Serendipity reigns

It was just weird. Good weird. But weird.

I was moving slowly thanks to my darned toe. Every time I'd try to hurry, the pain would argue strongly against it. So, I found myself packing for San Diego until nearly 1 am. The alarm was set for 4 am. Three short hours of sleep. I gingerly tucked my foot into bed and slumbered.

Got up on time, but departed for the airport 25 minutes later than expected (slow toe again). I was so sleepy that it didn't dawn on me until we reached the terminal that I would need extra time, not less time to get to my gate. And there were lines. I had less than an hour before flight time and I was hobbling!! My husband pushed my suitcase into the Continental area and kissed me goodbye. I race-hobbled to the check in.

Fortunately, Continental had sent me an email allowing me to print my own boarding pass, so it was quick and easy (I must say I am impressed with this airline). I headed for security and the line...was at least 20 minutes long. And that was just the downstairs line. The upstairs line would be longer and slower. Resigned, I started limping toward the end of the line when some kind of a TSA helper came along and said briskly, "Honey, our escalators are broken, you need to get right on that elevator and go upstairs."

Wow. She had just saved me 20 minutes. I glided upstairs and was promptly inserted into the shortest line. Another 20 minutes saved. Wow. I hoisted my carryon bags onto the x-ray conveyor belt, confident that I would make my flight. But I was stopped. The little boot with the Velcro straps protecting my toe was apparently suspicious, so I had to be checked carefully for explosives. I guess that makes sense. A little.

Then I was off to the gate. Which was ALL the way at the end of the terminal. Where was one of those little carts when I needed one? I took a dozen steps and guess what? One of those little carts was sitting there, idle. I begged a ride and was delivered directly in front of the gate, where I was invited to board immediately. Wow.

I moved slowly to my seat, collapsed and slept all the way to Houston, then waited until everyone else was off the plane to hobble out again. My next gate was only two gates from the arrival. Hurray! But no, this plane wasn't going to San Diego. It was bound for Detroit. There had been a gate change. My new gate was two TERMINALS away.

Miracle of miracles, I managed to hitch a ride on the back of yet another electric cart that had stopped for me. Amazing. It took the CART 20 minutes to reach gate E21. I shudder to think of how long it would have taken me on foot. Or toe.

Once again, I was allowed to board along with "Platinum members." I wasn't allowed to sit with them though. I was still relegated to Economy class. But near the front of the plane anyway.

All that was left was the rental car. At SAN, I retrieved my suitcase, hooked everything together and went out into the balmy California sunshine. The Hertz bus was waiting for me! WOW!

We jiggled and joggled over to the Hertz lot, where the driver let us Gold Members out at the Gold Terminal. Everyone else scurried off the bus to find their cars, but I needed a minute to regroup. I stood right where the driver had dropped my bags and looked around to find the parking place slot for my car, "Roggli, Linda: 200:" blinked the Gold Members sign. Where was 200? There was 212, 202, 201. Number 200 was the white car with its trunk open right in front of me! Wow again. This was really getting weird. Good weird, as I said.

It wasn't over yet. I headed for Escondido, to drop off my luggage a the Hidden Valley Artists' Retreat somewhere up in the hills. I had left my directions at home, but no problem: I had my laptop with the email. Or so I thought. My laptop had failed to download that particular email. Hmmm. I would call. No. My cell phone was dead and I had only a wall charger. No car charger. I stopped at a Shell station, already discouraged that the guy would give me the brush off.

But wait. This was a WOW day. The clerk not only helped me find the address on a map, but drew directions for me! WOW.

And even when I got lost (several times) up and down the dirt roads, people helped over and over again. I made it to the retreat center, but had to leave again quickly to make it to my 2 pm appointment--the reason I flew all the way across the country.

I was 25 minutes late. Took the wrong turn on the I-5 and hit rush hour slowdown. My cell phone was dead so I couldn't call. But I walked in the door JUST as the guy was ready to give up on me. Instead, I made the appointment, did what was necessary and sailed out at 4:30. Wow.

Very weird. A totally WOW day from a series of disasters. The charmed life, I think it's called. It rarely happens to me, especially in this weird sequence one-after-another. But I'm not complaining. In fact, I think I'll order up a few more of theses weird-wow days. Pretty cool, eh?

Lessons from my little toe

OK, I know I should have moved the queen-sized inflatable guest bed out of the hall and back into the closet where it lives. But I was just hurrying out of the bathroom (back to my computer - natch) when I hit the door jamb. Hard. Really hard. With the little toe of my left foot.

Ouch.

My husband, a physician, was unimpressed. "Give it 24 hours. It's probably just soft tissue damage. The emergency people would just tell you to take ibuprofen," he said cavalierly. I've heard his subversive medical motto: "FIfty percent of the patients will get better even if you do nothing!" The other half will get worse, I suppose. It was a chance I was willing to take for a day.

But 24 hours later -- 25.5 to be exact -- I pulled into the urgent care parking lot, had my toe x-rayed and found it was broken. Not once, but in TWO places. I felt vindicated and a little smug. I TOLD him I heard that toe crack!

I gloated only for a moment. Then I realized: omigod, I have a Broken Toe. I am leaving for the airport early Friday morning. The airport with looooong hard-surfaced hallways that lead to looooong airline tunnels that lead to narrow airline aisles. My toe and I are not enthused.

But this hobbling gait IS a way to slow me down a bit. I ran into that door full force. I was in a HURRY. As usual. And now. Well, now I'm not. I'm crabbing sideways a little: step, hump, step. It's maddening for someone who likes to get there, get it done, move on to the next thing...

So the lesson is: don't run into door jambs. No, that's not it. Well, that might be it partly. but mostly, it's: Sit down. Pet the dog. Talk to my husband (he apologized for his misdiagnosis). And take my ibuprofen every four hours.

Live like you're dying, especially when you're afraid of heights

Passionate balloon 72 trans
Originally uploaded by PassionatePossibility.

Just returned from France and Switzerland where I had the chance to visit with a a good friend again. The same friend that unknowingly spurred me to buy a hot air balloon earlier this year.

Yes. A HOT AIR BALLOON.

At the time, she had no idea that she had inspired such an unusual purchase. Yet when we met in San Antonio at the end of February, she changed my life. "Hank (name changed for this blog) and I had treated the kids and grandkids to a trip to Hawaii," she said. "And as we sat there enjoying the beauty of Maui, we took a moment to appreciate our good fortune: Hank had just turned 60 and was on the verge of retiring, we were financially stable, our son and daughter were each happily married, we had two wonderful grandsons. Life was good!" Two months later, she was in surgery for advanced ovarian cancer.

She's been battling this unwanted invader ever since, almost two years now. Her CSA-125 is down (that's good), then it's up (not so good). She starts chemo, stops, starts again. This time she may lose her hair again. That, more than anything, is the clear, outward proof that there is something really wrong. And it's disheartening. Although she knows - we all know - that there is something funky going on even without the thinning hair and daily visits to the doctor. Her life has been changed forever. And she's not alone.

Another friend - OK, to be honest we were estranged by the time I found out that she was critically ill with advanced breast cancer - died last fall at age 52. She left behind not only her husband but a five-year-old daughter, their only child. My friend and I were exactly the same age. We graduated from high school the same year, different cities, same baby boom era. I think of her often these days. Our differences seem trivial now. I feel her presence "through the veil" and appreciate the depth of her grief at leaving this life prematurely.

And my former executive coach, who worked with me for four long years, was at the top of her game when she found out the numbness in her legs was multiple sclerosis. Two years later, she walks with a cane and falls a little too often. She struggles with depression and wonders how the heck she can convince the people at disability that she really can't work any more.

My best friend since the seventh grade is a breast cancer survivor. But she has lymphodema. Her left arm is permanently swollen to twice its size. And a paper cut on that hand can send her to the hospital with infection, a threat made more difficult due to her teaching schedule. First-graders use a lot of paper.

Everywhere I turn our fragile human bodies are breaking down, turning against us, reminding us that mortality is inevitable. We don't get out of this alive, after all. It's HOW we live that matters in the end. Because there WILL be an end.

My husband is on intimate terms with the brevity of life. He has cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease that clogs his lungs and digestive system. For a decade and a half I have listened to him work for breath; he takes two breaths to my one. I can gauge how he's doing by the intensity of his cough. He was supposed to die at 12. Then at 20. Then at 30. And now, at 54, he kids me that he is cured, although we both know that each new infection scars his lungs. He has no time to feel sorry for himself; he's too busy living his glorious life. What an inspiration!

And so I decided to live like I was dying. Because I am. My friends are. We ALL are. One of these days will be my last. Who knows what kind of revolt my own body is planning RIGHT NOW, without my knowledge and certainly without my permission? Life is unpredictable. I might not even be here a year from now. But if I die next month, I decided that I will have died owning a hot air balloon!

So I bought one, even though I AM AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!!! Then I bought a big gas guzzling van (not proud of that but how else do you haul around a 500-pound balloon?). I flew to San Antonio, Texas by myself, picked up my red stained glass balloon, which I had already dubbed the Passionate Possibility balloon, and drove 1300 miles alone all the way back to North Carolina (more about that later).

It was an odessey. I was living directly from the heart, chest thrust forward, head tilted back, letting my heart lead instead of my mind. Yeah, there were some bumps. That happens when you lead with your heart. But I wouldn't give anything for the experience of taking that leap of faith. Like Luke Skywalker putting a foot out into thin air and finding a narrow bridge that was hidden until he trusted himself. For me, this adventure has always been more about BUYING the balloon than FLYING it.

Will I go ahead and take flying lessons? Of course I will, fingernails digging into the basket to steady my nerves!

I will FLY, lift off and float into the ether. Fearless and Free. A fitting epitaph for any of us.

And now I listen to Tim McGraw sing about a friend who went through exactly what my friends have endured.
"I spent most of the next days, looking at the x-rays...this might be the real end ... man what d'ya do?"

And the answer is loud, clear and vibrant:
"I went skydiving, I went Rocky Mountain mountain climbing...I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu
I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter and watched the eagle as it was flying...
Someday I hope you get the chance to live like you were dying!"

I refuse to wait until I am face-to-face with death to be fully alive.

Living at full throttle makes my skin tingle, my gaze soften and my heart overflow with absolute love.

Your turn. Wanna fly?