexpected developments awaited me at the sight of a brother I hadn’t seen or talked to in years.

I found the landmark my mother mentioned and drove as slowly as traffic would permit, peering down the side streets for any signs of this man that felt like a complete stranger.  I circled back, parked the car and got out.  I glanced between buildings and finally, down an alleyway, I saw him.

Bundled up in a coat, and sitting with his back against a brick wall, was my brother.

"Doug, it’s David," I called out.

Upon seeing me, he started to stand.  The once tall, larger-than-life figure seemed hunched over, his skin was leathery and burnt, his right hand clutching an over-stuffed suitcase.

He started to cry.

His voice drenched with remorse, let go a stream of apologies that flooded from his lips.

"It’s OK," I said, "We’ll figure something out." 

Truth be told, I hadn’t a clue as to where to begin. 

Every phone call to local substance abuse facilities turned up futile.  No one had a free bed.  Every recommendation from one only led to the same story- no room.  I was resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going anywhere until I found a place for him to detox. 

"Maybe I could just leave him at my place—go do the conference and come right back?"

"Are you nuts!?!" the internal voices warned.  He’s admitted taking combinations of 25 to 30 muscle relaxants/amphetamines a day.  Who knows what else? Do you realize what he’ll do to your place when he needs more?"

My anger and resentment began to rise.  Here I was placed with an opportunity to practice love and compassion, towards a blood brother, no less, and I resented being put in this position.  I hated what he had done to himself.  I hated the way he had cheated my mom out of money, hurt his children. Then, as if resurrecting some ancient, transferable, child-like fear, I wondered what he might do to me if his need for a fix became too strong.

Finally a local facility recommended the Salvation Army in the skid-row section of downtown.  The drill was you had to line up at 6:30 AM and go through an intake.  If there was a bed, you were allowed to stay there for 21 days.  That would buy me some time till another bed opened.

I made the call to cancel my trip.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night.  Just knowing he was out there in the living room, on the couch, kept me on pins and needles. The next morning, freshly showered and with enough belongings and toiletries to get him situated, we drove towards downtown.

"When and why do we make such decisive turns in our human dramas that we could experience the pinnacle of record-breaking success to sleeping in alley-ways off Sunset Blvd?" I wondered.  There seemed to be no answer. It was brisk that morning and my hands were shoved in my pockets for warmth.  I kept telling him not to worry—that I would figure something out while he got clean, avoiding the words cold-turkey at all cost.

"What is this really about that I find myself standing in line with indigents, the homeless, alcoholics, hoping for a bed for my brother?

They were able to take him, and I felt a temporary sense of relief.

Within days, his remorseful demeanor soon gave way to demanding phone calls, wanting money and cigarettes.  His detox experience brought out every conceivable story to try and enroll me in getting him out or providing him with a temporary loan.  He told me how much pain he was in.  He told me there were more drugs on the inside of this place and that he would be better off staying with me.

One request was viable.  He told me to call someone associated with the National Baseball Association and tell him he was there.  I questioned what good that would do since he hadn’t played in years. He kept insisting.

I spoke to a gentleman who was well aware of my brother’s ongoing situation.  He asked that I give him 24 hours to figure out a solution.  The next day he called back, relaying he had a 1 way ticket waiting at the airport for my brother.  They would deliver him to a state-of-the-art rehab facility in Florida .  There, he could stay for up to 3 months, receive proper care, treatment and in-depth counseling. He would then be given opportunities for work placement programs as well as a place to live.  They would continue to offer professional counseling and strive to help him turn his life around. 

"Wow!" I thought.  It seems once you’ve been a professional athlete, no matter what befalls you, the organization will find ways to support you in getting back on your feet.  My job was to simply get him on the plane.

After repacking his suitcase, I picked him up from the Salvation Army and began the drive to LAX.

We rode in silence.  He stared out the side window, nervously tapping his leg.  Finally, I couldn’t help but say to him, "Doug, do you realize what an amazing gift you have been given?"

He sullenly shook his head.

I watched him as he boarded for Florida.  With a combination sigh of relief and remorse, I headed back for my car.

"Well I guess that little drama is over with, AND I still haven’t a clue what it was really about."

As I drove home, I felt this persistent voice keep questioning me.

 "David, what is your greatest fear?"

"What?"

"What is your greatest fear?"

As I really pondered the question, I began to focus back on the knot in my stomach that had been overlooked by all the adrenaline of the situation—the income I was losing.

"You wanna know what the biggest, darkest fear is?" I shouted to the air.  "I’ll tell you.  It’s winding up on the streets."

There—I’d said it.  All that loyalty to lack that came from a childhood filled with uncertainty.  Listening to my widowed mother repeat over and over again that that’s where we might wind up had settled securely in the very DNA of my bones.  I had created it to be the horror or horrors—one that I would spend the rest of my life trying to avoid.

BOOM—it hit me.

"Oh, my God—that’s just what happened to my brother!  He showed up and played out my biggest fear.  In glorious human-flesh-Technicolor-   reality—he lived out my worst nightmare.  And what happened?  He was totally taken care of.  I mean REALLY taken care of.

The voice said, "If it could happen for him, do you have the slightest doubt that it could happen for you?"  And, do you honestly think it will ever, ever get that far?  Why, don’t you just drop the fear once and for all and make room for something better?"

That was nearly seven years ago.

Doug took his own life Christmas of 2004.  I had not spoken or seen him in all that time.  He had not shown up for either of my sister’s funerals so I guessed things had not improved.  His drama was of a magnitude I will never comprehend and he played his part with choices vastly different than mine.  But I trust his character is at peace now.

As far as my own drama?  Well, it took my brother to show me in person how to change the course of it—to play my part in life more consciously—to teach me that I had nothing to fear—that I would always be taken care of if I just trust and believe.  I would have liked to have thanked him for that in person but I trust now that as he waits in the wings for his next entrance, he knows.

In a world landscape littered with disregard rather than respect, seemingly divisive opinions towering over community and destructive choices outweighing personal integrity, it is all too easy to stand back and do nothing.  It is all too easy to go numb and settle for survival.  It is all too easy to recite words and not take the time to comprehend or savor their meaning.  It requires more for us to be courageous rather than popular, gracious rather than self absorbed.  A true hero is one who lives mindfully.

I choose to believe there is more power in a conscious, loving, mindful thought than in all the proposed weapons birthed from hatred, ignorance and fear.  In fact, I believe there is so much power in what one conscious individual can do for the healing of this planet, that I vow to spend the rest of my waking years enrolling others to live it, speak it and write about it with unlimited vision.  I believe that the joining of many can and will feed and foster peace on an earth that hungrily awaits enlightenment.

So, this July, as the United States of America celebrates its Independence Day, I move to align my allegiance to a grander, more expanded way of being so that everyone, everywhere can experience liberty and justice for all.  My pledge is as follows:

I pledge allegiance to breaking the self-imposed barriers of my humanness.  I recognize that my time on this planet is precious and limited.  Every day is a canvas on which I can create.  Everyday is an opportunity for me to move in the direction of the dreams and the expanded vision I feel inside.  By setting aside petty grievances, past mistakes, righteous anger and my broken story, I pledge to move forward and embrace the experience of freedom right here and right now.

I pledge allegiance to the expression of my spiritual honesty.  I fully own the fact that my presence here in this body and on this earth is a celebration of uniqueness and importance.  Creation makes no mistakes.  I am a creation of life, of a higher power, of perfection.  My reason for being here matters in the grand divine plan.  I must be honest with my contract of life and walk the path of my destiny with conviction, purpose and grace.

I pledge allegiance to the quiet soldier within.  I understand that the championing spirit that is already cellularly alive inside of me, that was already in place at the time of my birth, waits patiently for my current belief about myself to join it in its knowing.  I march forward towards a history of my own making, wisely, lovingly choosing the means by which I spread my beliefs and convictions.  I never make others wrong for their chosen path for I recognize the innumerable roads that lead to the One.

I pledge allegiance to a partnership with divinity.  I choose to see others and myself from eyes that already view the wholeness and perfection within.  I do not entertain our past damage or encourage us to identify with it for I trust that a grander calling card has been printed for us to distribute in promoting our lives.  I champion all of us to celebrate what is working rather than what isn’t.

I pledge allegiance to wise discernment - knowing when to speak and when to remain quiet, knowing when to comfort and when to leave alone, knowing when to intervene and when to avoid rescuing and interfering.

I pledge allegiance to people and projects of substance.  I cannot travel this road alone.  If there is anything we as a species need, it is each other.  I actively choose to support those whose work I believe in with my time, talent and treasure.  I joyously give to those whose intention and purpose is for self-empowerment and the awakening of humanity to its personal magnificence.  I rally to make others aware of such light bearers and do what I can to support them in furthering their vision.

I pledge allegiance to the freedom from comparison.  I once and for all lay down my wearisome, stale beliefs of unworthiness and not being good enough.  I know that my past does not define who I am.  I am forever evolving, growing and learning.  I recognize that I am a marvel.  I now choose opportunities to let my voice be heard; to let my light shatter the darkness of futility so that every personal dream is explored.

I pledge allegiance in knowing that things are not always as they seem.  Just because something can’t be seen with the physical eye or rationalized by our current mode of understanding does not negate its existence.  Understanding the difference between reality and illusion, I move into a fuller acceptance of the non-physical - the mystical, intuitive, soul aspect of living that expands my consciousness and deepens my days.

I pledge allegiance to actions that fulfill the greatest good for all.  By becoming a gatekeeper of compassion, tolerance and love, I move into a fuller conviction of pure intent with regard to the words that I speak and the choices that I make.  I pursue a win-win in all activities of life.

I pledge allegiance to those who have gone before me, the ancestral lineage whose courage, sacrifice and conviction still live in my bones.  I honor the privileges given to me today because of the sweat from their pioneering efforts and the fortitude of their convictions.  I give thanks for my responsibility in creating the same for future generations.

I pledge allegiance to a love that has no agenda.  I no longer choose to give for what I might get, to manipulate in order to control, to abandon before I can be abandoned, to tolerate because there are seemingly no other options.  I choose to love as a way of being.  I am content in my choice whether outside circumstances respond or not.  In being love, I create fulfillment above and beyond what the human condition can provide. 

I pledge allegiance to the sacredness of laughter, knowing that the greatest healing force that exists reverberates from the vibration of this holy and irreplaceable gift.  I allow humor, joy and eruptions of laughter to make their home in my heart.  I let my physical body respond to the sacred stimulus and biological wonder that laughter creates and vow to keep this attribute alive and thriving all the days of my life.

It was 10:50 AM and I was in “race mode” to make it to a haircut appointment by 11:00. Having lived in Los Angeles over 16 years, I have developed the “over-compensation” gene when it comes to matters of driving time.

I have never liked being late, thanks to a high school drama teacher who would take away any coveted lead or supporting roles from us thespians if we were even one minute late for a rehearsal. This rule benefitted me. As an underclassmen, I got promoted to the lead role when the senior ran into the auditorium ten minutes late complaining of lost keys. “Not fair!” he shouted, glaring at the teacher and at me. This kind of gain was uncomfortable and I had visions of accidentally being late the following day so he could get his role back. But, that wasn’t the way it worked. Our instructor would continue to go down the list of eligibles. “A rule is a rule and there are plenty of people in line!” he stated. The late-comers would now become chorus or “techies.” “Time is one of our greatest gifts,” he would profess “and how we spend it, one of our greatest responsibilities. Don’t waste yours or someone else’s.”

I chose never to forget the value of the lesson.

That’s not to say I’ve never been late since. Even with the strongest of intentions, there have been moments when my former teacher would have recast my role in life’s unfolding drama. With as much traveling as I do and living in one of the largest cities in the country, there are occassions where I have mis-judged, waded through a sea of traffic, been at the mercy of airline delays and cancellations or experienced an automobile glitch or two. OK, even the rare early morning reflex of hitting the snooze alarm to gain a few precious minutes has cut it close, but it certainly has never been the norm.

Now, it was a combination of street construction and a less-than-optimum alternate route I had chosen that was destined to make me show up with heavy-breathed apologies.

As I sat at an eternal red light wondering how I could have left the cell phone charging on the dining room table, I glanced to my right at the briskly paced postman. As he withdrew his arm from his mail bag, a small trail of envelopes followed, then fell to the ground.

“Surely, he felt or heard that?” I questioned. But the answer was an immediate no. His quickened pace continued to the next block. “I don’t have time to do anything about it,” I reasoned and drove through as the light changed.

“Besides, it’s too hard to change lanes, circle the block, park, find the mail and the postman and get back into this snail-crawling traffic.” I made it a few more blocks till the voice inside was too loud to ignore.

“What if that were your mail?"

I elaborately filmed the TV movie, Lost Mail, in my cinematic head. Here sat the elderly, frail widow ( a subdued Irene Ryan from The Beverly Hillbillies coming back from the grave in her final dramatic performance) waiting patiently for her social security check so she could fill her meager cupboards with Cup-O-Soup. You see, she sends over half of it to help put her great-granddaughter through the University where she is studying to be a medical doctor, aimed at helping tribes in disease-ridden Africa. I play the evil protagonist, only concerned about getting a haircut. Too busy, too self-absorbed to stop and alert the postman, the mail is confiscated by some hoodlum who cashes her check and uses the money to buy spray paint and graffitti the city.

I stepped on the gas, switched lanes, circled the blocks, guessed at where the postman might be and proceeded to park by the red-painted NO PARKING curbside. I jumped out of the car and ran to where I thought the mail was. The small trail of envelopes lay strewn across the sidewalk. I retrieved them then ran up to the next block and did one of my famous mega-loud whistles to get his attention.

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” he said apologetically taking the escaped mail.

I waved and ran back to my car, the voice quieted and my heart feeling good.

“Sometimes, rules are made to be broken,” I thought.

If we always followed the rules, then we would still live in a society where the earth was considered the center of the Universe, slavery was acceptable and women expected to be subservient. There were always those who “shook things up” by listening to an inner urging or intuitive knowing and challenging the status quo.

Picking up dropped mail was probably not going to change the world but it might make a significant difference to one person. How many times had I foregone listening to my intuition thinking that the act would be too insignificant? I’m glad that I listened to that voice for it was as if it knew there would be enough time to help out. Yes, I was late but so was the customer before me, creating a delay in my appoinment time. Once again I understood how our internal intuition can sometimes create the appearance of external compromise. But trusting that internal nudging has always led me to a more joyous outcome that my human, rational mind was not able to conceive.

Time and how we use it, is indeed an extraordinary gift but my interpretation of that gift was altered again that valuable morning.

It was heralded as the greatest American achievement of the 1800’s, the completion of the first transcontinental railroad in the United States.

After hostile congressional debate, Civil War and other obstacles ranging from uncharted terrain, supply limitations and cruel labor conditions, the “Wedding of the Rails” took place in May of 1869. The merging of the Union Pacific from Omaha, Nebraska to the Central Pacific in Sacramento, California met at the designated halfway point in the desert of Promontory, Utah. Combined, there was more than 3500 miles of track joining east to west. To celebrate the completion, a golden spike was driven into the last tie plat by Governor Leland Stanford as journalist and spectators from around the country cheered.

Having been away from a history textbook for decades, I had little memory of this event.

But, as I sat watching the 2002 Winter Olympic Ceremonies from Salt Lake, the television commentator mentioned this event as part of the areas cultural heritage.

He ended the history lesson with the line, “a commute that use to take six months had now been reduced to six days.”

Something about that information resonated with me and I obeyed the intuitive urge to write down golden spike on a note pad for further investigation.

I discovered that like any change, be it subtle or monumental, there was great debate between the visionaries and those who resist altering the way things are. Many of that era felt it simply could not be done. Investors pulled out at the first sign of inconvenience and there were others who feared their own self-interest would be drastically impaired. It was even rumored that some naysayers went as far as paying outlaws to ambush workers to prove their point.

It became increasingly clear why I had been drawn to this information. Just like civilizations before me, I, too, was afraid of change. More accurately, I was afraid of the possibility of failure.

After more than 17 years in the human potential movement, I had progressed from a vocalist for hire to becoming a motivational speaker and licensed minister, logging thousands of miles a year. Yet, with each new crossroads, doubt seemed to consume me and I blindly followed an old paradigm of ambushing my own endeavors. Here I was delivering words of inspiration that my soul felt to be true, yet living with the duality that somehow I wasn’t good enough, smart enough or even worthy enough to be in front of anybody. It was the classic mental recipe for procrastination and sabotage. An impoverished childhood fostered a belief in futility and struggle that created what I was later to understand as my “big lie”—a deeply saturating idea of unworthiness that soaked through layers of my belief system I didn’t even know existed. This lie could be subtle in its familiarity like a matriarch resting in the corner, barely speaking, but creating an unforgettable presence.

So, when my hearts desire to write about my life path was added to audience requests for a book, one would think the obvious sum of the equation would be to start writing.

Yet, lingering in bookstore after bookstore, I glanced at titles on the shelf, and secretly downplayed my dream. “What do I have to say that already hasn’t been said?” “Does the world really need another book?” “Would anyone really care to read it?"

Hardly the thoughts of a visionary. Ending the sabotage meant taking responsibility. I was fully aware that the only naysayer in my desire was yours truly.

I recalled the “new” definition of insanity—if we keep doing things the same old way, how can we expect different results? I was willing to embrace new ideas but discovered I was going about them with stale, defeatist intentions. If my intentions were laying the tracks of my experiences, then it’s no mystery that the train carrying my passionate longings would have to travel immeasurable distances of time and space or become derailed before demonstration.

It was time to not only welcome change but to drive a golden spike of intention into my “big lie.”

I began a year of dutifully putting thought to paper. I continued visiting bookstores, but now went to the section of the alphabet where my name belonged and imagined the spine of my book nestled in among the rest. I lingered by the information counter and fantasized people repeatedly asking where they could find my sought after work. Visually, I cut out the New York Times bestseller list and pasted my name and title in the number one slot.

With each new shift in consciousness, I began lying down more and more track, bringing my personal vision to reality.

Finishing my first literary work creates so many exciting, new possibilities. But, the deeper satisfaction is realizing I am always in minds reach of inexhaustible golden spikes whenever lies of limitation try to get in my way.

An Excerpt from the Upcoming Book,
Where Regret Cannot Find Me

I have a crack in my windshield. Somehow a single pebble escaped the suction of the fresh asphalt on the Interstate by my house in Los Angeles and launched itself towards the glass of my truck. What started as a single bullet shaped scar soon gave way to a free flowing line that worked its way across the glass like the outline of the surrounding Southern California Mountains. It wasn’t the first time that this cosmetic “flaw” had paid a visit. With a modicum of regularity, it seemed that every car I’d ever owned eventually displayed this. Yet, this time, there wasn’t the urgency to have it fixed. I even stopped apologizing for it whenever I had a guest passenger. This thin, prism-like crack, with its peaks and valleys, became both mirror and messenger to my aching heart.

“Stop trying to cover me up,” it seemed to lament. “Don’t be in such a hurry to replace or fix me. So what if I’m not perfect. Let me be your teacher.”

My imperfect windshield and I made our way to a lunch with one of my oldest friends. Hope and I first met in sixth grade and bonded through our love of journalism and theatre. We stayed best buds from high school graduation through our years of living in New York City and Los Angeles. Yet, even though we lived only fifteen minutes apart now, there were times when our schedules were just crazy enough to keep us from seeing each other. This lunch was our new commitment to at least make the effort once a month to sit down to a meal together and catch up.

She called before to let me know that her four-year-old daughter, Sophia, would be joining us.

Sophia was at that stage of independent exploration where she insisted on dressing herself. Greens with purples, stripes with plaids, and in this case a black feather boa. Hope wanted to warn me ahead of time.

“How brave,” I laughed, “I would never consider a boa in daylight.”

There really wasn’t much “catching up”, as Sophia innocently demanded much of her mother’s attention. Even with a bag full of distractions from books to games to dolls, she still wanted to be a part of our discussion. I marveled at what Hope had assembled to keep her daughter entertained, finding myself mentally reciting a phrase that was quick to age me.

“In my day…” “Well, at least I hadn’t ventured into the time segregating commentary about the number of miles I had to walk to school,” I reasoned.

The established toy choices available to me at that age were Hot Wheels and G I Joes. If fortune smiled, an Etch-A-Sketch was thrown in—a far cry from the electronic, high tech gadgetry that blankets today’s shelves.

Mine was a generation that played games outdoors. In the neighborhood of my adolescence, it was not uncommon, as the sun went down, for our mothers to be calling and calling. With sweat from the sweltering humidity as layer number one, dirt and pinesap nestled into the creases of our necks, arms and knees creating a zebra effect. We were hard pressed to give up tree climbing, fort building and the multiple uses of spare tires. However, the most popular game by far was always Hide and Seek. There were myriad’s of places to hide—under the house, in drainage ditch openings, in trees and on rooftops. As I became a seasoned Hide and Seek professional, I realized that I would much rather be the one who was “it”. Hiding became boring fast and I always drew attention to myself so that I could be found. Being the seeker meant freedom to explore and search, and at those times when I felt exceptionally mischievous, I’d go inside and make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while the others hid.

In retrospect, I can appreciate the parallel of that game with my spiritual path. There is that part of us that abhors hiding. To deny any part of the full spectrum of life—the disappointments as well as the victories, grief and joy, times of doubt as well as faith—is to hide from our feeling nature.

Now, the message of the windshield seemed vitally clear. Stop judging how you feel.

I was experiencing the mental exhaustion that comes from standing in front of the dam of disappointments, pressing my hands against the cracks to keep the regrets and sorrow at bay—so much energy expended in the denial of feeling and yet thinking I was doing the admirable thing.

I knew now I’d reached the point on my life path where I could no longer hold up the dam. It was time to let the walls crack, crumble and fall.

Days later, staring again at my fractured, yet freshly washed “illustration”, I began to weep. You know, the sobbing kind. Yes, if you look back at the cover it will confirm that I am a man. It isn’t that men don’t cry, it’s that men don’t seem to cry very neatly. And this was one that had waited for 42 years to hit shore, an uninterrupted current that was extremely messy, spilling without tissue, Starbuck’s napkin or moist towelette in sight. I had just started the drive from Los Angeles to Napa and was resolved to get to the wedding rehearsal I was officiating at by early evening. But the tears had started free of even radio sad song stimulus. I could no longer hold it in.

The romantic break up from someone I loved dearly followed a litany of failed occurrences that seemed to plague my life in that past year. Everything I touched did not turn to gold; instead, it resembled mold.

Feeling like some cosmic delete button was eliminating everything I planned both personally and professionally, the waves of disappointment were crashing in on me like the hurricane surf I had watched as a child. Somehow the turbulent Gulf of Mexico seemed mild compared to this.

Honestly, I don’t remember driving the six plus hours or the fact that I must have stopped for gas. I remember only the overwhelming grief that propelled the release. Anyone passing me on Interstate 5 in California who looked my way must have gotten an eye full.

These heartbreaking sobs were not just about the sadness of the relationship changing form. That was merely the catalyst. These tears seemed laden with the death of my father, the loss of so many friends and colleagues from AIDS, the struggles from my show business years, family issues, financial pit falls—even pimples in high school.

All I remember is that I allowed myself, once and for all, to be held by the arms of sorrow.

I’m not sure why I was always so apprehensive to venture into her arms or, when there, wish to wriggle my way out like a hug from an over-perfumed aunt.

I flashed onto a scene from the movie version of A Chorus Line. The director asks one girl after reviewing her resume’, why she hadn’t worked in over a year. You could tell by her face that she was searching her mental index to come up with something appropriate or appealing to respond with. Instead she told the truth. “I had a nervous breakdown,” she softly confesses. I started crying one day and I couldn’t stop.”

I thought that would happen to me. If I tossed out that emotional line I might never be able to reel it back in. Experience has taught me my fears were unfounded.

Months afterwards, I attended a reception to honor a publisher in the field of metaphysics. It was held at an exclusive hotel in Los Angeles in one of their finest banquet rooms. There was a sit down dinner with several introductions of visiting dignitaries and a congratulatory speech from a well-known author preceding the honoree. During the opening remarks, loud band music began to filter in from a wedding being held in the adjacent hall. The music was distracting and it was difficult even to hear what was being said about the publisher. Yet, no one said anything about it and the speakers kept plowing through their part of the program. Finally, when the honoree took his place behind the podium, he joked, “I’ve been excited about receiving this award for months but I never knew it would come with a rendition of Wasting Away Again In Marguaritaville. The tension relaxed, and the entire banquet hall exploded with laughter.

Just as the speaker finally acknowledged the “white elephant” in that room, releasing the tension, so does acknowledging sorrow. We then begin the move towards healing it. Denying it seems as useful as a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. It’s better to let the wound be looked at, washed and salved.

Deepak Chopra wrote, “Pretending they (regrets) are not there is accepting the idea that they are somehow unhealable, unforgivable. Our greatest insight is that everything is all right. Our greatest delusion is we have made unforgivable mistakes.”

However, the reverse of this acknowledgment reveals those who are professionals in being the walking wounded. They collect their victim charms and wear them on ID bracelets, shaking them in our faces. What would they talk about if they worked towards resolution? To me, that is stagnation, making a mantra out of “ain’t it awful”. What I’m referring to is simply acknowledging the regrets and taking actions to heal and cleanse them from becoming our identifiable calling cards.

Allowing our feeling nature free reign to express deepens our ability of understanding and strengthens our compassion.

As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Sorrow makes us all children again, destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest knows nothing.”

I arrived in Napa, the front of my shirt soaked from tears and the accompanying runny nose. I quickly changed, wiped my face as best I could and approached the door to the wedding rehearsal. The bride flung open the door, took one look at me and said, “You look so peaceful. Thank God! We’re all nervous wrecks!”

My first thought was, “If you only knew.”

After the festivities, I spent some time walking around Napa. I love the area and I strolled from shop to shop stopping at my favorite used bookstore. At that moment I remembered a phone call I was to make and opened my day planner to find the number. The calendar section stared back at me and in the squares for the present weekend was written my partner’s name and mine.

More tears.

Even in one of my favorite places, I couldn’t seem to escape regret and sorrow. I remember thinking; “I just want to go somewhere where regret cannot find me.”

I looked up at the bookstore window and realized I had found the title for my book.

It encompassed the great paradox, for in order to discover such a place we must first let it find us and invite it in, acknowledge its meaningful but temporary visit, creating the healing ability to move on. Just as in Hide and Seek, it felt better to be found.

The thirteenth century Sufi poet Rumi wrote:

This being human is a guesthouse.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
She may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
Meet them at the door laughing
And invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Opening the door to sorrow revealed a lady of sweet understanding. The depths of her compassion are comparative to God’s own. She is the mistress who accompanies everyone in secret but longs to stroll side by side even in the light of day. Her beauty and vulnerable gifts are never fully appreciated unless they are brought into that light. It is the divine paradox of sadness and joy, dark and light, tears and laughter that turn our inward dial of life to the setting called “full experience”. With senses so heightened we cry in the light and watch as our tears cascade and collect into pools of diamonds reflecting the rainbows of our souls.

The great Harlem Renaissance author Zora Neale Hurston once wrote, “I have been in sorrow’s kitchen and licked out all the pots. I have stood on the mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and sword in my hands.”

Beginning to explore this new mountain, my hands hold on to vulnerability and courage as supportive companions.

Now that sorrow was here, I no longer feared her for she had whispered to me that her arms were inviting. I had to agree. No longer was I focused on the energy of keeping my hands pressed against the cracks of the dam. I had freed them, watched it collapse and began floating in the collected tears of my lifetime. I no longer became concerned about when I’d stop or who could see because sorrow now stroked my hair, cradled me and rocked me through the night like the Eternal Mother.

The biblical metaphor reminds us we cannot put new wine into old skins. My prayers to be a bright light in a darkening world seemed attainable, for this metamorphosis delivered more compassion and clarity than I had ever known. I could feel, at last, new growth forming for my highest purpose to find its home.

The windshield still maintains its elongated crack. For now, it represents a map of an illuminating journey.

I thank sorrow for that. As she leaves to make room for joy, she softly kisses me and I know that we will meet again.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention! What you?ve all been waiting for—the definitive answer for creating a life filled with peace, joy, health, prosperity and the fulfillment of the desires of your heart is? …drum roll please… BELIEVING IS SEEING. Thank you and good night.

Hmmm, sorry if you were expecting something a bit more complex or grand but that’s really it. We try to complicate the answer, adorn it with the latest must have’s and can’t do without’s, but every book, seminar and speaker worth their weight in integrity will eventually tell you the same message that was imparted by one of the greatest masters that ever lived, “It is done unto you as you believe.”

I’ve often wondered, even after I know this so well intellectually, why many times I still go unconscious, allowing my thought processes to travel on roads that have long since led to disappointment. I know better than to say things like, I can’t afford it, that’ll never happen, I can’t get anyone to help, or I am so tired. I know that by saying these things, I activate a Universal law that supports me in having exactly what I declare.

I know that if I expect things to not work out or let doubt cloud my intention in the slightest, that I’m going to be delivered the blandest, smallest fruit from the Tree of Life, depriving myself of the juiciest of harvests.

It’s really no one else’s fault. You and I are the generator of our thoughts. Statistics have shown that more than 70% of those daily thoughts tend to be negative. And we wonder why we still carry with us some of the same issues that have zapped our energies and fostered futility in our hearts year after year?

It isn’t the economy. It is our belief about the economy. It isn’t that there are no good men or women available. It’s that we believe that to be so. It isn’t that we can’t make money doing what we love. It’s that somewhere along the line, we bought that as truth.

This month I turn 45 and I am more dedicated than ever to becoming a consistent, conscious steward of my thoughts. There is no greater gift I could give myself. It is the ultimate act of self-love. I prayed to awaken to something that was going to help me be more mindful, something that would “re-mind” me that the power to change worlds rest right here inside.

Shortly thereafter I read a passage by the metaphysician Ernest Holmes that encouraged the reader to sit, meditate and realize that we/you/I are the Center of Divine Attraction. Something about that statement leapt off the page! To actually affirm and proclaim that I am the center, the very core of divine attraction summoned up all sorts of remarkable images. The most exciting was that of a bulls-eye in the center of a target.

“Here I am” I joyously proclaimed, “a walking bulls-eye, declaring that I am the center of divine attraction! C’mon God, hit me with the good!”

I visualized Spirit as the master archer shooting arrows of outrageously awesome good fortune at me, piercing me in the very core of my being with all things grand and glorious. I began singing/chanting

I AM,
I AM THE CENTER OF,
I AM THE CENTER OF DIVINE ATTRACTION
ALL THINGS
ALL PURE AND BLESSED THINGS
ALL PURE AND BLESSED THINGS COME TO ME NOW

I had my graphics person design a target with a bulls-eye and I wrote my name in the very center of it. I placed a copy of that monogrammed target in front of my computer, on the refrigerator, on the bathroom mirror and on the dash of the car. I committed to singing that chant repeatedly throughout the day. I went into the recording studio and created a lively, energetic dance musical track and put those words to it so that I could play it at the gym when I’m on the treadmill or listen to it as I hike through the Angeles Crest National Forest. I infused these activities with a belief and a joy that heretofore had been non existent in such practises.

You sort of get the velocity at which an arrow travels, right?

After a few weeks of consistently doing this, my world began to rapidly change. The “believing” began to welcome its “seeing” counterpart.

Since truly becoming a believe-a-holic, I’ve traveled to Kauai on an all-expenses-paid gift. My first conference-at-sea was a sell out and one of the most gratifying experiences of my career. Funding arrived and I am now completing my first studio recording in over 4 years. My monthly Los Angeles workshops are at capacity as well as seeing an enormous increase in my counseling clientele. My health, energy and vitality are at an all time high and the balance between work and play feels effortless. I laugh as the information for my second book enthusiastically pours from me. My world is increasingly filled with powerful, peace-hungry people. I am traveling to Egypt and Africa in November to be a part of a team of conscious, loving individuals dedicated to “being the change,” and in January, I’m facilitating a trip to the sacred sites of Thailand and Cambodia. It’s there in Cambodia, I feel I will be introduced to the child I have long wanted to adopt.

With each conscious decision to focus on unlimited potentiality, the Universe loyally turns my attention to the many reminders that are out in the world to support such a belief.

I laughed the other day as I drove the streets of Los Angeles because, unaware of its presence, there’s been one of those reminders consistently in my face.

Take a look at the side view mirror on the passenger side of your car. There, the remarkable sentence reads: Objects In The Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear. I like to think that has very little to do with the depth perception of the cars behind us and everything to do with the sage wisdom of the ages.

The objects (thoughts) that are in your mind are a direct reflection of what is coming to you. If the thought is on what is working in this physical body and subsequently expressing appreciation for that, then generating more things optimally working is closer with each sustaining thought.

I often have my workshop participants do an exercise called deliberate dialoging. In a mindfulness walk through a local forest, I have them create an ongoing conversation with their highest aspirations. If they long to be on Oprah (a favorite), then they deliberately dialogue with her.

Participant: Gosh, it’s so great to be in this chair, on this stage, talking with you.

Oprah: I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to having you here. Your story/book/work has had such an impact! You must hear that all the time, but it’s so true. You have helped globally shift this planet to a more peaceful state and in such a unique way. Why in my own life, I often refer back to the principles/examples that you’ve shared.

Participant: Thanks! What an honor. I just kept focusing on the belief that I could do it and it happened.

Oprah: Girrrl/Mannn, you got it goin’ on!

If they want a loving relationship in their life, then they deliberately dialogue with that partner.

Participant: It’s so awesome sharing this walk with you. Thanks for being so thoughtful this morning and bringing me breakfast in bed. You do so much for me, so often. I just love you so much that I feel the need to find a new word for what I feel.

Desired Partner: Ditto, baby. You have been what I’ve prayed for, worked towards my whole life. I so appreciate you. I believe in you. Every toad ever kissed was worth it because it brought me to you. I’m in heaven.

Instead of focusing on what you don’t have, start dialoging with the desire. Put your belief in its manifestation. Dialogue with prosperity. Start counting the number of leaves on a tree, cracks in the sidewalk, stars in the sky or grains of sand on the beach and soon you will tire. There is simply too many. The Universe keeps showing us that there is more than enough—more than we could ever count. Focus on the plenty. Believe and declare that you are the center of divine attraction, the bulls-eye for every arrow of good that God can deliver. Believe in the unlimited supply and you will begin to see it. It’s closer than it appears!