Contemplation

A story bubbled up several times in my meditation today that I remember hearing years ago.  A baby chick was struggling to break free of  the egg shell in which it had been gestating.  Tap! Tap! Tap! Its little beak hit the inside of the encasement. Tap! Tap! Tap! Finally, a tiny crack appeared.  For hours this process continued, and at last the tiniest of holes appeared, and the beak could be seen as it worked to broaden the opening.

A well-meaning human observer thought he would help the chick so he broke the shell open to liberate the baby bird.  Very shortly after breaking the shell open, the baby bird died.  Apparently, process of fighting its way out of the shell develops the bird's lungs sufficiently that it will be able to sustain respiration when it finally emerges from the shell.  By breaking the encasement open for the chick, the human helper robbed the baby bird of the work which would allow it to live.

During an interview a few months ago on Oprah's "Super Soul Sunday," author and philosopher Sister Joan Chittister described "contemplation" as "seeing the world as God sees it."  I am in a period of transition, and sometimes it has felt to me like I am that baby bird, attempting to break free of the shell, or in my case the box, in which I've been trapped.

As the story of the bird breaking free drifted into my awareness today, I thought that God must be watching me struggle to break free, all the while knowing that the strength I gain in the struggle will be what enables me to thrive in whatever comes next.

An Eastern adage, from the I Ching if I remember correctly, advises that when the student is ready, the teacher will appear.  My own experience is that when a student is ready, many teachers agree. Everywhere I turn a lesson will be repeated for me until I "get it."

I am certain that it was not a coincidence that I ran into someone yesterday, who is a reader of this blog. As she walked toward me, she said, "No blog posts!"  I gave the feeble excuse about my job consuming me that has become old and pathetic even to me.

Then I shared that I had given notice that no later than the end of the summer I was leaving the job with which I've struggled.  I don't remember her exact words, but it was something like, "We've all been watching you struggle and wondering why you don't just get out of there."  Once again I could imagine myself like that bird, struggling to break free.

As I contemplated the image of the bird struggling to develop its lungs so that it can sustain respiration outside the egg shell, I was able to see my life in three distinct phases.  In two, I struggled significantly.  In the third, between the periods of struggle, my life flowed like a daily miracle.

I thought about God watching me and wondered what had flipped the switches from struggle to flow and back to struggle again.  Yet I saw no sign posts that pointed and said definitively, "This is what changed it," in either direction.  However, from the perspective of looking at myself in those three distinct phases, I was struck that during the struggling phases I excelled as using skills I'd developed at doing work I didn't particularly like, but because it was valued by my employers and/or clients, I performed the work for money. It was usually important work that helped people, but it wasn't my work.

In the miracle phase, from early morning until I often fell into bed exhausted from a vigorous evening of dancing, life flowed from my natural gifts and talents.  I embraced every moment of life passionately. Again, I performed important work that helped people, but in the miracle phase, it was my work.

While the most popular coach training and certification, both of which I have, requires that coaches work with their clients to set specific, measurable, achievable goals, during the period of my life which flowed easily I allowed my life to be led by intentions, instead of goals.  Deep inner knowing guided me on mysterious journeys, which I could not have imagined from my wildest goal-setting mind.

One measure about which I have written in this blog previously is the intention to follow "life."  To ask myself, "Does this bring me to life? Does it bring life to me?" If it "flips my switches," then it is almost certainly a path I should follow, and if it doesn't, that also is good data--information that I should walk away from that opportunity.

What I believe to be life's intentions were detailed in my book The Game Called Life. These are intentions that I say are written on the back sides of our hearts and were designed to be our internal compasses:

1. Lessons Learned--Will this help me learn a lesson that my soul needs to learn in this life? Or is it a lesson the world needs me and others to learn at this time to evolve humanity?

2.  Develop skills and talents--Am I using the unique skills, talents and gifts that I was given for this journey to help me serve the world?

3.  Do work put in front of you—What is the purpose for what you are doing at this moment? How will what you are doing serve to make the world a better place?

When my life was flowing, I didn't live by a goal to be a certain level in the company, revenue level in my business, or make a certain amount of money.  I lived by the intentions from The Game that brought me to life. In my current struggled, I've focused too much on being of service (and I am certain that I have been of service,) to the neglect of the lessons I needed to learn and using my real gifts and talents.

In this moment of contemplation, I believe that I finally can see Kay as God sees her.  After years of watching my struggle, this morning I am certain that God displays a broad grin, knowing that I have finally developed the strength to sustain me when I break out of my shell. What allows me to thrive is truly being who I know I am in my heart.

Not being who I thought I was...really...

In my March 12 post, I wrote about converging forces, demanding that I know more about who I am.  ("What's Going On With Me?") I shared how while watching the "Finding Your Roots" television series with Harvard professor Louis Henry Gates in parallel with the "Outlander" series, set in Scotland, a place from whence many of my ancestors embarked upon their journeys to North America, I suddenly became extremely curious about my own ancestry.  So, I swabbed my mouth and sent it off for information about my DNA.

A couple weeks ago, the results arrived.  I was shocked.  I felt like that man in the commercial, who had spent his whole life thinking his ancestors were German. He had learned German customs and dances and even acquired traditional German costumes.  Then, his DNA determined that he was Scottish.

My results weren't quite that different.  I have a very Irish name, and quite accurately, I knew that I was Scottish and Irish with a little Dutch and French.  The DNA tests confirmed all that with a bit more broad representation from the British Isles.

I also learned that I have 7% ancestry from Northern Spain, a place that I've gravitated to over the last half dozen years, and I've said many times that I could retire to Barcelona in a heartbeat. Walking the riverfront in Bilbao on a Sunday afternoon three years ago felt like home. Who knew that there might have been an ancestral attraction to the region?  Certainly not me.  Perhaps even more shocking was the 7% from the bridge between Finland and Russia and Scandinavia.  Really? Never heard anything about that before.

The real shocker, however, was not in these surprise pieces that are part of my ancestry, but in what is not in my ancestry...at all.

For generations of my family, the mythology has been about my Native American great-great-grandmother. I have been curious about it since I was a little girl.  One of my favorite dolls as a child was a Native squaw with a papoose strapped to her back.  As I matured, my grandmother told me how I had the Native cheekbones of her grandmother, as did my father. When sorting through photographs after my father's death, I asked my great-aunt (my grandmother's sister) who the woman was in a very old photograph. She reported it was her Native great-grandmother.

As I grew older, I have been intrigued in learning about Native customs and have even incorporated some in my coaching and consulting practice.  On occasion, I've made a traditional Indian pudding, and I've loved reading and occasionally presenting on the foods of the first Thanksgiving.  I've even had going to the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian to work with their genealogists to learn more about my Native ancestry on my to-do list for several years.

Fiction.  All fiction.  Like the guy, who needed to trade in his lederhosen for a kilt, my DNA proves that our family mythology was complete fiction. Zero percent.  I am more than a little curious about how such a story could have passed along for several generations, even through those like my great-aunt and grandmother, who actually knew this mystery woman.  But, I can't dispute the science.

This shocking news arrives at a time when I am really trying to figure out who I am on a more existential level, The combination has left me feeling like I am in the midst of a hurricane with everything I've believed about myself spinning around me, and most of it blowing away.

For most of three decades, I have either been passionate about preparing for or having a career in organization development (OD) and coaching.  OD is a broad enough field that my career has morphed in a number of directions since finishing graduate school: putting together a joint-venture in China, taking a corporation global, leading communication and change management for a project across the whole federal government, leading a culture change that dramatically improved satisfaction in the organization, and even facilitating a 20-year roadmap for an organization.  I particularly enjoyed several years during which I helped executives as they sought to spiritually align the work lives and businesses with their spiritual purpose.

My coaching work has gone in as many directions as the people I've coached.  Writing has provided a rich means for processing what I've learned about myself and others along the way. How could I not love this work that made the lives of people at work so much more satisfying?

How could I not, indeed?  But like my mythical Native ancestry, when I work in OD these days, it feels like I've put on someone else's clothes that neither fit nor suit me anymore.  While I still love to write, and when I have the bandwidth, I love writing this blog, I no longer have no passion for writing books.  I have at least eight or nine that I've started over the years, and I can't even muster the interest to finish an hour's work that would be needed to finish publishing The Game Called Life electronically.  One hour! And it has been on my desk for 18 months awaiting a handful of edits.

It is a very dark and rainy day in Washington, so I decided to skip church this morning and have an extended time of prayer and meditation about what's next.  To say the things that floated through my meditations were all over the map is an understatement. Working on a political campaign, working with a non-governmental organization (NGO), especially with refugees, doing something artistic, developing gluten-free foods...

The next wave took me deeper in my core existence.  I wrote: feels like home, service, positive, helpful, resourceful, solution-focused, learning, solid relationships, and using my significant experience, knowledge, skills, and abilities.  In many ways, the shocking DNA results seem like a message to me to just give up anything I've thought before and just make myself available--like stripping away everything I've thought about work and making myself available for what God wants me to do next.

I've been in similar situations before, and one time I packed my house and moved across the country. What followed over the next few years was amazing--totally in flow with the divine.  Another time, I dillied and dallied for 30 months.  Eventually the transition has worked out, but not nearly as easily. I've often wondered what would have happened if I'd followed 30 months earlier.  That is a mystery of time.

I truly hope that this transition will not require a move--I love my home and Washington. However, I do know that I will be available when and where I am guided. I will let God be God.

I am NOT too busy to...

A couple weeks ago I sat having a deliciously lingering lunch with a friend.  The last time I saw her was last summer, probably at least 9 months ago. As we shared stories and reflections, I found myself lamenting that my work has so grabbed hold of my life that I no longer had time for things that were truly important, like connecting with friends and having such relaxed conversation.

In the course of our conversation, I discovered that my friend hadn't even been to my "new" apartment since I was still moving in.  I've settled in, painted, remodeled, and been in it now for 2-1/2 years.  How could I let that happen?  I love cooking and having guests in my home. I realized that, except for one friend who comes over 3-4 times a year, I haven't had people over except during the holidays.

Last week I had my annual physical, and my blood pressure, which has always been on the low side of normal, had jumped 20 points.  My doctor asked about exercise, mediation, and other stress-relieving practices that he knew had been part of my routine for years.  "My work allows for little except work and sleep.  When I try to meditate, I fall asleep," I explained.  It felt like a pitiful excuse.

Several weeks earlier, our assistant rector talked about the unpleasant reality for many of us of being too busy to do things we enjoy or think we would enjoy.  She encouraged us to catch ourselves each time we started to say we were too busy to do something and correct ourselves, by saying, "I am NOT too busy...."

In each of the situations above, I found her words echoing in the back of my brain.  While I have not developed the I-am-NOT-too-busy muscle yet, the haunting consciousness is there.  I always say that awareness is 90 percent of the battle.

Instead of cleaning my apartment, which really needed it, last weekend, I curled up with a book I had been enjoying, and then on Thursday I went to a new-to-me book club to discuss it.  I used to read a lot. Last weekend I reminded myself that "I am NOT too busy" to read.

Today after church I walked to the DuPont Circle Farmer's Market, one of the best in the nation, to buy my favorite gluten-free ginger chocolate chip scone.  Doing so was a treat in which I hadn't indulged myself  since last fall.  After two weeks of rain, we have a splendid sunny day.  I sat on a bench, lingering over each and every bite of the scone, and just drank in the sun, as it warmed my face.  "I am NOT too busy for this," I reminded myself.

While I have found it difficult to make doing things that I treasure a priority in recent years, I do like to think that when I do them, I am pretty good at really being present.  I will almost never check texts or email on my smartphone while with a friend, as many now make a regular practice.  When my friend and I had lunch, I was totally focused on our connection. When I was reading, I was in the book. When I was enjoying my scone, I savored every bite. While I'd like to bring the mastery of being present to the whole of my life, for now, I will be grateful that when I bring intention to doing so, I really can be present.

When I entered my door this afternoon, I headed to the kitchen to start my list of things I had to do before another busy week got ahead of me.  Instead, I caught myself.  Remembering the assistant rector's words, I said to myself "I am NOT too busy to write a blogpost," not only something I really enjoy, but a spiritual practice for me that keeps me headed in the direction I want my life to go.  So, I put down the list-making paper, made myself a cup of coffee, and here I am writing.

Although all those things still need to be done before the week takes off at warp speed, instead of doing chores and tasks, I think I will now change clothes and go for a walk on this first gorgeous spring day in a while.  At least for this day, my priorities feel like they are in order.

Rebirth

Spring officially began last weekend.  I delight in seeing my spring bulbs stick their bright green sprouts through the soil in search of the sun promised by longer days. The trees in the national park behind my apartment are generously showing their own bright green with a few almost leafed out. Here in Washington blooming trees, including the famous Japanese cherry blossoms which are in peak bloom this very day, abound.  How fortunate I feel to be able to work from work to the Metro every day by this display that others travel from all over the world to experience.

While there are things that I love about each of the four seasons, spring holds promise.  Whatever magical process that has been occurring in the ground during the dark months now moves boldly into the next stage of life's cycle.

We should not be surprised at this time of natural inspiration that many religions mark holidays, such as Easter and Passover, when we gather with friends and family to eat and drink and be joyous after having gone through a period of darkness, threat, and even death or imminent death. Even the Easter Bunny grew out of a pagan celebration of fertility, and Easter eggs are associated with what will be born, indicating that such spring celebrations have long been with us.

I have been called a heretic, so this is a spoiler alert that if you don't want anyone messing with your literal reading of the Easter story, this is a good time to hit the little "X" in the corner and come back another day.

My spiritual roots developed in the Christian tradition, so I observe Easter this weekend.  Although Christianity formed my basic spiritual concepts, I have found learning and guidance in many religious traditions, and now I look at my own stories with a more universal lens of myth and metaphor than with a literal one.

Looking at it in that way, the story of Jesus' death, three days' burial, and his resurrection from the dead mean that it is time for me to sort through my life, find what needs to die, and then commit to how I want to be reborn for the year ahead. The season of Lent, the 40 days before Easter, intends to be a time of coming close to God in contemplation, fasting, deprivation of things that separate us from God, and prayer and meditation.  At this time, we take a hard look at what we have been and what we want to be, and then we determine what new behaviors we want for the future to carry us toward the life we intentionally create.

I believe (more heresy coming) that God is not an anthropomorphic old man with a beard but is instead a force of Love and Good...of caring...that connects all of us. Jesus has been called the great teacher about Love.  Even as he was being tortured in death, he did not anger. I believe his role in the evolution of the world was not to give birth to a religion but instead was to demonstrate what miracles all of us can make happen if we act totally in Love.  Being Love as a noun, something that we are, rather than "love" as a verb, something that we do...or don't do.

The Easter lesson forces me say to myself, "What behaviors, habits, attitudes, or values stand in the way of me being Love?" Those are the things this holiday tells me to put to death, so that I can be reborn in this season of newness as a force for what is good in the world. My work is to be that day in and day out.

Years ago I recall hearing someone reflect on the shadow nature of all of us.  The source is forgotten, but I remember hearing that in all of us, even the worst of us, there is a Mother Teresa who is kind, loving and compassionate. And in all of us, even the best of us, there is an ax murderer, who is driven by hate, fear, and anger and is capable of unmentionable evil.  Our job is to choose who we will be.

That is the work of rebirth: taking a hard look at any speck within us that is driven by anything other than Love and plucking it out.  Then consciously choosing how we become Love in the world.

Expectations

I still have a baby tooth.  The technical term is "deciduous," but most of us call them baby teeth.  We get them very early in life, and like the leaves that fall from deciduous trees, a few short years later they get loose and fall out.  Even though we start getting them at six or seven when the replacements push the baby teeth away, the new ones are called "adult" teeth.

For whatever reason, an adult tooth never formed under one of my baby teeth, and with nothing pushing the process forward, my little deciduous tooth just hung in there...and hung in...and hung in. From the time I was a teenager, dentists have been telling me that I would lose it.  As some point in earlier adulthood, the tune changed to take good care of it so that it would last as long as possible.  I got that lecture less than a year ago from my current dentist.

Last month both my dentist and a periodontist told me it had to go. An infection under the tooth threatens other teeth, and apparently my heart and kidneys as well.  Since I feel like my little tooth has served me extraordinarily well, I can't really say I am sad or even surprised.  After all, this should have happened decades ago.

As I contemplate the demise of my stalwart servant, I keep coming back to my expectations.  Early on, I expected to lose the tooth.  Then at some point since it had been with me for so long, I expected to have it for the duration.  However, even when I was young and expecting it to fall out, I had never expected that there were be a gaping hole in my mouth.  I just never thought about what it would be like after I lost it.  For that matter, I hadn't thought about what I would do with it when it was no longer in my mouth.

I suppose that there are parents who save their children's teeth after the tooth fairy makes her visit. Mine were not among them.  I don't have a vial to which I can add this one when it comes out on Friday, but given the time it was part of me and the extraordinary service it rendered, I do feel like it should get some special recognition.

That's how this whole thing has led me back to one of my perpetual growth spots: gratitude.  In all the years that my tooth has served me, I have rarely thought about it and the service it was rendering.  I have certainly never thought about the richness it has added to my life.  Only when I am about to lose the tooth does it get the gratitude and appreciation that it has been due.

My tooth is not unlike so many things in my life.  I pretty much took my mobility for granted until a disease threatened me with being a quadriplegic.  I had a good education and employment history so I just expected I'd always have a roof over my head and food in my belly...until my business went bust, and I didn't.  Later working for the federal government, I just pretty much assumed that the checks would keep coming until I decided for them to stop; when the government shut down for three week in 2013, I developed a whole new appreciation for the regularity of my paychecks and the benefits that came with them.

It has been the same with people in my life.  A friend that I saw three days early is suddenly dead.  I know that I didn't appreciate her the way I should.  Another that I used to talk with regularly met a man and took off on life's great adventure, and I miss our periodic talks.  An aunt, who is now in her late 80s, was very special to me when I was younger, and I've let our relationship devolve into a few phone calls a year.  When she is gone, I know that I will regret not valuing her more when she was alive.

Somehow the expectation that the people in my life will continue to be there is a faulty one.  Last Monday I had a drink and dinner with several friends who used to work with me.  We see each other two or three times a year now, and I realized after leaving them that they made me feel like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

Even though I didn't really want to return to my current job after my temporary assignment, I have really enjoyed reconnecting with some of my favorite clients and coworkers.  While not in the warm blanket category, I do value them, and I have certainly become aware that they value me.

Because gratitude seems like a perpetual spiritual lesson for me, I know that I will backslide on my commitment a few days or a few weeks from now.  Yet in the meantime, I am going to value being intentionally grateful for the people in my life...now...when I really can appreciate with them.

Whatever Is Going On With Me?

There was a time when television shows started new seasons a week or two after Labor Day in September, and the season ended in late spring.  We'd get "reshows" all summer, which wasn't so bad because who wants to be in watching TV in the summer, and then the cycle would start over again. We developed long-term relationships with characters; they could be almost like family.

I am not exactly sure when that began to change because I didn't have TV reception for many years, and when getting cable cost me almost nothing when I subscribed to internet service, I went many more years before I started watching again.  In recent years there seem to be two patterns of TV series.  One at least nods to the old pattern, where the season is now-later fall, ending in now-earlier spring, but anytime we have holidays or big events on other channels (World Series, the Oscars, the Grammys,) we get reruns.  Sometimes for no apparent reason the program will go into reruns or go completely dark for a few weeks.

The second pattern, which seems to be increasingly common, is a six- to eight-week set of shows, followed by a 44- to 46-week wait for the next bundle of new programming.  Occasionally, the programs will have two little bundles a year with long waits in between.

Since my job has now rendered me pretty useless from exhaustion in the evenings, and I have discovered the "on demand" feature so I can watch programs that are on after my bedtime, I find that I watch way too much TV.  I have, however, discovered some high-quality programs when I am willing to sort through all the junk that poorly imitates art. Because some of these bundles come and go very quickly and often with no apparent rhythm to me, I have began searching the web for announcements of new season dates.  One such program that I discovered in its bundle last year is "Finding Your Roots."

"Finding Your Roots" is the brainchild of host Henry Louis Gates, Jr., the African-American Harvard professor who made headlines a few years ago when he was arrested for breaking into his own home when he got locked out.  Besides being a Harvard professor, Gates is an Emmy Award winning documentarian, literary critic, and book award winner. In "Finding Your Roots" Gates hosts two to three prominent individuals, often from the same genre--artists one week, politicians another, talk-show hosts still another.

During the program he explores the ancestry of each guest--good, bad, and ugly.  You had a slave owner in the background, it will come out.  You have direct lineage to Abraham or Charlemagne, he will share it. You had a relative who managed to survive pogroms in the Ukraine or Russia or concentration camps, we learn about it.

I am not sure why I have found the program so compelling because, except for my American Indian great grandmother, I've had almost no interest in my own personal ancestry.  My interest had been mildly tweaked, and I've found particularly interesting how the DNA testing process can actually link by name long lost cousins.

Crossing the trajectory of this "season" of "Finding Your Roots" has been the introduction by a friend to me of the "Outlander" series, which is set in 18th Century Scotland. While I have been led to believe that on both sides of my family that I am mostly Scottish and Irish, my interest in learning more has been yawning until the last two or three weeks.  Suddenly, I am intrigued to learn more about those ancestors who came to the colonies long before they thought of becoming a country.  As I see some of their trials, I want to know more.  Although I've always been interested in history, I don't think I've ever had any exposure to the history of that region, and I want to learn about it.

Beyond my ancestry and the interweaving of together of different TV programs, what I am really feeling particularly compelling about the whole set of circumstances is that it feels like the Universe has conspired to get me passionate about something in which I had absolutely no interest until just a few weeks ago.  Similar things have happened before when I feel bombarded by information about something that I knew nothing about previously.

Noticing is important.  In order to live the life of spiritual intention, we have to notice, pay attention, and follow the threads that are thrown onto our paths.  So last night when one of those pop-up ads appeared on my computer screen offering a "deal" on the DNA testing, I followed it and learned a lot more about how it works...even the finding of long lost cousins part.  I bit. It just seemed like what I was supposed to do.

I have a rule of three in life, when three apparently "coincidental" occurrences happen about the same time, I notice and do something about it.  For instance, I recently bumped into the same person who I haven't seen for some time three times.  I scheduled lunch.

Many of my spiritual coaching clients have said to me that the Universe doesn't speak to them.  Of course, it does, I would say, but you have to speak its language.  The language of coincidences or sparked passions is how the Universe speaks to us.  Noticing is how we listen.

Risking Greatness

I find it hard to believe that it has now been almost 15 years since I was regularly speaking about spiritual intention, a topic for which I still hold passion.  I revealed seven steps to living with intention in my speeches.  One of them was to "risk greatness."  This step described how when we are listening to our inner spiritual guidance system, we will often be guided to do things that don't make sense and which the world around us may judge to be nonsense or crazy.  Yet, when we are guided, we must have the courage to follow through.

Those who have been great in whatever their field happens to be have broken through barriers that others in their professions or their contemporary worlds have judged as crazy. As Monet was giving birth to Impressionist art, he was belittled and taunted as someone who could not paint. Mozart was accused of being mad.

Even famous athletes, who have broken ground in style and performance, have been the object of comedic jabbing.  Dick Fosbury, the 1960s American Olympic high jumper had a unique style of flopping himself over the bar. He broke ground on what is now common in the sport. People of his era thought that Roger Bannister who disintegrate if he broke the four-minute mile, but then within days a number of others passed that daunting milestone.

If we practice whatever is to be our greatness in our own unique way, we risk having people point at us. But, the real risk is to hold back on being as great as the Universe would have us be.  Such risks show up everywhere in our lives, and maybe as often as not, we may be the only ones to know.  Do we hold back on asking a question that may lead to a breakthrough question because it seems like a "stupid question?" Do we stay chained to a job that is limiting our growth just because it is secure? On a splendid spring day, like several we've had recently, do with bridle the urge to jump up and click our heels with the joy of the season? What countless ways do we hold ourselves back?

When we are truly aligned and willing to bring our full courage to bear on whatever is in front of us, we unleash the forces of the Universe in support of us.  I recall when I was writing The Game Called Life. The economy was shaky, and several people had cancelled long scheduled work.  I should have been out drumming up speaking engagements and consulting gigs, but I didn't.  What I knew in my heart was that I had another book to write.  Almost as quickly as I said I was going to do it, the words began to move through me like a wild winter storm across the plains. My hands moved across the keyboard so long and so fast that my wrists ached. The book was finished in five days and, unlike my earlier books, it required little rewrite and editing.

The day after I finished the book, I went to the mailbox, and a check from former coaching clients awaited me. It was around Thanksgiving, and they had been thankful for the work we had done that year.  They sent a thank-you check.  To this day, I recall feeling like the Universe was thanking me for taking time to do what I was called to do rather than what I "should" be doing.

I've been getting clarity about the direction in which I need to be taking my life.  I am about to make a major leap, but it feels to me like the real risk isn't going in the new direction but instead the risk is in not doing it. Over the last few days as I became clearer, people have been coming out of the woodwork to help.  One person, who would have no idea what I was up to, texted me a couple days ago and wanted to have coffee.  When we met, he pointed me to a potential door.

I was channel surfing late at night recently and caught the end of the 1993 film "Grumpy Old Men," a Jack Lemmon-Walter Matthau comedy in which two octogenarians compete for the affections of a slightly younger widow, played by Ann Margaret.  I have seen the movie many times and always love it.  It just so happened this time that as I paused my channel surfing, I caught Jack Lemmon's character say, "The only things in life you regret are the risks you didn't take."

I will have no regrets for not taking risk. Instead, I will risk greatness in whatever small or great way lies on my path.