On a whim I took the kids to a Collective on Monroe. They love the baked oatmeal and the gluten free sandwiches, plus we were really low on groceries and hubby was working. We hadn’t been in a while and it just felt like the right thing to do. Super in the flow. It was unexpectedly crowded for a Saturday at 5:30pm; the sunny, spacious room with the high vaulted glass ceilings and walls made out of chic glass garage doors that all open air to flow in warmer weather was completely full; there was only one unoccupied seat: one of the big cushion chairs by the gas fire place, and no tables at all. I joked we could all squish on the pale upholstered chair, but in reality I knew it wasn’t going to work. So we headed to the backroom, which has darker lighting and an overall less social feel. It's populated with wooden rectangular tables crammed together like desks in a class room for college students and workhololics, executive coffee meetings and freelance writers who carve their wordy craft along side a latte, a dark roast or maybe a pour over light roast from Peru. With it being a Saturday, more of the congregants seemed to be gathered socially, although the joy factor appeared muted, as though everyone ran low on vitamin day, with an overdose on the news. Various congregations of people and individual humans to match the tables; some talked, some gazed at screens. Most held to-go cups, even while drinking in. In spite of or all the serious,  strained faces, my barista was sweet and super nice and he laughed wonderfully when he told me he’d have to charge me an extra dollar for gluten-free and I gave him a hammed up shocked look, just before asking for love, joy and world peace, as I typically do with my orders unless I get the order to shut up from within. Sometimes I think baristas are the over-educated angels of the world.

The kids and I saw one table, with a bleacher-like bench that ran against the wall on one side and a single chair on the open side of the table. The bleacher-bench had abundant room, so all three kids sat there and I sat on the chair across from them. It was awfully cute to see all three like that, but I eventually commandeered a chair from another table after being assured it was unneeded at its original station. My oldest daughter and I had a protracted thumb war that was as yet undecided when the food came, and we never actually finished it, but decided to consider it a shared win. I drank a decaf while the kids noshed on the food, and I ate a few bites. Some days I eat like a 400 pound man and other days I just nibble. I try to listen to my body. While we ate and goofed off, I scanned the place, as I often do, just taking note of the vibe and the people. Our nearest neighbor was a man with headphones in doing some work on a laptop. He seemed immersed in whatever he was up to and took no notice of us that I could discern. He seemed unphased by our relatively robust goofiness. Of course it was all chill and peaceful, but just not the quietest.

The gluten free sandwiches at Collective are accompanied by chips. Usually I have my kids  forego the potato chips because are just really unhealthy and one of the junk foods I think should be saved for extremely rare occasions. Like slightly less rare than the ones on which you’d drink gasoline. It’s not the fat or the salt - it’s something about what happens in how they are cooked that makes them nasty for you. At least I read that somewhere and I stuck. I should look it up again. I feel that even the firmest rules must be flexible if they are not to be broken in damaging ways though, and I try to listen for Spirit above even my own rules. It usually works out. I said, “You guys can go ahead and have the chips today, by the way. Just listen to your bodies and your intuitions, but otherwise, knock yourselves out.” My oldest daughter was visibly elated. “Really?” “Totally,” came my affirmative. It was like a pop in my mind to let them have them. That’s how it felt.

A moment later a loud pop blasted everyone’s ears. It sounded like a gunshot, but it was the sound of my daughter opening the bag of chips. But really it sounded like a gunshot. I just knew it was the chips since I heard the sound and saw my daughter’s facial expression at virtually the same moment. Our neighbor with the glossy white earphones and the laptop did not see her expression, or the abundant pile of chips that had exploded into her lap benignly and jumped from his seat. He looked up and went from startled panic to a jovial grin in a few seconds. “Oh, wow,” he said, looking at me, “I thought it was a gunshot but it’s a unicorn. I’m so relieved.” My daughter immediately said, “I’m so sorry,” as she appraised her lap where the explosion of fried potato slivers had landed, more like oily yellow coins than bullets. ‘Oh that’s okay,” said the man, “I have three kids of my own. And better potato chips than gunshots. You know, these days with the things you hear about…” “Yes, I said, “I am so sorry we scared you and definitely yes, potato chips and unicorns over gunshots. We need more peace and fun and laughter and fewer gunshots, for sure.” He nodded, with a thoughtful, wistful look in his eyes, far off, even. He said, “I’m actually a lawyer.” Now when someone tells me they are a lawyer I often mini-lecture them on how I hope they will be one of the good ones and to stand for integrity. But not with this guy. I could already tell his heart was extremely in the right place. “Thank you for bringing peace to your profession,” I said. I watched him receive that. It was a joy. He continued, “Well, I did work for the old president…not this president though. I don’t know what your politics are, but I assume you don’t approve…” I smiled, “I’m purple.” “My favorite color is purple,” said the man. I didn’t respond directly to his feeler about my opinion on Trump. I love Trump as I seek to love every other person alive the best I can and I think narcissists need to have less attention. It feeds them. Anyone who knows me for five seconds knows I stand for people being respectful, kind and loving - and badass when necessary. I don’t impose my path on anyone else. So instead of talking about about Trump, I told him about my daughter’s friends: How they are diverse in every way (she has friends of many different ethnic/racial/cultural/religious/sexual identities and they are all amazing people, with the normal range of flaws you'd expect from human beings figuring out life just after puberty in a cray-cray world.) I told him how they have petty issues like all teens, but work through them beautifully. I told him I think we just need to wrap our arms around the world with as much love as possible until we can hand the baton over to the next generation. I shared my view on considering myself politically purple:  "We need more synergy of opposites, ya know? We need ideas no one has even thought of up until now...options that aren't on the table yet." He nodded. I asked about his kids. It turns out he was taking either a kid or a stepkid to a Batmitzva in Madison, and just hanging out at the coffee shop til it's over. They're from Milwalkee. He has three kids, mostly older teens. By this time we'd finished our baked oatmeal and our gluten-free sandwiches. My oldest quietly opened the second bag...so intentionally it was actually silent. And I was so proud she didn't even eat the chips. As we got up to head out, the man asked the inevitable: “So why do you wear the unicorn horn? Are you celebrating something?” I answered, “I wear it when I feel like it for love, joy and world peace.”

I love when you just do things you know are right without thinking. That's how it was with the ginger tea. Small decisions are often complicated for me, exactly because I am acutely aware of the butterfly effect and how the tiniest shift of action can hange the course of just about anything. If I'm up in my head too much, I lose faith and put pressure on myself.

When I'm in the flow, I just get to watch myself do things, while experiencing them, and they turn out so brilliantly when its inspired rather than overthought. I don't being undisciplined or irresponsible. I mean practicing the kind of discipline that makes in the moment "right" decisions natural.

I ordered the ginger tea with a confidence that often eludes when it comes to small decisions, and immediately sat down at a small circular table next to a couple who seemed to be working something out rather amicably. Just before I headed out, while looking for my planner, a copy of The Sophia Code cropped up unexpectedly from between my sheets and my plush stuffed turtle. I gave away a copy recently and thought it was my last one. The Sophia Code is after all, my very most favorite book. Being a living transmission, I was not terribly surprised it showed itself at that particular moment. So there I sat or a few moments remember who I am.

I happened to look up and see a little girl, perhaps 7 at the moment, gliding around in her heelies. I smiled. She skated around me in a circle as if the coffee shop were an ice rink and I were that center circle saved for spinning during public skates. I had just posted a link to a beautiful performance by Canadian figure skater Elledj. I used to figure skate competitively, and I haven't watched a full-length program of a figure skater in fifteen years. Watching Elledj was like watching liquid light. And now I was graced with the joy of a girl in pink heelies. "Will you get dizzy if I skate around you?" she asked me. "No, I'll be happy, because it makes me happy to see you happy," I replied. She grinned and kept skating. A while later she came over and struck up a conversation. "Sometimes I do things I think are funny but the grownups don't think it's funny." "Yeah, that happens sometimes," I said. "Especially when grownups are stressed out. Adults sometimes need help remembering how to have fun." The little girl nodded. "That's true." she said. I went on, "Sometimes other people don't laugh at my jokes, but I figure if I laugh at theme its good enough." She replied, "Good point," and went on to tell me this joke about the post office.

"What three words start with p and have a million letters?" I scratched my head feeling pretty out of touch. "The Post Office!" It took me a moment to get it - I'm a little slow at times to get certain types of jokes. Other times I'm the quick witted one and others are slow to get mine.

"What color is the sky?" asked the little girl staring at me intently.  I responded, "All the colors of the rainbow but you can only see blue because of the way the light is filtered." "Which way is down?" I replied, "There is no such thing as down because it's all a matter of perspective." She told me another joke about a hot air balloon that blows up. I reimagined it and said, "How about we go up in the hot air balloon for a really awesome ride instead?" She said that sounded nicer. I asked what her name was and she told me it was Virgina. "But what do go by?" Her dad quieried, having come alongside the girl. "Ginger." I smiled and asked her if she happened to know what type of tea I ordered. She shook her head. "Ginger," I said, smiling. "What do you know?"

Later, after Ginger and her dad left, the man from the couple seated next to me asked if I was now considering getting myself a pair of heelies. "I'm seriously considering it," said. "I used to be a figure skater, but good skates are so expensive I basically don't skate anymore." His partner said, "I'm a figure skater too! Well, I used to be." They told me of a good spot to skate and inspired me to be on the lookout for a pair of gently used decent skates. It's so funny. When I posted that video of Elledj, I thought about my younger self, the self who was talented but also unhappy. I honestly don't know how I survived my childhood. But somehow I still skated with soul. I still got to skate with amazing people. I got to skate with my heroes, Ekaterina Gordeeva and Sergi Grinkov, and I got Oksana Baul's lessons in the am sometimes when she had a hangover when she was struggling. But it competition I often blew it under pressure. I got so nervous I just  hurled my body into air and left it. Leaving a body unattended middair is not recommend. The crash when you land sucks, but then you also have to get up instantly, paste a smile on your face and your hurl your body into the air again after pulling off a few interum graceful movements and working up some momentum. Good times. Well, okay, not really.I have so much understanding for my younger self. She is my hero. The amount of pain, pressure and tension she dealt with from multiple fronts is really not what you wish for a kid, but she was super brave and she did it for me. I used to write letters to my future self. I was a trooper and I never quit at life even after I quit skating because of her resilience. She gave me me. And in her honor, I decided, maybe just may I should try skating happy. I can't think of a better tribute to the kid who didn't give up, for me.

When I get an intuition to leave my cell phone home I'm often in for a treat. A spiritual lesson kind of treat. My husband took me on a date to a Cafe in downtown Madison. The food was savory, the foam on my hot chocolate was impeccable, we talked about our experiences with skiing as teenagers and we had a good time. When we were ready to depart, my sweet man offered to get the car and come pick me up so I wouldn't have to walk in the cold. Chivalry is not dead. I get cold really easily. I was so grateful. I stood for the first elongated stetch of time happily by the window, confidently awaiting my knight in shining armor. I smiled at a few strangers who liked either my vibes or my hat or both. I was wearing the yoda one. I'm so glad The Last Jedi brought yoda back into the mix. There was a stretch of time about five years when I'd mention Yoda in conversation and people would be like, "Who?" Oh yeah, that was from a while ago," and they'd scratch their head and marvel that I was still hanging onto flared jeans or insisting on using a type writer. Of course according to one buddhist scholar  insists that Yoda is based on Tsenzhab Serkong Rinpoche, a gentle-humored monk who was a debate partner of the Dalai Lama. I first heard this from my buddhist monastic friend Ngawang Thekchen, and then I looked it up and found the link above.

Being without my phone, looking up Star Wars lore was off the docket. So I felt my feet and silently chanted a mantra as I continued to wait, well beyond how long it takes a healthy person to reach the garage, clearly visible from the eatery, turn on the vehicle, pay for parking and exit the garage, drive around the capitol and arrive for the lady in waiting, in this case, me. I was pretty happy for a while. I know my feels peaceful taking a slower pace. And then the waiting exceeded all reasonable amounts of time to wait for someone. I didn't have a watch and there was no clock visible, but let me tell, you I started to wonder if he even existed, of I'd always just been alone, and if he was ever coming back. I hypothesized he might have collapsed unexpected in the brutal cold from walking pneumonia or who knows what. I imagined having to troll downtown in -1 wintry weather  asking strangers if for a ride home until I met a caring soul willing to help out a woman with no license, credit cards or cell phone here with which to pay fo a cab or verify her identity. Then I imagined calling all the local hospitals to see if my husband had been admitted or if he had simply vanished. For a split second I even wondered if he'd unexpected abandoned me, but the date was good and we have three kids together, so it seemed more unlikely than an elephant walking in through the door of the eatery and ordering a latte with coconut milk. I went back to my mantra, noticing my worry, sensing deep down that nothing was wrong, that all was well. And yet, I kept bending forward and sweeping the street with my gaze and no sign of my husband pulling up in our well-loved Prius. I could keep writing that more time passed and then still more time until you stopped reading. Finally, I felt a nudge to open the coverless copy of The Sophy Code I had with me. I'd left it in the car and my sweet man had brought it in for me perhaps an hour or so ago when he moved the car from the 25 minute parking spot we'd scored in front of brunch place to the garage a block away. I flipped open the book and immediately "Angel of Trust" popped out at me. I breathed a sight of relief. I knew I was cared for even during this little test of faith. The section continued on, informing me that it was time to forgive myself for lifetimes in which I choose fearful thoughts instead of listening to the guidance of my higher self. It further let me know that fear was being sucked out of my medulla oblongata, allowing my mind to be filled with loving light. Or something. I stopped at the end of the paragraph, affirmed my intention to absorb the lesson and thought, almost loud enough to hear, "I bet here comes the Prius." I looked up and to the left and without a doubt, a red Prius was cruising straight for my location. As it came closer I immediately recognized the license plate: ours. And I saw the smiling, kind face of the man I love and adore looking out at me from behind the steering wheel. He pulled right up in front.

My partner had simply gotten stuck behind a car that required special assistance at the garage gate. Since his pace is slower than mine by nature, he had felt peaceful waiting. No biggie. For me, I got a lesson in the Angel of Trust.