a robin
flew into the window
and fell
birds do that sometimes
knock themselves out
shake it off
fly away
this one shook it off
flew back into the glass
wings flapping
beak snapping
he smacked into the window
again
and again

I watched him
phone in hand
wondering
should I call her
give this
one more try

silly bird
shake it off
and fly away

On Newport Beach after a long day with a client, my brain boiled with questions and worries. I walked slowly, my head down. As each wave curled over the sand and snuck back into the sea, sandpipers skittered at the edge of the foam and little bubbles popped on the wet sand. The bubbles are the trail of live seashells burrowing back into the cool, moist sand to avoid being washed out to sea or drying out on the surface. Maybe they are also frantically avoiding the long beaks of the sandpipers.

I paused, the frigid Pacific bathing my feet as my shoulders sought the sun’s warmth. The questions about my dwindling retirement account, the desert dry business climate, family agonies, and my own future slowed a little, just enough for my poetic mind to fire. “There’s got to be some philosophical meaning here. Some spiritual lesson I’m supposed to learn.” The writer in me longed to make sense of it all.

Maybe it’s how each of us needs the dark, moist times of our lives to grow, I pondered. Or I can write something about cycles and circles, rhythms and flows, fear and safety. Even the tired old “bury your head in the sand” cliché floated through my mind.

Then I got it. There is no overarching spiritual meaning, no philosophical analogy to be found, no deep lessons. Just the sun warming my skin, the sea creatures avoiding being lunch to a sandpiper, the surf rolling and crashing on the beach, the gulls and pelicans hunting as they skim the waves. And me, walking.  And now, paying attention.

It’s just a nice day. One moment of life. I kept walking.

In Seward, the campgrounds were all full which was just as well. Seward’s city campgrounds are bumper-to-bumper RVs and nylon-to-nylon tents. I prefer more space. And I was crabby as backtracked to a Forest Service campground I’d seen as I drove in to Seward.

While I was getting gas (which you do at almost every gas station because you never know), I talked with the grey bearded big guy behind the counter. He thumbed toward a beat up pick-up truck camper and said, “I’ve been on the road for seventeen years in that. Just drive up Exit Glacier Road. You’ll find a spot. Forest Service land has lots of turn outs to camp in.” “Thanks,” I told him. He added, “Hey, camp at the first turn out before the campground. You can live in those privies they’re so clean!”

He was right. There were many turn outs but I drove the eight miles up to the campground anyhow. It was full. So I pulled into the first turn out before the campground as the guy suggested and joined three RVs and an SUV on the concrete. I don’t quite agree that one could live in the outhouse, but it was clean.

Before I left Homer, I’d rearranged the stuff in my car so I could sleep in the back if I wanted to or couldn’t set up a tent easily. This turn out spot was my test. All I had to do was pull some stuff from the back and load it onto the front seats then place the sleeping pad down, roll out the sleeping bag and crawl in.

It all worked just fine except the crawl in part. I had to be a contortionist to get in the side door all hunched over and thread my way into my sleeping bag. Once in, I fell fast asleep with Keesha’s slow breathing softly lulling me into my dreams.

The next morning I woke to steamed-up windows and fog covered mountains. I pried myself out of the sleeping bag and uncurled to stand on the blacktop. One by one, the RVs left. Soon only Keesha and I were left to watch the sun’s fingers caress the fog off the face of the glacier, brushing the white face with gold.

I perched on the curb, hot tea in hand and laughed. Here I was sitting on a concrete curb, cooking my breakfast on blacktop, after sleeping in my car and I couldn’t be happier!

My heart danced with the sun, holding hands with the glacier and I burst with a feeling a freedom. “I am free,” I shouted to the glacier. “I am free,” I called to the raven. “I am free,” I grinned at Keesha who grinned back and said in her special canine language, “Yes you are!”

But the universe, or whatever you want to call the force that permeates all, had other ideas. That force clobbered me and knocked me awake. And life was never the same after that.

Because you see, under the hood of all that success was stress and fear. In the relationship. In the business. In myself. The symptoms were there for me to see if I’d been able to see them.

I remember being in a tile shop, looking over millions of tile samples. My partner and I were arguing heatedly. More heatedly than kitchen tiles deserved. It was a war of wills. Who would control the future of the home? The tiles were like chess pieces in a deadly serious battle about the future of the relationship.

My cell phone beeped. I fielded questions from one of my consultants about some client crisis. After putting out that fire, my phone beeped again. I negotiated with some VIP who was really miffed that he was not seated at a front -row table for the big fundraising dinner I was co-chairing. The voice yelling at me assured me he was a major donor. I made a call to make that problem go away and turned back to arguing about tile.

Not really a big deal. Just the stuff of daily life for a busy person. But it never stopped. Most importantly, I did not feel I was in the flow of life. Underneath the successful façade was a crumbling foundation. The stress built.

One day as I drove downtown, I called a woman I’d hired to work with our dog and cats and got her voice mail. Just as the beep sounded, a car cut me off. I was angry and I let him have it. I screamed at him. Effenheimers and other choice words flying with rage out of my mouth. I must have looked demonic to other drivers. Suddenly, I remembered the beep and realized I was leaving a voice mail. Now I know you can press star and re-record. But in my flustered rage, I sent off the voice mail.

Uh oh. Now I had to leave a second, hang-dog, apologetic voice mail. Embarrassing to say the least. When I talked with her later, I apologized again. There was this pregnant pause, and she laughed, “Road rage!”

See what I mean? Symptoms.

I don’t even want to get into the issues with my relationship. After we moved back into the house, they got worse. Too many tears. Too many arguments. Too many misunderstandings. I was exhausted and angry and confused and distraught.

I felt I was hitting some sort of emotional rock bottom. There’s no 12-step program for that. So I took my dog, Duncan, for a walk. We walked down the suburban street towards the trail. Tears streaked my face. I didn’t care if anyone saw me. I was miserable.

Now before I tell you the next part, you need to know that I did not, and still don’t really believe in God. I grew up Catholic, felt spiritual, but am far from religious. My church has been the church of the wilderness, the church of the earth, the church of the mystery of life.

But for some reason, this low point was a trigger, and I did something unusual. I spoke from that deep place inside. The part of you that is just you. Call it heart or soul. What ever it was, it or I said the force that some call God, “I give. I can’t do this anymore.”

It was a moment of pure surrender. And something happened.

I felt a deep heaviness lift from me. I felt lighter like a physical weight I’d been carrying was gone. And I knew without a doubt that I’d be okay. I also knew that from that moment on, I’d never be the same again.

I wish I could tell you that miracles occurred and life got immediately better. But that’s not how it works. What did happen was I made changes and I set off on a course of life that’s taken me places I never dreamed I would be. I’ve experienced sublime joy. But it’s not been all fun or easy. I’ve had to wade into some dark places, learn some tough lessons.

Was it worth it? Absolutely. I am an artist and my life is my art. I work at living life to the fullest. And whatever I do, I immerse in it – all in. But I honestly believe that after that moment, I didn’t have a choice. I’d swallowed the red pill of truth and was headed down the rabbit hole.

So, remember when you find yourself in the darkest times, the times you feel you’ve lost your way or lost your heart, that seeds germinate underground in the moist darkness. And if you surrender to the cracking of your shell, I guarantee you will be amazed at the growth that will shoot out of you.

See you in the rabbit hole. Let’s go.