Life Lessons From Strangers

New Beginnings

2012-02-20T06:35:00.000-08:00

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end..."

Those song lyrics are swirling around my head as I drive my (now) eight-year-old boy to his first day at his new school - Pathfinder. It's a gorgeous, sunny, brisk morning and the light and shadows are playing a game of cat-and-mouse.

Rowan's excitement is palpable - as he tells me how he's going to write a letter "to those people who write the animal dictionaries and ask them why they left out coelacanth's - the oldest living fish?"

We park, tumble out of the car, and begin the long walk (58 stairs to be exact) up to Rowan's new classroom. I've got butterflies. "This is gonna be crrraaaazzzzyyy," he says with a big grin. "Yep, I laugh out loud. Crazy."

We are expecting Miss Caroline (Rowan's guitar teacher and the admissions director at the school) to be waiting for us, along with his teacher Miss Kate, but there are a few unexpected friends too. Mr. Carl, the Head of School, my friend Anne Stanton, and a handful of other parents and teachers who just "stopped by to say hi."

Today's view after starting something new.

We agonized about Rowan's first day at his new school - not knowing what to expect but knowing in our hearts it's the right thing for our boy. This morning is just the validation I needed. A tight-knit group of parents, crowded into the too-small entry of a second grade class, with two pint-sized dogs wandering about - it was the perfect new beginning. For all of us.

Returning to the car relieved, I sink into it's warmth. The lyrics are back again. Although I can't quite figure out who sang them? The glint of sun interrupts my thoughts and I realize that all of my questions have been replaced. By a feeling. One I can recall on early-Spring runs. Exhilaration. The feeling that goes hand-in-hand with starting something new.

Running Home

2011-12-31T08:25:00.000-08:00

Me and the girls pre-race in the Windy City last October.

It’s been months since I had that nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. At least since last spring when I fell in love with another, one with more lightness and speed. The new Specialized carbon 12-speed bike easily took the place of my worn out Brooks running shoes, now crammed in the shadows of my closet. Those old shoes had seen some action, but frustrated by too many years of low-back pain, I’d traded them in. And in the process, started learning about cycling, a sport I’d always enjoyed – in a brand new way.

As spring turned to fall and the leaves became too much of a slipping hazard on my bike, I wondered “what I was going to do to stay strong?” For the past few winters, I had trained my body (and brain) to run outside. Something that I never felt was possible given that the harsh winters of Northern Michigan had always triggered my asthma. Over time, I found that combining my practice of hot yoga with intermittent winter runs was the perfect blend to keep my mind-body-spirit fit.

So, I (subconsciously) took a couple of months off of exercising. And started reading. Everything I could get my hands on. Books that had been loaned to me months ago. Magazines I don’t subscribe to. And newspapers and online forums that filled me with information about both local and international affairs.

And then, it got cold. And I got cold. That’s when I realized it was time to get back into hot yoga. For the more than 12 years I’ve been practicing, this year is the first that I’ve actually fallen asleep (in a 110-degree heated room) prior to class. It’s also the first year that I’ve disappeared into my practice. If you’ve heard runners talk about the “high” and how you can run through anything, it’s a similar experience in yoga. Only difference is, for me, it’s as if I just disappeared for 90-minutes, in a 110-degree room, with 30 of my closest friends. And when the final shavasana takes place, I reappear sweaty and exhausted.

Slowly, I eased myself back into a yoga practice that felt comfortable. But something was still missing. And I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, until I picked up a book titled “Born to Run” under the auspices that it was a gift for my husband, whose early-morning runs with our German shepherd puppy were the justification I needed. “It’s not for me” the voice in my head pounded. “After all, I’m not running anymore.”

Finishing “Born to Run” yesterday morning I was left with a deep sense of longing. Even though I’d previously signed up for New Year’s Day hot yoga (one of my favorite classes of the year) I just couldn’t shake the desire to pull out the old Brooks and hit the trail.

“Why fight it?"

The first step out and I am a bundle of nerves. I flashback to a blind date that a friend of mine set me up for when I was in 8^th grade. I wasn’t allowed to date (or drive) so the whole thing was a covert operation. My Mom thought I was going to the movies with an older friend (which I was). What she didn’t know was that my friend Anne was bringing her boyfriend and a Senior-guy from another school. Leaving the house that night to rendezvous I had that same nervy, woozy, adrenaline-stoked feeling. But this time, my approach was completely different. After all, I’ve been running, on-and-off for more than three decades. I made quick work of my reintroduction and the anxious-wooziness in my belly faded into an easy stride. With a little rock-and-roll music, I was back on track.

Three miles flew by in a blink. Before I knew it, I was rounding the trail, heading back to the “finish line” the spot where I’d dropped my fleece vest and promised myself that once I arrived there, I’d walk the last half mile home. I stopped. Pulled on my vest, walked a few steps and still felt the desire to run. So I did.

I jogged home smiling and feeling like I was glowing from the inside out.

“Ahhhh, I remember this, I thought. It’s what I’ve been missing. The afterglow. And what I’ve also come to recognize is the cozy feeling of “being home.” It’s not somewhere else. It’s right here inside me. And it’s been with me forever.”

The Surfboard Whisperer

2011-04-08T18:13:00.000-07:00

The beautiful board that caught my attention

Traveling is exhilarating. It's a lot like surfing. The feeling of freedom and the energy buzz that I get. They’re one in the same. So, during a recent trip to Hawaii, when we wound up island-hopping (Maui to Honolulu) to get to our final destination of Kauai, that was just fine with me.

It was after two days of traveling, sitting in airports, hailing shuttles and booking hotel rooms online that I wound up on a beautiful stretch of beach in Waikiki, Honolulu. My energy buzz was finally replaced by a familiar sense of Pacific peace. One that tastes like salty, tropical air served up with a Mai Tai on the side. It’s in this place, digging my feet into the coarse sand watching the sun fade, that I felt called to.

I was busy soaking up the warmth of Hawaii, storing away the sights, the smells and the sounds that I would surely retrieve much later – when I was wrapped in a cold gray, winter day that I felt a calling of sorts. Reflexively, I turned and looked over my shoulder and down the beach. About 25 yards away, half-under and half-out of a multi-colored umbrella, my eyes came to rest on an upside down surfboard with a surfer-boy lounging next to it.

At a glance, I could see the board was old. As I continued to gaze at it, something compelled me to get a closer look. “I’m gonna walk down and get a picture of that surfboard,” I mumbled to my husband before setting off toward the half-upright umbrella.

Oddly, the closer I got, the more beautiful that old board became. I was so completely focused on it that before I knew what I was doing, I was touching it momentarily, forgetting about surfer dude who sat watching me quizzically.

“W’sup,” he said sleepily.

“Oh, I um, wondered if I could take a picture of your board?” I said. I could see the question mark on his face. . . “W’sup with this lady who wants to take a picture of the board…”

“Sure thing, he said. It’s pretty special. Usually I get people who want to take a picture of me with the board,” he went on.

“Yeah, no offense," I said without thinking. "I’ve seen a lot of surfers, but I’ve never quite seen a board like this one. It’s beautiful.” Wow. That’s what I get for not thinking. Totally insulting surfer dude without even trying to.

The sun set as I started snapping shots with my small point-and-shoot digital camera. As I continued to search for the perfect angle, letting my eyes and heart lead the way, the surfer offered up the story of the board:

Another special board in Kaua'i
for the late Andy Irons

“lt’s pretty special," he said."My friend Alfred surfs on it. He got it from a friend of his who is a native Hawaiian. The Hawaiian’s brother used to ride it all the time. And he died surfing. So it hung in a garage for a long, long, time. And then the Hawaiian gave it to my friend Alfred. He’s just starting to surf. Pretty awesome, huh?” surfer guy said.

“Yeah, awe some,” I exhaled between shots, thinking about how ironic it was that the Hawaiian gave the board to a newbie surfer. Was this his way of perpetuating the memory of his late brother? A perfect representation of the circle of life. From the little I knew about the Hawaiian culture, it made sense.

The board glowed as the sun set. I kept snapping until the shadows got long – all the while thinking about the energy and memories that it held. The moment passed and I thanked my laid-back friend and headed back down the beach.

But the board stayed with me. All the way back to Michigan – where it was at least 30 degrees colder, with a north wind. “What was it exactly that made me want to photograph that surfboard?” I kept thinking.

Today, as I shared the story with a friend, I realized that there are surfboards all around us. The challenge is to hear them. I’m pretty sure that on daily basis I am surrounded by moments like the one I had on that beach half-a-world away. The challenge is: noticing and moving toward them. Not being afraid to listen. Even when it’s a surfboard on the other end of the line, calling.

The Passion Factor

2011-02-14T08:08:00.000-08:00

After returning from a ten-day trip to Ecuador last month I have been filled with a new found sense of gratitude and happiness. For me, going away and coming back always sparks personal introspection. And in the weeks that have followed, I have found myself digging deep. Personally, professionally, and otherwise. In the midst of this thoughtfulness, one word keeps echoing in my head: Passion. And what better time to share a little of the good stuff – than on Valentine’s Day?

Passion-fueled art in Minneapolis

The passion-echo started as a mere whisper of the word, and over the next several weeks, it grew into a full-on symphony. The spark ignited when I caught up with an old friend over tea. She’s naturally intuitive and being pregnant has amplified this gift. So, while she wanted to hear all about my recent excursion– she sensed that something was weighing on my heart. And she opened our conversation by asking me “what it was?”

She listened intently as I described my first week back - including a litany of unexpected professional and personal challenges, that when combined with my return, had left me feeling wounded and raw. My friend spoke gently: “Juliette, you always give more than 100 percent of yourself. Your passion is extraordinary. You need to focus on working with people who value that.”

There it was again. Passion.

Fast forward from our tea-conversation two weeks and the passion-message had started to become overwhelming. Everywhere I looked, there were examples of people engaging their passion.

From the bike-store owner who ran his palm down the nicest cycle, touching it with the tenderness of a lover; to the client who asked me to help her prepare for a day-long strategic meeting – by surveying her team about their passions.

There’s the surprise gift I had received in the mail from a new friend titled “The Element: How Finding Your Passion Changes Everything.” And then, the conversation with my writer-friend whom when I shared with her how passion was swirling around me, perked up and said “that’s weird.” “Two weeks ago, my running blog was all about passion.” That’s when I decided it was time to write this post. I had titled The Passion Factor many months ago, but shelved it, as I was uncertain of the message.

I was beginning to feel like I was being stalked by a swarm of passion-crazed people. To say I was distracted is putting it mildly. In preparing for a business trip, my thoughts were literally floating away. I responded by upping my caffeine intake – coffee in the morning – coffee in the afternoon– thinking that perhaps the java jolt would provide me with the clarity and focus I desperately needed. No such luck. I was now more alert but still passion-pre-occupied.

The plane ride to Minneapolis provided some respite. Although I had packed The Element (which I was starting to privately refer to as The Passion), I poured over Forbes and Vanity Fair – thinking that perhaps some light reading would give me brief distraction from my passion-fueled frenzy.

The next afternoon, I met with a new friend and colleague. He’s in a business that’s environmentally conscious and during our first meeting I recall him describing himself as a “zealot.” I liked the guy. And I admired his openness and intelligence. I also found it curious that he would define himself in such a… how should I put it? Amorous way.

Our conversation quickly took a turn and before I knew it, my zealot-friend was passionately describing the feeling of joy he gets in helping humanity. “At the end of the day, it’s not about my retirement account,” he said. “I could care less about that. It’s about doing something meaningful for my fellow human beings.” His voice boomed with passion that was palpable. It was enough to make me sit back a bit. Here it was again. Live and in-person. Oozing out of him – a self-fueled fire.

Marshal Ferdinand Foch said, “The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire.” Years ago, I was compelled to print this quote on the back of my business card and for awhile I would present it to people back-side-first, so recipients had opportunity to read (and perhaps even feel) the words. As the years passed, I stopped doing this. And sitting with my friend, as he shared his passion, I was reminded of it.

Valentine’s Day comes once a year. But in my humble opinion, the passion that surrounds this day should be lived every single day. Thanks to my friends’ reminder, the next day when I introduced myself to a new colleague over coffee – I smiled and slid my card across the table – passion-side-first.

Is President Obama Available? Just Ask.

2011-01-28T05:56:00.000-08:00

Helicopter ride in Kauai? Just ask.

For those of you who have ever doubted the power of just asking, I am dedicating this (true) story to you.

About a year ago, I attended a summit for Michigan’s Next Great Companies. I was there to support a colleague who was putting on one of the workshops, and I was looking forward to hearing the keynote speaker – Bo Burlingham, author of the book Small Giants.

Over 100 people were present – and my proofreader, Jerry, and I planted ourselves toward the back and center of the room. As people joined our table, we introduced ourselves and engaged in the usual “what do you do?” chatter. When a smiling, relaxed man in tweed sat next to me, I introduced myself, and we started the “what do you do” process all over again.

The man was co-owner of a well-established, family-owned roofing business in Michigan. Recently, he and his brother had designed (and were in the process of patenting) a solar-powered roofing technology that was easy to manufacture, install and distribute. He had also been the recipient of $500,000 in federal stimulus money that was awarded to businesses throughout Michigan to help reenergize our state’s lagging regional economy. And if that wasn’t interesting enough, his was the only solar-powered company in the United States to receive such an award.

Needless to say, I was pretty impressed. Through the course of the summit, we continued to chat, and a synergy developed. My new friend shared that he had a pitch project he had been working on that he could probably use my (and my colleague’s) help with, so we parted ways and agreed to circle back and continue the conversation.

In the meantime, we stayed in touch. And as is quite common when I meet a kindred spirit, I was compelled to send him a copy of my favorite book (at that moment) titled The Go-Giver, which is solely focused on the importance of giving to others – and what in turn can become a powerful force of positive karma.

For those of you who don’t already know: I am a compulsive giver. I’ve even been described as a “giver piggy.” I find great enjoyment in giving to others – and always have. Nothing about my giving is calculated. It’s just something that has always felt right. On the flip side: I’m not the greatest receiver. Over the years, those who have given to me have pointed out how frustrating this is. So, I’m working on that.

About a month later, Jerry and I paid our prospective client a visit. We spent a half-day learning about his operation, the manufacturing and installation process that he and his brother invented, and talking about his challenges related to marketing. At one point in our dialogue, he asked me exactly why “I thought he should work with us, instead of hiring a firm right down the street?” After an awkward pause, the words came right out of my heart: “Because I believe in giving.” My friend cocked his head … and smiled.

Our conversation took a turn toward his immediate need, which was help with a pitch to the National Science Foundation (NSF) in Washington, D.C. Turns out, he was comfortable selling, but knew nothing about pitching a story with the intent to receive national news coverage. Seizing the moment, I suggested he dial up his contact at the NSF so I could help guide him through the process and the questions that needed to be asked in order to formalize a pitch. Amazingly, we were connected, and I proceeded to ask the pertinent details (timing, word count, focus, etc.) related to crafting the pitch. As we wrapped up our conversation, my solar-powered friend had one final question:

“You know, I’ve always wondered how people get invited to the State of the Union address. It has been a dream of mine – I’m just curious as to how that might happen.” The NSF representative responded in all sincerity that he did, in fact, know the gentleman who makes these suggestions to the President of the United States, and that once we sent him our pitch, he would be happy to forward it along with this request.

We parted ways with me agreeing to help with the pitch – at no charge – with the intent that if he was pleased with the results, he would consider hiring my team to help provide the PR-power to launch his new energy-saving product.

I completed the pitch and was proud of it. The prospective client was also pleased, and I submitted it on his behalf to the NSF. Not long after, one of my colleagues (a PR expert) sent me an e-mail letting me know that he had heard that our prospective client had hired someone else to manage their rollout.

In the 11 years that I have owned my own business, I’ve come to realize that sometimes the reason a person enters our lives isn’t perfectly clear. I firmly believe that this way of thinking has helped propel me forward at times when I might otherwise be disappointed – it’s kind of a derivative of the “you win some, you lose some” attitude. So I moved on.

You can imagine my surprise, when two nights ago, on the eve of the State of the Union address, the same colleague that informed me that my prospective client had hired someone else – sent me an e-mail titled “HEY!” with a simple question: “Did you see who’s sitting next to Michelle Obama at tonight’s State of the Union address?”

If you guessed it was my ever-smiling solar-powered friend and his brother, you are right. Not only was he sitting with the First Lady, he and his brother were personally recognized by the President of the United States during his address. He did it. He realized a dream. And all he had to do was ask!

I immediately sent my friend a text congratulating him on realizing his dream – and letting him know I was honored to have witnessed it come full circle. And it was at that moment that I realized the reason we connected at that business luncheon that felt like eons ago: so I could support a person with the courage (to ask) with my talent (to give) and he could realize a dream. What a blessing.

The Perfect Snow … Storm

2010-12-09T13:25:00.000-08:00

A perfectly snowy tree
outside of school

Today (December 8, 2010) was a perfect example of an “up north” winter. Big, puffy cotton balls of snow were falling from the sky, and if you looked up into it, it’s likely you’d get an eyeful and a mouthful. For local snow lovers like us, it’s what we wait for. I even call our friends downstate with a “snow report,” which, in reality, is a test to see if they’ve gotten as much as we have. So today, winter settled in with a smile full of fluffy whiteness that blanketed us in the most cozy of ways.

Later in the afternoon, as I was driving to pick up my son, Rowan, from school, the snowy roads caused traffic to be at a standstill. I had left my cell phone at home, so I couldn’t do any “checking in.” I wasn’t really in the mood to listen to music, so I found myself daydreaming in the Traverse City gridlock.

I kept remembering a time, in the middle of one snowy night, when I drove my Jeep off the road. On this night, the ice on the road was thick enough to ice skate on – literally (and yes, I have done this before in our lovely state). I was a high-schooler driving around with friends and thinking it might be cool to hot-dog it up a bit. As soon as I hit the gas, the Jeep started sliding. After three full rotations (thankfully on an isolated road) we landed in a cornfield. “No problem,” I thought. “After all, this is a JEEP.” Then I opened the door and stepped out into snow that was well above my waist. “Uh oh. Looks like I need to call DAD.”

My Dad is a tough Swede. Following in the footsteps of my sister and brother – my parents were pretty much immune to any antics that I might dream up. I made the call and heard my Dad’s sleepy hello. I started to explain that I was buried up to my axles in a cornfield, and I’ll never forget his response: “Dig yourself out.” Followed by a “click” of the phone hanging up.

So in today’s winter wonderland, I found myself thinking about “digging myself out,” and how in reality it’s more important to “dig others out.” Living up north for the past 12 years, we’ve had many opportunities to help stranded motorists. I remember one in particular on Rowan’s second birthday. Driving down Front Street, we saw a well-dressed man standing next to a shiny compact car, buried in a snow bank. We were passing right by him, and it was obvious my husband, Doug, was planning to keep on going, when I said a little too loud, “We need to stop and help him!” “We don’t have a tow rope,” Doug said. “Pull over,” I said.

We left Rowan in a warm-and-running car while we got on our hands and knees and dug the visiting businessman out of the snow bank that his compact had landed in. When we got back in, I realized the importance of our actions when Rowan started asking us questions about helping others in his own kid-speak language.

Fast-forward to today. For some reason, the words “dig others out” kept circling in my mind. “Wonder if we’ll have the chance to help someone today?” I thought to myself.

Just after I picked up Rowan, my question was answered. A man had veered off the road in his Nissan pickup and was buried up to his axles, trying desperately to place cardboard under his tires for traction to get out – on his own. I pulled over. And so did another woman. We realized that we might be able to push him, but we were two dressed-up moms and one guy in a busy four-lane intersection. What we needed was a tow. I looked around and spotted a car with two young men in the front. I tapped on the window and asked, “Could you please help us with a tow?” “Sorry. We’re headed to help someone else out,” they said.

Seriously.

I looked at my Subaru Outback wagon, and back at the man who was busily attaching a towrope, and thought, “What the heck? Let’s give it a try.”

I pulled that man out of the snowbank (with Rowan once again watching over the scene from the back seat of a warm car). I jumped out and gave a whoop! And without hesitating, walked right over to the man (who was obviously shaken from the whole incident) and gave him a big bear hug.

Pulling him out was a lot easier than I thought it would be. I guess that’s the way I feel about most challenging situations. They can seem almost insurmountable – especially when others refuse to help. But just put your head down, tap into your inner strength and surround yourself with people who want to help, and good things happen.

Needless to say, I’ve added a towrope to my Christmas list. Just in case I need to help

dig someone else out.

The Power of Touch

2010-10-10T13:48:00.000-07:00

Today I had the pleasure of visiting with one of my favorite new people who also happens to be a Shiatsu guru. I'm a firm believer in massage and when a friend gave me a gift certificate to try Shiatsu, although I was ignorant about exactly what it was, I was never the less enthusiastic. So, this morning, after my third visit, I was compelled to send this note to all of you who are near and dear to me, as a reminder of: the power of touch.

Kauai from the sky

According to the "guru" the Chinese believe that autumn is a time of "letting go." For some people this translates into a mix of emotions (grief, love, excitement, etc.) while for others, it is just an overall feeling of discomfort. The last two days of Northern Michigan weather were a brilliant reminder of this transition as Mother Nature's winds whipped up to 75 miles-per-hour in some areas, all-the-while stripping the trees of their autumn glow.

Thinking about the change of the seasons, reminded me of how important it is that we touch one another. Not just during times of transition - but whenever and however we can. Whether it's gently holding the hand of a new friend, or heartily embracing a loved one, reaching out to others is a powerful and magical thing. Even the seals understand...

A while ago, on a beach-walk with a dear friend in Kauai, we came across two monk seals playing in the surf. The two were rolling over, and over, in the surf locked in a gentle and playful embrace. We stayed still and watched them for several moments and I remember being struck by their expression of happiness. They were ecstatic just hugging one another.

Fast-forward to two days ago, when I visited a rest home with my son to seek out a "friend" he had met during a class trip. While we weren't sure we found the exact person he had met, we did spend time with two other lovely ladies. They didn't know us, and were quite confused about their own surroundings, but at some point in our conversation, I reached out and touched each one on the arm. Time stopped as I held my hand there - letting them know that I cared.

Thank you for letting me reach out to "touch" you in my own way today. You are all loved.

The Little Caterpillar Who Could

2010-08-01T13:34:00.000-07:00

Rowan and Doc

The day we brought the monarch caterpillar that Rowan named “Doc” home in a zip-lock plastic baggie, I was filled with both intrigue and dread. As a child, I couldn’t ever remember capturing one of these sproingy, beautiful green guys and the thought of caring for him was daunting. Especially given that our experience trying to “hatch” tadpoles just one month earlier had resulted in the demise of one small froglet.

The friends who we “adopted” Doc from had plastic baggies hanging all over their house with caterpillars in every stage of development. As Lynn shared what we should watch for and how we should care for this tiny creature, the kids bounced around sing-songing facts about the wiggly guys, and how their transformation happens.

So, we drove home, with Doc in a zip lock baggie hoping for the best. Yet I couldn’t shake the bad feeling in my belly and the thought that I might have to have another “circle of life” conversation with Rowan was enough to make me sick.

As with life, Doc’s transformation didn’t go according to plan. Our friends assured us that he would begin chomping away on the milkweed leaves in the bag and when he started pooping a lot, he would attach to the side of the bag, at which time we would cut the bag away and hang him somewhere.

Doc chomped and chewed and when he started pooping more than most humans I know, we watched him with intensity. After returning home from a quick trip, we checked in on Doc only to find that he had in fact, become a chrysalis but he had not attached himself to the side of the bag.

Here comes that sick feeling again. I got on the phone and left a message for our friends – asking for their guidance on what we should do next. Doug wasn’t going to be home for several hours, which increased my anxiety as I had a feeling that we would need to take some action to help Doc survive. It was up to me. So, remaining calm (on the surface), I did what most people would: I Googled it.

Instead of focusing on Doc’s demise, I turned our dilemma into a challenge…propelling us forward by digging in. I recently realized that when I am under stress, nobody knows it. That’s not to say that Rowan was unaware, it’s just that when push comes to shove, I can channel all that fear into focused action and ultimately, results.

I found out quickly that in order for Doc’s wings to develop properly, he had to hang upside down. So, the fragile, beautiful green chrysalis needed to be hoisted and hung. “Great,” I thought out loud. Dealing with fragile and intricate details aren’t my forte. Doug and Rowan both know the kind of tense concentration it takes just to paint my own nails!

“Okay, okay, okay…” I kept repeating. And then, as most of the women in my family do, I began to talk through what we should do, out loud. “What we need to do is tie a string to the top of Doc and hang him.” “Hey! Here’s an old butter container, and here’s some string…”

Moving through the murky waters, trying to remain calm, all the while sweating the details. I was a nervous mess. In the end, with great care, I managed to rig Doc up to the inside lid of an old butter container and I even cut a hole so we could see his “progress.” By now I should mention that I was one hundred percent convinced that Doc would perish. If he hadn’t already crossed over, the trauma of my attempt to handle him “delicately” surely killed the poor guy.

So, for the next eight days, we watched as Doc’s home turned a variety of colors. All the while, with Rowan assuring us that “it was completely normal development” and that he had “researched it in school.”

Daily and most nights my thoughts would drift to Doc. “At what point is he going to get moldy and I’m going to have to have “the conversation?” I kept thinking. One night, before we drifted off to sleep, I shared my worry with Doug. “I am SO worried about Doc. I just cannot bear the thought of having another “circle of life” conversation with Rowan. After all, we did just kill a tadpole…” My husband, possibly one of the kindest, most patient people I know responded sleepily…”I know, honey. But let’s just wait and see.”

By now you know a few key things about me:

1) I rarely ever let “them” see me sweat.

2) Intricate details (like clasping my own bracelet or painting my nails) are not my strong suit.

3) Thankfully I married a patient man because I have little to none of my own.

So, we waited and we watched. And one Friday morning, Doc had turned completely black. My heart sank when I saw him. “Oh my gosh, he’s died and now he’s getting MOLDY!” I thought just as Rowan padded over for his early-morning check of the winged one. “Mom, he looks like he’s about to hatch,” he said. “What??? My head said. HATCH? That guy is as moldy as the bread we just composted…” Rowan continued, “Yep, Mom, it should happen any time.”

We continued with our morning routine and right before we left the house for the day, we checked on Doc once more. Peeking through the door on the makeshift butter container, dangling from the bottom of a blackened chrysalis was a beautiful monarch butterfly! Doc had hatched and he was extraordinary. Slowly, he stretched his wings and unfurled himself. It was a Friday after an extra-long week and in my mind, it was a miraculous sign. The little caterpillar that could…did.

Doc needed to be released. And we were going to be gone all day. So, we packed up the butter container with the butterfly who beat the odds and drove him to school – to share him with Rowan’s friends.

Such is the story of a wiggly, squiggly worm that I thought was done for. The irony of the entire situation was not lost on me. So many times, I have wondered, “how am I going to accomplish this task?” only to find out that deep within me, like every one else, there is a reservoir of strength and will to survive. And to think, all started with one little caterpillar.

Stop to Smell the Serendipity

2010-05-10T15:21:00.000-07:00

Rowan stops to "smell"
the strawberries

This has been a week full of challenges and ironies. The best part about all of it is not that it is over, but that I was present enough, to actually recognize each blessed moment. That’s not to say I was blissed-out all week, just that my heart felt connected in a way that made me want to sing and cry all at the same time – I felt overloaded with feelings. Brimming with happiness, at the same time drowning in an ocean of tears.

So I write this morning, on the brink of a wonderful celebration at Rowan’s school “the Dance of the Cosmos” where once a year we are reminded of our connectivity to each other and to the Universe. Each graduating child chooses a planet, comet or asteroid that they would like to be, and they actually perform a dance of sorts, moving around one another in planetary fashion. The twins Michael and Sara are the Sun and Moon, Rowan Schultz is the comet “Wild2” – the perfect fit for my wonderful, wild child.

The fact that this week is culminating with such a celebration is ironic perfection. At the beginning of the week, we attended a smaller celebration for Rowan’s graduation and during this time, each teacher speaks about each child who is “moving up.” One of the teacher’s was having a very difficult time – not just because of the bittersweet goodbye that she was making – but it was obvious to me that she suffers from a fear of public speaking. As I watched her shake (yes, you could literally see her shaking) my heart went out to her and I whispered to my husband “someone needs to get up there and hold her hand,” feeling very much compelled to do it myself. Not two seconds later, the teacher remarked aloud “I really need someone to come up here and hold my hand…” Doug and I were both shocked and covered in goose bumps. There was no way she could have heard me but it is obvious that she felt me.

So, that’s the way the week started and I should have known that it would be special but instead I dismissed the moment and kept moving. Which is what I think we all do more often than not. The weird thing is, the moments kept happening. Mid week I found myself having coffee with a friend (after struggling through a busy morning and running late). We thought sitting outside the café would be nice but the construction across the street made it difficult for us to hear without screaming at one another. I suggested we move to a quieter place up the street, and when I spied a bench along Front Street in the sun, it called my name. I really needed to sit in the sun – and she agreed so we did.

I was helping my friend (who had recently decided to pursue her passion of photography full-time) with connections to people who might use her services, or be able to refer or help her in some way. About an hour into our discussion, she mentioned that she would like to do some travel photography and I immediately thought of a person who does that kind of work, and is a kind-gentle soul, who could guide her. I said, “You know who you should talk to is my friend so-and-so.” I spoke the words and as soon as I did, I noticed a person on the other side of the street at the cross walk – yep, you guessed it: it was my friend Mr. So and So. Again, I was astounded. Literally – I said, “Oh My Gosh – there he is!”

We laughed, I made the introduction, and we both agreed that when you are working from your heart, the Universe has a way of providing. But for me, this week, it went deeper than that. The “ironies” were literally starting to pile up and each time, I recognized the moment but passively dismissed it and kept moving.

Yesterday, I tuned into a friend of mine on the radio and she happened to be speaking with an author who just wrote a fictional book about forgiveness. Although I only caught the show for five minutes, his words touched me deeply. So much so, that when the radio host offered a signed copy of his book “to the first caller” I started dialing. People who are close to me know that I never enter contests and certainly not radio contests. I think this comes from my former life when I was responsible for developing campaigns and contests to woo listeners to the most popular stations in New York, Chicago and LA – in that role, we were never allowed to enter a contest. So all this has carried over into a feeling that because I am “in the business” I should disqualify myself from drawings. Ask anyone who has attended an event with me and they will confirm my refusal to “enter to win.”

So, I called and a feeling of happiness came over me because I knew in my heart I was going to win the book. And I did. The irony doesn’t end there however, because I needed a book for my staycation that I had planned (Mom’s mental health weekend away at the beach) for this Friday (today).

So, I finally stopped moving. And let it all sink in. And I started typing (right after picking up my new book) with the hope that sharing some of my personal ironies and serendipities might spark something in your reality too. And that you might take a moment to pause and reflect on these blessed “coincidences” and remember that each one is absolutely meant to be.

Big Wheelie

2010-04-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

Yep, that's me at age three

It all started when I was three years old and was liberated by a Big Wheel I received for my birthday. The youngest of three children living in a suburb of Grand Rapids, Michigan, our home was nestled among a lot of similar-looking houses.

It didn’t matter to me that my brand new Big Wheel wasn’t the girls’ version – my ride sported primary colors and bright-spangled handle decorations instead of a softer, pastel palette. For me, it was love at first ride, and as soon as my feet touched the pedals, I was in motion.

My mission (although I was unaware of it at the time) was simple: to connect with people. It’s hard to put into words the overpowering desire I felt to spend time meeting and learning about other people’s lives and experiences at such a young age. My mom likes to tell how I would be gone for hours and she would have no idea where I was only to hear later from elderly neighbors “how great it was to spend time having tea and toast with Juliette this morning.”

I was and continue to be fascinated by people. Back then, one neighbor in particular was my favorite. He was confined to a wheelchair, with an ever-present blanket on his lap, and an unending supply of circus peanuts. It never occurred to me to ask him about his handicap – I was just a kid willing to push him around the neighborhood – which to him was probably better than any conversation we could have had. My mom laughs out loud when she recalls the time she saw me streaking by the front of our house, pushing his wheelchair at mock-speed, his blanket flying in the wind. He was having just as much fun as I was, and we laughed all the way around the block.

My tastes have changed, but my fascination with people has never waned. So it seemed a natural fit when I decided to pursue a journalism degree with the thought that I might someday grace the airwaves of 60 Minutes and lead scathing interviews with world leaders. I liked being on the “asking end” and I was becoming particularly good at using my hypersensitive intuition to read people and paint a portrait of their story in my head.

However, after earning an associate’s degree, it was time for another career decision. Following an interview with the first female president of the university, I had the sense that I had peaked as a journalist and was ready to take on a new challenge. Again, my interest in people led me to pursue a degree in marketing. It excited me to have the opportunity to learn more about the science of consumerism – particularly what makes people buy. A consumer behavior class confirmed I was on the right path.

Continuing to connect with people throughout the course of my career has led to some of the most fulfilling professional and personal relationships I have ever experienced. But it was only after having those “in the trenches” professional experiences that I realized my intuition has also played a large part in my success as a business owner. Following my gut and being unafraid to both listen and speak from the heart is a life lesson I will continue to share for many years to come, and I credit a great deal of this drive to my first big wheelie and the excitement, independence, and connection to others it provided.