Where does your gaze land? . . . When it’s not on a screen . . . Do you tend to search for a horizon?

I am constantly eying up the path in front of me, feeling the need to navigate.

How funny that my eyesight is starting to wane to a blur right beyond my nose. The drugstore reading glasses are a lovely invitation to more clearly see the richness of my life within the daily transactions while paving my path.

And looking inward, well that can get a bit confusing, like a maze with no marked exit.  Looking inward can quickly shift to looking back.  Peering into life’s rear view mirror can feel like reversing out of your driveway, double checking left to spot the should haves and right to see the could haves.

I have recently been looking up.  Straight up.  This new vantage point is beautifully wide open, even on cloudy days. It’s a welcome break, a clean start.  There is an intense loving energy of sunlight, the promise of space and the free movement of flight against the backdrop of stillness.  

And there are sneakers ~ hundreds of them.  I just started to see them, everywhere.  It’s definitely a city phenomenon.  Hanging from the wires that connect us all, they appear to be left behind and on pedestals for their fine tour of duty. The more sneakers my eyes spot the more I hear their messages:

“Leap!,” they say.
“Forget the horizon. Or the sidewalk down memory lane with all of its cracks. Or even your next step.”
“Try the sky.”
“Feel the freedom of movement without laces”
“Try the path you feel you can’t.”
“Know you aren’t truly held down.”
“Imagine the weight you bare is yours to let go.”

Next time you remove your shoes, let it be a reminder to lighten your step . . .  lift your gaze . . . and find ease in the now.

It was my job.  I would drop off our car at the mechanic’s mechanic.  An unspoken place south of the city where mechanics send the cars they can’t fix.  They pay in cash . . . have to speak Spanish . . . and know the job will get done.  

However beforehand, I am embarking on a weekend Enneagram retreat with my sister to gain insights into myself, expand my sense of possibility and grapple with the meaning of existence on this earth.

It really did deliver.  As much as one can shed new light on oneself in two days, I felt enlightened.

An aside, I love these two definitions offered for enlightened, adj.,: 1) Having or showing a rational, modern, and well-informed outlook. 2) Spiritually aware.

My sister, Jill, and I left the retreat feeling rational, modern, well-informed, and spiritually aware. We were now clear that life was full of abundance ready to show us the way if we were open and insightful enough to receive.

But first we had to cross the highway and then the tracks into what felt like a desolate Mexican town.  It was a sketchy alley.  An empty almost haunted dump yard, with music playing from an unknown source.  Mangled, amped-up, neglected cars packed a concrete back lot.  I was supposed to leave my keys.

I left Jill to fend off the heat and the ghosts of drag racing past and began my cautious search. Eventually I uncovered a back office and called out until an old man surfaced.  With my husband on the phone as a translator we started spelling out the arrangement when I heard in the air . . . bells.  They reminded me of the ice cream man you heard growing up or on the beach, except they were coming from, yes, wait, . . . an ice cream man.

Out of nowhere, a leathered, round face appeared, wearing a hat that wasn’t doing its job; pushing a cart and fast approaching me.  I waved him off in disbelief, guarded and anxious to leave.

When I turned around I saw my sister waving frantically.  I watched her dive head first into the ice cream cart.  I couldn’t believe it.  She was actually buying a popsicle!

I slowly came to her side, studying his pocked face in detail behind the mirrored shades. “Do you have coconut?” I asked.

He pulled out strawberry, lime and chocolate.

“Do you have coconut? I repeated.

He pulled out rice pudding, watermelon, and cherry.

“But what about coconut?” I rephrased.

He pulled out cinnamon, pineapple, and mixed berry.

I settled for pineapple.  Jill paid.  We said thank you.  He grinned and started to push his cart along the concrete quiet into the alley.

Jill quickly backed out of our narrow spot as I held the dollar in change.  We knew we wanted him to have it, so we peered down both directions of the back street, but it was empty.

He had disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

Licking our melting wake up calls on a stick we laughed and got chills.  What part of our weekend learnings needed to be driven home?  The learned quick “no thank you” response when life tries to give us unexpected treats?  The frantic waving for life to see us so we can partake in dessert?  The abundant flavors of life that can be passed up in search of the single answer?  

Stay open.  Receive.  Know you are supported.  Try a taste, even when it's not what you ordered. And be generous with your blessings.

Once in a while you find yourself in a place where space transcends time.  Where minutes lose their grip and space breathes life into your soul.

This summer I was off the grid on a family vacation in Yellowstone.  We started in the town of Big Sky, Montana; a name that sounds redundant.  Aren’t all skies big?... Until you are there.

The expansive sky, prairies, and mountains invite you to feel the grace of space.  Grace . . .  as Webster's defines, the “unmerited divine assistance given to humans for their regeneration.”

Our souls aren’t linear.  They don’t ask for timelines.  They ask for the roundness of space.

It was our first attempt at a big family road trip.  And as predicted, we had a whining backseat with their own requests, “I just want to shop!”, “Geysers give me headaches!”, “When are we going to start having fun?”

Eventually the grace of space seeped in and they opened, softened and blossomed with energy.

Like a small child, our soul can’t put its needs into words. Instead it sometimes shuts down, leaving us with a nondescript heaviness or cries out, leaving us with an aching tightness.

My family experienced the healing that comes from the grace of space.  Now comes the classic post vacation question: How can we continue to create space to tend to our souls in our over-wound, time-based world?

I think it starts with mindfully clearing space in those moments that we do have.  Full attention, single tasking, consciously slowing down, and listening for quiet in the mind or the depth of our breath . . .  our internal space.

If that doesn’t work, take one moment to connect with grace.  Look up at the big sky, feel some grass, smell a flower, listen for a bird, find the roundness of your soul in tonight’s moon.