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.”