Howdy, partner

Another dating prospect. He asks in written form, "What is the one dream in your life you most look forward to coming true?" Ha. An easy one.

"I'm focused on two right now," I respond. "Getting my book written and published. And traveling around Europe."

I throw the same question back to him. His response?

"Finding my loving partner."

Ouch. Now what does it say about me that that answer didn't even occur to me?

Hmmmm. I think it says that I have things I'm excited about in my life and that it is important to me to be accomplished and see more of the world. A loving partner would potentially make all of that much more enjoyable or meaningful, perhaps.

Or maybe it means I'm so freakin' independent that I need to occasionally sit up and pay attention to all the beautiful men out there.

Yep. It's probably a little of both.

Big, Big Love

I have watched a lot of television in my day, but never have I said "What the f--k" so many times in the span of an hour as when I watch Big Love. What in the world is going on in Utah?

That show, especially the last few weeks, is riveting. You think The Sopranos was violent and scheming and immoral? Try this series depicting life as a Mormon on for size.

Tonight's episode posed some striking juxtaposition, as Bill Paxton's character (a polygamist with three wives, for those not in the loop) tells his 16-year-old son to stop having sex because his body is his temple. The next thing we see is Daddy Dearest get spurned in bed by one wife, only to move to another nearby residence for some serious action with his third wife. She worshipped at his temple, all right.

This is great television. But religion?

What the f--k.

Wings

I have spoken to two people in the last 48 hours who are following their bliss. I am drawn to these stories like a bee to honey.

One young woman is quitting her job to travel with her grandmother for a month in Vietnam and then going to India on her own. Then, who knows? She is in her 20s and knows what she wants and she believes in going after it.

Another is an older man who has always lived on the East Coast. He and his wife are moving to Oregon to begin anew in a different kind of urban setting. There are wonderful adventures awaiting them in close proximity -- Canada, California, etc.

These feel organic and right. It is more the norm in our society to stay in the ho-hum job or place and just exist and that makes me crazy. It's such an unnatural choice. Their choices are courageous.

The honey tastes so good.

Perfect choreography

A day of being in The Universal Flow:

I go to the laundromat with my clothes early in the morning. While they wash I go to a cafe for some breakfast and journal writing. I go back to the laundromat and call my sister. She is heading to her manicure appointment. She'll call me back in an hour, she says.

I go home, grab dirty sheets and towels and take my sweaty self back out in the humidity to the laundromat. As I'm leaving my apartment, the exterminator comes for his monthly maintenance appointment. Extraordinary timing. I finally get back to the laundromat and decide to read until my sister calls back.

I am reading Writing The Breakout Novel by Donald Maass, specifically the chapter called "Contemporary Plot Techniques." And so I come across this: A ... form of the character-driven plot is the journey of self-discovery ... [it] is like the hero's journey, except the prize to be won is not an object that will save the world but a transformation that will save one soul. Alas, I now have the answer when someone asks what kind of fiction I'm writing.

While I am reveling in this, my sister calls back. We chat. She leaves for the mall. I bring my clothes home.

I begin writing a synopsis of my book, delightfully implementing some of the things I've read and excited that I feel like I read the exact thing I needed at the exact time I needed it. Meanwhile, my sister is out shopping to her heart's content.

Hours later, I take a break from writing. My sister calls. She has just had a shopping trip where almost every store she visited held some kind of pleasant surprise. She wonders if she manifested it. I tell her she is in The Universal Flow.

Me, too.

My magic desk

I have the kind of joy that can only come from a writing deadline and a great spot in my home at which to meet it. I never would have thought a desk could make such a difference in how I feel about working at home, but it is a transformative thing.

And to think, I manifested this desk. Yes, you read that right. I willed this piece of furniture into my apartment.

Back in February or so, I decided that the sweet wicker desk I bought some 20 years ago was ready to be retired. Not only had it seen better days, it was small and not so easy to work on. So I carefully measured the spot -- height, width, length -- and started carrying the measurements around in my Filofax.

I went to Staples, Target, The Container Store and any number of other stores in Manhattan to see what was out there and what fit in my budget. Several months into the process, I found out we were getting new desks at my "day" job. I asked what would be done with the "old" desks and, long story short, my boss gave me one.

Now let me tell you, this is a real desk. It is a large, tinted piece of glass sitting atop a black architectural stand of sorts. I don't think I can do it justice here, but it's fabulous and practical.

As a former sports writer who got used to writing in little gymnasiums and raucous arenas, I know I can write anywhere. It's in my blood. But this desk, which faces a window that looks at a church with lovely stained glass windows, beckons me to it. My book wants to be written here.

I manifested a desk and I'm darned proud of it.

Oh, the places we'll go

More on the dating prospect from an earlier post (See 'Masks, champagne, fireworks' from July 24).

It seems not only was I not exuberant enough about Halloween, New Year's Eve and Fourth of July, my not-so-enthused response to "How do you feel about Hershey and Disney?" didn't go over well either. I said I really couldn't imagine revolving a whole vacation around an amusement park, but I do believe one has to compromise in a relationship. So, as long as Italy, Spain and France were in the mix, too, I could live with that. He promptly closed the connection.

Now, in my original post, I thought The Universe was possibly telling me to open up to more fun in my life. That may well be true but I don't think that was the big picture message. It's more about not abandoning who I am and what I enjoy. Compromise is good, but really, can I imagine spending any of my hard-earned money on a contrived theme park when there are places like Tuscany awaiting me?

Uh, no.

This man was strong enough in his sense of self to put out there some things that were really important to him, things that said a lot about how he sees life. That's admirable. I can learn from that.

H-e double toothpicks

A co-worker told me a story today about his recent trip back to France. He was sitting next to an evangelical Christian on the plane, who proceeded to explain that in order to go to Heaven one must accept Jesus Christ as his savior.

So my co-worker posed some hypotheticals.

"Suppose I am a devout Muslim who worships peacefully?"

"Hell."

"What about someone who has grown up deep in the Amazon and has had no exposure to Jesus Christ?"

"Hell."

"What about ... ?"

"Hell."

"And suppose ... ?"

"Hell."

And there you have it. One interpretation of Jesus' message.

Masks, champagne, fireworks

Another dating prospect. He seems fun and deep, a winning combination. And then he asks the question that stops me short: What do you think of Halloween, New Year's Eve and the Fourth of July?

Oh God. How is it possible that he has mentioned three things that, if I answer honestly (and, well, that's the idea), I will look like a major stick in the mud? Halloween? Keep it. New Year's Eve? Ideally me, a great guy, a fireplace. Fourth of July? I turned away invitations and chilled out and loved having the day off. Didn't witness a single firework.

So this brings me to The Universe. What is the message here? I need more fun in my life, perhaps? Maybe it's supposed to test my openness, my willingness to compromise. I am intrigued. I like a man who knows who he is and finds a unique way to express it.

I am intrigued. We shall see.

In the stars

I'm one of those people who gets a kick out of horoscopes. I was reading my 2007 forecast back in January and I really liked what it had to say. It occurred to me I could look at this less as a prediction of the year ahead and more as a blueprint. Why not make it happen?

I decided it was time to check in. Here are some of the highlights:

CAPRICORN - (December 22nd - January 20th)

Life in 2007: Intimate relationships assume a serious tone for the first eight months of the year. Learning how to share your time, resources, and energy will be something of a struggle, but the results will be well worth it. If you're not in a relationship, you may have to break down some old defenses as a means to get close to someone special. Struggling with debt? 2007 presents a golden opportunity to get out of it, provided you're willing to make serious sacrifices from January through August. After September 2nd, you'll be able to wipe the slate clean. Financial independence will give you a new lease on life. (Note: Every word of this has come true already.)

Love in 2007: Certain fantasies you've harbored about love will be slowly chipped away during the first eight months of the year. A more realistic picture will emerge by September 2nd, allowing you to push aside disappointments that have held you back from enjoying a healthy, trusting relationship with the one you love. If you're single, you could meet someone special in the final four months of the year. Your powers of attraction will be especially strong starting December 18th, and will continue to build all the way through January 2009! (Note: Obviously much of this remains to be seen, but so far, so good.)

Loot in 2007: The more creative you are, the more money you'll make this year. This has been an ongoing trend for the past several years ... it behooves you to develop your artistic side this year ... and if this possibility seems unlikely, it's probably because you're not mixing with the right people. Join an artists' guild or take a creative workshop, if only as a means to network. (Note: Well, duh, I'm turning a corner on my book and I'm going to a writing workshop in September.)

Fascinating, I think.

Born to write

If I am indeed giving birth to a book, it feels like I have entered my second trimester. Not in the literal sense of months, but in a way that feels like I've embarked upon a new phase of its development.

Shortly after gleefully signing up for a writing workshop in September designed to whip my manuscript into shape, I received a welcome email with my "homework" -- the first 50 pages of my manuscript, a two-page synopsis, yada, yada, yada. None of this fazed me too much until I saw the deadline -- August 1! Say what?

But then, as is my M.O., within 24 hours I realized this is exactly right. I spent nearly 15 years as a daily, deadline-meeting journalist and I thrive on this kind of pressure. Yeeha. I have been asking The Universe to give my motivation a jolt, to send me a big dose of accountability, and it's been delivered to my front door.

I was just watching The Next Food Network Star and something Bobby Flay said was just wonderful. It was something to the effect that, to this day, every time he hears the countdown to camera go "5-4-3-2 ..." he still has fear and he knows it's because of his passion for what he's doing.

I am feeling the best possible kind of fear.

Choosing my religion

I was talking to a spiritually like-minded friend last night about the realization that even those of us who believe we manifest our lives and that there is a Universal Flow are choosing to believe it. Is there one Universal Truth? Hmmmm. All of this wisdom hashed out over a bowl of guacamole and chips. The topic reminded me of a conversation I had with my mother not too long ago.

"I think the world would be a better place if everyone understood that their religion is something they've chosen to believe," I said. She disagreed vehemently. And here I thought this was one of those obvious -- OK, maybe even profound -- insights.

I have in my life folks who are Catholics, born-again Christians, Protestants of different stripes, Jews and atheists. And I have a bunch of friends and acquaintances who borrow from a little of this and a little of that. Maybe the idea is that we are all finding a way to God and/or spirit (or not) that is right for us. And maybe for some people it's a Bible and for others it's a yoga mat.

Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who sees how obvious and simple it all is.

My vibrant town

I couldn't resist sitting outside at a waterfront restaurant and ordering some lunch today. It was one of those perfect weather days. At the next table were three women, ranging from about 50 to 60, and a guy, maybe 25 years old. Their conversation was so lively that eavesdropping came naturally.

After telling lots of stories around the table, the topic turned to Hoboken. The guy, apparently a Hoboken resident, was pointing out all the great features of the waterfront to his mother and her friends. Then one of the women said, "I thought about moving to Hoboken at one time, but then I realized the average age was about 32 and I thought, who will I talk to about psoriasis and arthritis?"

Oh my God. It hit me on a whole different level why Hoboken was a natural place for me to settle in. The median age is, in fact, about 34 and I have been asked on a few occasions how I can stand it. I find it delightful. Who the heck wants to talk about psoriasis and arthritis?

One of my dear friends recently marveled at the fact that I skip over the health articles in magazines and have little desire to obsess over them like most of the over-40 women she knows. I feel there are too many things in life I'd rather be doing than reading information I may never need. If a symptom presents itself, I deal with it. Simple.

Hoboken fits nicely into that way of being. How cool is it that I manifested a young and vibrant town before I really understood why it was such a good match?

Good work by me.

Great expectations

A co-worker at my "day" job got me thinking today. He was going into the conference room to get a cup of coffee and stopped to ask, "Would you like one?" I nodded eagerly, "Lots of milk, please."

When he returned with the coffee, I thanked him profusely and told him he was my favorite person in the world right at that moment. We both laughed. He left the room.

A moment later he came back and said, "You know, let me tell you something about men. Expect more. Don't let them think a cup of coffee is all it takes."

This set me back on my heels for a moment. Then it was like the brilliance of it washed over me in an instant. I replied, "You know, that's very true." It kept working its way into my brain and I realized this was a perfect Florence Scovel Shinn moment. Of course I should expect more!

"You are either heading for lack, or heading for abundance," Shinn, a metaphysician, wrote in The Secret Door To Success (1940). "The man with a rich consciousness and the man with a poor consciousness are not walking on the same mental street."

Shinn's idea is to prepare as if. For example, if you want a new home, she says you should buy furnishings for it as an act of faith.

She wrote: "Someone will say, 'Suppose you haven't money to buy ornaments or a chair?' Then look in shop windows and link with them in thought. Get in their vibration: I sometimes hear people say, 'I don't go into the shops because I can't afford to buy anything.' That is just the reason you should go into the shops. Begin to make friends with the things you desire or acquire."

Of course, this point was also driven home in The Secret. It's about the power of thoughts and words and how they interconnect. Shinn writes, " ... it is so necessary to make your demands aright on the Universal Supply, and ask for what is yours by divine right and under grace in a perfect way."

Never thought a cup of coffee would serve as such a stark reminder.

(Not So) Random

One of the best things about being in The Universal Flow is seeing signs laid out before you like guideposts. This is how I feel about my decision today to register for a week-long writing workshop in September.

I have been writing a book for a while. The manuscript is 200-plus pages and there's a lot of good stuff in it. I tend to write in waves and droughts, so in order to address the droughts I did what I tell my clients to do all the time -- build in some accountability.

Rewind to a "random" day early in the year when a client cancelled and I had to kill some time, so I chose Barnes and Noble in Chelsea and picked up Writer's Digest. There was an ad for a writers' workshop at the Jacob Javits Center in May. A few months later, when it was time for a creative jolt, I remembered the ad and signed up. Let's just say my manuscript got a swift kick in the pants thanks to a fabulous session with someone who specializes in these things.

Over a month later, I did a "random" Internet search and found a workshop taught by the same guy. Only it's a week! And it's an intensive! Did I mention it's at a spa? That I get to indulge my writer self and my prima donna self? That I've been itching to feed my travel bug after a long hiatus?

Is any of this really random? Methinks not. Bring it.

Spiritual confidence

I asked a prospective date if he's spiritual. Here's a sampling of acceptable answers in my world:

A. Yes, I'm a devout ____________ (fill in the blank with just about any denomination)
B. Yes, but I don't consider myself religious
C. No! I think it's all hogwash
D. I would say my spirituality is evolving (Please, oh please, Universe, send me this one!)

The prospective date was silent for a moment, clearly flummoxed by the question. Or maybe the concept. He wasn't sure.

A nice man, perhaps. But no.

The Big 'C'

One of the most common ways for people to challenge those of us who believe that we manifest what happens in our lives is to bring up cancer. How, they ask, can someone manifest that awful disease? Or any disease, for that matter?

I don't pretend to have the answer to that. In fact, the very idea of trying to answer it makes me squirm. However, in some cases, people with the disease seem very clear about its explanation. Not that they deserved it or wanted it, but that it happened to them to make them stronger or more humble or less angry or more appreciative. Or something. And of course the neat and tidy reasons and theories give some of us a sense of -- what? -- order.

Matthew Zachary, who came into my life via a freelance editing job a few months ago, gave my view of cancer, or surviving cancer, a jolt. Matt wrote a jarring piece for his website -- http://www.imtooyoungforthis.org/ -- that is so disturbingly frank about living post-cancer I found myself reading it rather than editing it the first time. His site (he's the founder and executive director of I'm Too Young For This!) was recently nominated as one of Time magazine's best websites of 2007. He then submitted the edited piece called "The Cost of Living: No Cure For Cancer" to The Huffington Post and they accepted it -- http://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-zachary/the-cost-of-living-no-cu_b_56003.html -- and offered him a blogging gig. Just terrific.

Now I must confess I am tempted to explain this away. I know it is over-the-top presumptuous of me to try, but my Susie Sunshine side kicks in and wonders if, in the grand Universal scheme, Matthew Zachary isn't meant to get out a message that needs to be heard in high places. Does this explain his level of suffering or enduring health issues? Who am I to say? Maybe I'm just searching for ... order.

Perhaps it's my mere mortal self reaching for answers and hoping against hope for a silver lining to a very dark cloud.

Self-indulgence

I finished Eat, Love, Pray yesterday and I have been letting it wash over me. I told a friend how marvelous it was and he shared that he had recently spoken to someone with a completely different opinion of it. That person had found it too self-indulgent.

Well, the book is very self-indulgent. And I think that observation goes a long way in explaining people's reactions to it. A person who isn't comfortable going deep into the self and asking tough questions, a person who is not prone to self-examination about their emotional and spiritual makeup, may find this book borderlining on hogwash.

But, of course, I am a life coach and a person on a near constant quest to understand myself and others, so this is the kind of reading that speaks to my core. I found Elizabeth Gilbert's discoveries and insights validating in some cases, illuminating in others. My own journey has made me realize, at least on balance, what's important in life. It was extraordinary to feel a kinship, this same sense of rightness, from reading her book.

Gilbert tells one story of a friend who had abandoned his childhood religion but was not comfortable with the idea of "cherry-picking" a religion. "Which is a sentiment I completely respect except for the fact that I totally disagree," she writes. "I think you have every right to cherry-pick when it comes to moving your spirit and finding peace in God. I think you are free to search for any metaphor whatsoever which will take you across the worldly divide whenever you need to be transported or comforted."

Amen. And thank you.

Clean decision

There is no water in Hoboken right now. There is no flushing toilet, no running water. Zippo. Not in my apartment, not at the gym, not at the cafe where I'm currently sitting.

This is sort of ironic since I was at the gym this morning trying to decide whether to spend the better part of the afternoon cleaning my apartment or writing my book. Well, once I tried to flush to no avail and run my sink water to no avail and call my landlord to no avail, I called the police department and found out there is a water main break in Jersey City. They're working on it. Yikes.

There was a moment of frustration before my smile broke through. I walked to the grocery store, bought two gallons of Poland Springs, and took myself a "European" bath (or whore's bath, in my grandmother's language) -- a sink full of sudsy water, a wash cloth, a bath mat. Easy.

As was the decision about how to spend the afternoon. I can't clean my floors without water. I can't wash my dishes. Even if I dust mop, I can't clean myself thoroughly afterwards. No brainer. Grab the laptop and go indulge your writer self.

She will love, love, love it.

Heavenly

I talk to James almost every day. He's homeless and loves Jesus a lot. He frequently quotes scripture.

This morning we got into a conversation about Heaven as reward. I understand this way of thinking, I just don't particularly agree with it. When I questioned the concept to my mother once about a year ago, she very matter-of-factly asked, "Then what's the point of living a good life?"

Hmmmm. How about for good's sake?

So back to James.

"Little darlin', every day you bring me a banana," he said. "You do it because you're kind. That's what Jesus said will get us into the kingdom of Heaven."

"I understand," I said. "But that's not why I do it."

"You don't want to go to Heaven?" he said, taken aback.

"That's not what I'm saying," I said.

But I realized he wasn't following, so I tried a different route.

"Suppose I found out that you were really a millionaire and the only reason I was giving you a banana every day was because I hoped to be in your will. Doesn't that taint the kindness?"

"I see what you're saying," he said. "But don't you want to go to Heaven?"

I smiled. In my own way, I'm already there.

Meditation by pen

This evening was the first of three writing workshops I'm teaching called, Writing: Luxury or Necessity? I found a great little space in Hoboken to do them. An intimate space that will fit maybe six, but ideally four, participants. I had four people signed up and was psyched.

That's the backstory for what follows here. The first exercise in the workshop is to write stream of consciousness for 10 minutes. Here's what came off my pen:

OK. Why the hell are there three registered people missing from my workshop? What is up with that? Carol is here and I'm going with it. Simple. Zen, baby.

I vowed that this would be perfect no matter what happened as far as numbers, content, timing. I just knew, had confidence that it would be exactly what The Universe wanted it to be. Simple to let it go and let it be. Well, not at first. But there is peace about that attitude.

The space is helpful, too. This ZenTouch studio is cream and minimalist, like a clean palate. The walls, the cover on the futon, the Japanese lanterns. They make room for expression.

Carol is here. She's expressing. I am here. I'm expressing. I am writing and talking about writing and this is what makes me happy. It's so joyful.

Why am I missing three people? In the grand scheme of things, in the belief system where I believe there is a reason, I'd be grasping at straws at this point. A lesson in getting more rigorous in registering participants? A bunch of seemingly unrelated crossed signals that were meant to give Carol some one-on-one nurturing? If the latter is true, how can I not believe this is the perfect outcome? I am out to, as my life coaching tagline says, connect people to their creative core. She will be connected to hers more deeply by the time we leave this cream-colored room. That is my solemn vow.

Terrific. My anxiety has subsided and I am floating a bit. I am a coach and a writer and sometimes they merge and form what I can only describe as my best, most "on" self. I was born to do this.

I was born to do this.

My God or yours?

Yesterday I told my mother I said a prayer.

"To your God or mine?" she retorted.

This has become a familiar dialogue between us, so I laugh. Backstory in a nutshell: She's Catholic. I'm not anymore.

"Mine, of course," I reply.

I think I hear a snort.

"Mine doesn't create people a certain way and then condemn them to hell for being who they are," I add.

Another snort of sorts. She is horrified but holding back.

At least we're past the point where she takes potshots at my belief system without even knowing what it is or asking a single intelligent question about it.

I love her. I respect her staunch position. I don't expect her to embrace my evolving spiritual beliefs.

My God is cool with that.

Plucky

I like to sit by the window in my bedroom with a magnifying mirror and pluck my eyebrows and, well, if you must know, occasionally my upper lip and chin. It's an Italian-American chick thing.

So this afternoon I'm happily plucking when I drop my tweezers between the bed and the wall. There are some bags there with files that I'm looking to store in containers over the next few weeks, but in the meantime, there go the tweezers. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I go on a search through the bags, but they are nowhere to be found.

Now I could write this off as random, except for the fact that a month ago my tweezers fell down the bathroom drain and then a week later my backup pair fell in the same spot by the bed never to be found. So I just bought these dandy new tweezers with little red rubber grips to prevent slippage. Uh huh.

I grit my teeth and leave the bedroom. OK. Three pairs of tweezers in a very short span have vanished. What does this mean? What do tweezers represent? I laugh out loud. They represent plucking, plucking, plucking. Pluck, pluck, pluck. Endless plucking. The pursuit of some sort of twisted version of perfection.

Suddenly it's all clear. Stop the madness. Stop pick-pick-picking. Be kind to yourself. You're too relentless in your pursuit of perfection. Get a grip. Easy does it. Be kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind.

I go back in the bedroom. I pick up a bundle of files. The tweezers sit shining on the floor. Didn't I just look there? I put them in the bathroom cabinet. We both need a rest.

Forgive and forget

Today my sister ran into an old friend of mine. They live in the same suburban New Jersey town. She looks great, was very upbeat, my sister says. Asked about me. Indicated she'd like to talk to me.

I reach into my memory and ask myself why that friendship ended well over a decade ago. Truly, I cannot say because I don't know. We grew apart? Hmmmm. That's too easy, too succinct. I was, and this is not a cliche, a different person then. A more angry, judgmental, closed person, truth be told. Conflict resolution was not one of my strong points.

So, the big question -- why am I manifesting this now? I knew the answer to this almost the minute the words came out of my sister's mouth. The timing is uncanny. The Universe is having a field day with my friendships.

Just last week a more current friend with whom there have been rocky times reminded me that I once called myself a "serial" friend. I told him at the time I wasn't proud of it and that I have been doing my best to change it. In that same conversation last week, he complimented me on my ability to forgive, something he knows has taken a great deal of spiritual work the last few years.

Also this week, just yesterday in fact, I had a hard conversation with a dear friend that I wouldn't have been capable of even a few years ago. It was honest and direct and a little bit scary, but it produced a good result.

There is a lesson in relationships here. At one time I would have been wondering if I could forgive this old friend who did what exactly? I don't even know. Now, instead, I wonder more about her capacity for forgiveness.

Maybe it's time to reach out and find out what the Universe has in store.

Good Books

Here is what Good Books do.

First, they allow themselves to be introduced into your life. One person, then another, then perhaps another, will suggest you pick up a particular title. In my world, this is a sign to at least consider it.

The Good Book knows its next job is to reel you in early. And it does. Most recently for me in the form of Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Sixteen pages. That's all it took for me to leave Borders with it in hand. This annoys and delights me simultaneously, the former because a little voice inside me wants to know why I'm spending money on yet another book and the latter because, well, I adore books.

And so I begin reading Gilbert's words in earnest and the delight continues. This book speaks to my writer, my spirit, my intellect and my reader who just plain wants to be entertained. And then it does what I wish every book I pick up would do. It insinuates itself into my life. It makes me stare longingly at a bench at the Hoboken waterfront, so strong is my desire to get back into Gilbert's world. And then it forces me to look at my watch and decide that, yes, in fact, not a soul in the world would be adversely affected if I plunked myself down for 45 minutes or so and took a little journey to Rome.

I have manifested this. Every last bit of it. I am supposed to be reading this book, supposed to feel the pull across the Atlantic Ocean to Europe, supposed to relate to her spiritual journey in a myriad of ways, supposed to be pushed to write this blog.

A Good Book has brought me here. I am in the Flow.