Amazing, isn’t it, what a simple thing like cleaning your glasses can do for your perspective? Believe it or not, but it can actually be life-changing.

A few days ago a 20-something friend texted me, out of the blue, seeking some help with a relationship issue. Now, texting probably isn’t the best mode for coaching, but I’m always game for new things. What emerged was this: my young friend was deepening a romantic relationship, thinking that quite probably “this is the one.”

Congratulations, I said.

The text that zipped back was filled with angst, though, because my friend was hoping to figure out a way to increase his assurance and self-confidence in the relationship.

Oh, Lord. Don’t we all want that? I’m 30+ years his senior and, if I knew the answers, I’d be rich by now. Of course, coaching’s not about having answers; it’s about asking really good questions. So I wiggled my fingers (for texting), rolled up my sleeves, and began helping my friend dig into what, exactly, was getting in the way of his feeling assured and self confident about the relationship.

What eased out over the next 45 minutes was this: A prior, very important relationship had, well, gone south, leaving my friend floundering and unsure for a while. But as it’s wont to do, life goes on. Soon enough, a new relationship walked through the door, brightening the days and adding enjoyment and meaning.

The sticky part? Like most of us, my friend apparently hadn’t cleaned off the ol’ spectacles before moving into that new relationship.

Think about it. What happens when we don’t clean our lenses? As I discovered today, when I wear glasses that carry the fingerprints and smudges of the past several days or weeks – or months, in some cases – I’m not only NOT seeing clearly, but my perspective is warped. What I see is likely to be inaccurate or, in some cases, even unreal. It was the same thing for my young friend.

The gist of it was this: his ex-girlfriend had said (many times, apparently), “I’m the best thing you’ll ever have.” Now, that’s an opinion, for sure, but it’s far and away the opinion of the person saying it. In fact, it’s more a reflection of her issues and her self-perception than anything real about him. But because that opinion was voiced and re-voiced, reiterated and repeated, somewhere along the way my friend began believing it. She handed him that opinion and he accepted it as his own, eventually codifying it as one of many “Relationship Laws.” But what we decided was this: he doesn’t have to keep that opinion; he’s free to give it back, which is exactly what he’s done.

What my friend finally worked his head around was the fact that there was a ghost in his current relationship – the ex – whose opinion (something he’d accepted and turned into a “law”) had never been subjected to a reality check as this new relationship began to unfold.

I’m happy to say that we busted that one loose – and really, it was my friend’s “light bulb” moment that did it. See, he figuratively took off and cleaned his eyeglasses. When he stuck them back on, he was able to see how his old opinions and beliefs had been coloring and changing his perspective about this new, promising relationship. So instead of angst-ridden worry, he now sees how exciting, real, true, and worthwhile this relationship is. Better yet, it’s a launching a new perspective about self-worth and self-belief. I’m sure it will strengthen him in many other ways, too, because it’s a life-changing perspective switch.

Now, I’m smart enough to know it takes time to repeal a law, but I believe the process is firmly under way for my young friend. His codified statute is being repealed, which is awesome.

Although my friend’s light bulb moment was entirely his, it also generated my own eyeglass aha – albeit a day later. I think we’ve stumbled onto a great metaphor that works well for any relationship – lovers or friends, parents or kids, bosses or employees. Best of all, I don’t think it’s limited to eyeglasses. Try this twist:

Most of us wash dishes and drinking glasses between uses, right? If we pull out a “clean” glass only to discover it still has something left over from the prior use, we rinse it or wash it again don’t we? (OK, most of us do). Well, why wouldn’t we do the same thing for such matters as how we view ourselves, what we take away from past experiences, or how we approach a problem? We have this tendency, like my young friend, to internalize opinions, comments, one-time occurrences, and flukes – codify them as laws – governing how we behave, think, and proceed in life.

So my takeaway from this 45-minute text-based coaching is actually pretty powerful. It tells us we should clean our glasses frequently, challenge the view, and make sure we’re looking at reality, not some distorted, smudgy, unclear version that sucks out the heart of our view.

Not too shabby for text-based coaching, eh?

Today I stand apart. Oh, that doesn’t mean I’m not keenly aware of spiritual matters. The church as an institution has simply slipped a bit on the list of things I respect or revere.

But really, this isn’t about my church affiliation (or lack of). Over the past year, I’ve been studying Positive Psychology via an online university class. I took my final today, and, yes, I’ve learned a lot. (Mostly about how NOT to set up and run online classes, but that’s a whole other story.) In the penultimate module, the assignment set me to excavating, maybe for the first time, pieces of what sent me packing from organized religion.

[Some studies] confirm “that spirituality begins to move people toward being compassionate only when a threshold of involvement in some kind of collective religious activity has been reached, [and] “… evidence now shows that people who embrace a spiritual view of a purposeful life (regardless of whether this view is derived from religion or from philosophy) are more likely to be happy and to find fulfillment …” (Robert Wuthrow, Princeton).

As a coach, I’ve studied transcendence and spirituality in a broader sense than strictly adhering to a specific religious doctrine or faith. I acknowledge that, while many people with strong religious faith and regular church affiliation are incredibly spiritual, others are not. Likewise, many people who have no real religious affiliation are highly spiritual. So it follows, for me at least, that spirituality itself is not found solely within the bounds of religion. That’s why I can’t help but believe it’s a separate entity altogether.

I suppose it’s no surprise, then, that what I actually unfolded was the notion that I hold spirituality to be as separate from religion as church ought to be from state. And while that probably shouldn’t surprise me, I think the stark realization of that concept did.

I fall out here: I think compassion arises from a place of spirituality as we nurture a sense of transcendence, but not from participation in a collective religious activity.  But, because the outlet for compassion is so conveniently served by that collective activity, we mistakenly decide the two are linked by cause and effect. I have been “unchurched” now for four years, and I assure you that my compassion is as high as or higher than when I left behind the world of religious institutions altogether.

Let’s face it, if you’re not churched, the opportunities to extend compassion to the world are somewhat more limited, although I suspect it may be more correct to say that being unchurched requires you to proactively seek them. In a church setting, opportunities abound, paraded before us as recommended outlets. They’re pushed, suggested, and sometimes even expected. It’s easy to attribute good works to religious affiliation and participation, but maybe – just maybe – there’s more to it. Maybe this disconnect can be explained by that easy availability of outlets for our actions. As members, opportunities are plopped into our laps; participation is often a collection plate away; reminders and exhortations are omnipresent.

For unchurched, compassionate people who are nevertheless highly spiritual, those avenues of information and persuasion thin out, although there’s no question that opportunities exist. Always, we have need of compassion. Animals need rescued, food banks stocked, the homeless fed and housed, community built, literacy encouraged.

Compassion, wherever and however it arises, leads us onward, if we choose to follow. When we’re not involved in a collective religious activity, it’s simply up to us to step up and seek our own outlets. I think it follows that the majority of the unchurched are usually out there doing something because it matters a lot, not because it was easily available. After all, it took extra effort to seek out the opportunity to be of service. Not that those who are affiliated are not equally dedicated; many are. I’m just saying that the availability of opportunities skews the results here.

Unfortunately, I think many religious institutions (and some secular, for that matter) allow members the luxury of expressing compassion with minimal actual effort. And when the real sweat equity is missing, I’m not sure spirituality is truly served or that we grow much in humanity.

On the one hand, religion definitely encourages us to focus on spiritual matters and leave materialism behind, yet we’ve all witnessed institutions that cultivate wealthy members as smoothly as, say, a Harvard or Yale cultivates donors. And that creates a disconnect between words and actions – a “do as I say, not as I do” reality – that leaves a lingering aftertaste.

Gregg Easterbrook, in The Progress Paradox (2003), says that spirituality “need not mean participation in a specific religion …. A person who believes the universe is entirely natural in origin could nevertheless be spiritual – attuned to life, grateful to be alive, aware of the web of interconnectedness among fellow human beings.”

I agree. Spirituality is bigger and grander than any one religion, but religion without spirituality is empty. Compassion arises not from affiliation with organized religious activity but from that place of spiritual essence. And that’s not limited to the domain of the world’s houses of worship.

First, I’m late. Then there’s the weather – dreary with bouts of rain. I’m having trouble getting back in the groove after a week on official travel doing absolutely wonderful, meaningful work. And because that wonderful meaningful work is only 20% of my job duties, I’m feeling a bit undervalued in the remaining 80%. The morale of those I interact with is near, if not at, the bottom (like Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell, people appear to be frozen), and I’m finding that it’s beginning to take a toll on me despite my generally optimistic veneer. My email dings and, voila, the annual survey about workplace satisfaction arrives. Oh, my. That doesn’t bode well for them, does it?

I drive home in a funk and, when I get there, fire up the computer and open Facebook. What hits me is this:

“Comparison is the thief of Joy.” ~ Theodore Roosevelt.

And there it is: a Quantum Flirt in the guise of a viral, shared quote so personal to me, today, that I could swear it winked at me. And floating through my mind is a remembered concept, something about highlight reels and outtakes. I launch a mental search engine and finally find it: a tweet from Steven Furtick (founder and lead pastor of Elevation Church in Charlotte, NC): “One reason we struggle w/insecurity: we’re comparing our behind the scenes to everyone else’s highlight reel.”

Yeah. I’ve been doing the comparison thing, and even I know that’s a dangerous activity. Because your highlight reel is just that – YOUR best stuff.  My behind-the-scenes footage, always destined for the cutting room floor, isn’t even meant to compare. Yet I can’t help it. I compare the two and what do I get? A not-so-great Tuesday. You know, I have my own highlight reels that are as unique to me as yours are to you. Neither one is better than the other. They’re just different.

There’s not a one of us who’s a stranger to the seductive, compelling practice of comparison. If we’re not careful, it inexorably slithers its way into our subconscious, where it lies in the shadows and whispers in our ears. It’s not until we surprise it when it ventures out into the daylight – courtesy, perhaps, of a quantum flirt – that we see it for what it is. Until then, it fills our days, our nights, with a vague ennui and an angst we can’t seem to shake.

And that certainly jogs yet another elusive memory. Every day my email delivers a bit of wisdom from Tricycle, the Buddhist magazine and website. I go hunting and what I manage to unearth is some wisdom from writer Christina Feldman, who says comparison arises from conceit. Oh, no. Conceit? Really? But I read on and, you know what? I think her point is valid. Conceit, she says, gives rise to feelings of being better than, worse than, or equal to another person, and within those three feelings lies “the whole tormented world of comparing, evaluating, and judging…”  As she points out, “Conceit perpetuates the dualities of ‘self’ and ‘other’ – the schisms that are the root of the enormous alienation and suffering in our world.”

Oh, my. If I’m honest, I have to acknowledge her words zing pretty true. I’ve been comparing my path, my choices, my direction, my dreams and desires to others whose paths, choices, direction, dreams and desires are as alien to me as mine are to them. And at the core is this: I have three co-workers on track for new jobs. One’s happily accepted a different position in a new area, one looks to be on track to lateral over to an exciting job with a smorgasbord of new learning and new opportunities, and a third has an interview this week that offers to pop him up a level on the pay scale.

Never mind that I’m happy for each of them. Never mind that most of the time I really enjoy what I do. Never mind that I’m rock solid certain of my calling – firmly centered on that 20% of my job that offers tremendous self worth – and is the focus of my next phase (due to start, oh, within the next four years). Never mind that my choices are true and good and right in line with my values. When I start comparing myself to others who are taking new jobs, embarking on new adventures, and bringing home fatter paychecks, all I’m doing is looking at their highlight reels and then comparing my behind-the-scenes footage. How can mine appear anything but lackluster in comparison? And, yes, that comparison is a thief; I lose my joy.

As I finish this, I glance out the window. Lo and behold, the clouds from this dreary Tuesday are breaking away and there are blue skies peeking out. If I let it blossom, there’s also a fresh, renewed perspective. I think I’d like that. Here’s to a damn fine Wednesday.

Charlie’s nonchalant delivery sent the first blip onto my radar. The fact that my birthday fell on April 13 was the second blip. In truth, a conversation months earlier about trying to plan regular weekend getaways was really the original blip. But put those three blips together, and we have what amounts to an SFE: a Suspicious Future Event.

Now, as someone who takes in the world around her through intuitive, big-picture patterning, my mind naturally connected those dots, added in a few others that had previously appeared unrelated, and immediately swept to the conclusion that he had something up his sleeve for the weekend of my birthday and it would involve travel and a surprise.

That intuitive bent is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because, well, I enjoy being able to figure out what’s up with just a few disparate tidbits of knowledge. Most of the time my educated guesses are right. It’s a curse, though, because it makes it really hard to be surprised, to let things unfold in the moment without deciphering the meaning behind it. And that means I tend to figure out life, but not always savor the moments. It’s like I’m standing outside the moment a little bit. Sometimes, I even think it makes me look like a know-it-all, which is unfortunate because I’ll freely admit when I don’t know jack.

As it turned out, my SFE was a weekend trip to Stonewall Jackson Resort in central West Virginia, a day at the spa (which might have been a way to also ensure a golf outing for Charlie on the famed Arnold Palmer course there, but who cares), and a weekend of lake travel, hiking, and relaxation. It was lovely. And even though I knew something was up, I did my best to tamp down any intuitive pattern-making on my part. I tried to live in the moment, to let it unfold and be a surprise.

This required practicing a whole different way of perceiving the world, called Sensing – the “here and now, concrete reality, letting it unfold” approach. It’s not my strong suit, but it meant checking my Intuition and my desire to have the big picture in favor of accepting each minute piece of information on its own.

I had to be comfortable with letting things unfold – “Hmmm. We stayed on Route 50 rather than entering the Interstate,” I found myself thinking. “I wonder … No! Just enjoy the ride.”

Later, my intuition tried again: “OK, we turned South at Clarksburg, so that narrows it to … NO! Stop it.”

When we passed the last turnoff, though, I just couldn’t help it. “We’re going to Stonewall, aren’t we,” I asked. Charlie just smiled.

Hey, it was hard for me, but it was a good way to begin a great weekend. And coincidentally, another “big picture vs. here and now” approach (Intuition vs. Sensing) brilliantly unfolded early the next day. See, we’d decided to take a two-mile hike through the woods to “Chipmunk Point.” (And yes, there were scads of chipmunks scampering about, some so tiny I was amazed they weren’t still curled up in a nest, eyes tightly shut.)

I’m busy scouting out our trail – the direction, slope and scope of the path that I just happened to notice would split about 25 yards or so ahead – and trying to decide if we should take the high road or the low road. Coursing through my mind are all the possibilities of the two routes. One contained the possibility of unknown treasures, but would require steeper hills; the other offered familiarity but a gentler slope. One offered vistas of the lake (not to mention a return visit to Chipmunk Corner); the other promised a deep woods walk.

Suddenly, Charlie grabs my sleeve. “Watch out for the mud.” This would be the mud over which my foot, encased in a brand new Saucony shoe, was poised to drop.

And there you have it: the most perfect example of the difference between Intuition and Sensing, between those who focus on the big picture vs. those who focus on details. Here I am, moving along a path that’s unfolding in my mind as I fit together the patterns and possibilities of its meandering direction, trying to intuitively decide which branch of the trail we should take. And there’s Charlie, fully present in the details, making his way mud-free over terrain that’s a reality right then and there at that place and in that moment.

I’d have had muddy new shoes – a bummer, for sure, but of small consequence to me when contemplating possibilities. He’d have had cleaner shoes but might not have put together all the new possibilities of that alternate route back.

Together, however, we accomplished both. And isn’t that the key? To balance both styles of gathering information so we’ll have the best experience possible? In this case, to emerge from the woods with relatively clean shoes after a walk spent exploring new possibilities. Nothing could be finer.

Mutts is copyright by Patrick McDonnell (04/07/13)

Speaking of Quantum Flirts (we were, weren’t we?), I got socked with another one this morning. This one was in the form of my favorite comic in the world – Mutts™ by Patrick McDonnell – and featured Mooch the dog reveling in a downpour while his human trudged under the umbrella.

It was a dark and moody strip and carried these words:

“The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.”
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There’s something that happens when a Quantum Flirt captures your attention. There’s a resonance somewhere in your body that says, “oh, this is so true and rich and real.” And if you actually take the time right then to see what unfolds, you nurture the awesome potential of that moment, that Flirt, to provide you with a new insight, to trigger an “aha,” or to help clarify your thinking. What’s not to love?

Not familiar with Quantum Flirts? Read my last blog, “Flirting … in a quantum sort of way.” That may help. But in a nutshell, a Quantum Flirt is a short-lived signal – something we suddenly see, hear, smell, taste, notice in some way. The object captures your attention at that point in time. It’s up to you to let it slide away or to decipher and figure out what it might mean for you.

Anyway, back to Mooch and Mutts. I think I experienced a double flirt.

First was the moodiness of the image and the pure and unadulterated joy of Mooch’s gyrations in the pelting rain. Did he care that it was raining? Not at all! He was simply enjoying being alive, cavorting, maybe even choosing to enjoy the raindrops.

Second was the quote from Longfellow. Oh, that sealed it. When it’s raining, let it rain. It made me stop and think.

Yeah. How true is that … on several levels. In the winter, we complain there’s no sun and it’s too cold. In the spring, we complain that it’s raining or that winter is hanging on and there’s no sun. In the summer, when the sun beats down mercilessly and the rain is nowhere to be seen, and the grass is browning, and the temperature chases us into our air-conditioned homes, we long for cooler weather. In the fall, when cooler weather arrives and life winds down for a hibernation, we lament the coming cold weather and mourn the loss of the heat we were just bitching about.

Are we never happy in the moment? When it rains, can we not just let it rain? And when it snows, can’t we simply let it snow? Can we enjoy the fact that we’re in the moment, alive, and like Mooch, out for a walk with our human and content to be?

So, how does that flirt actually inform my thinking? Well, I think it put something into perspective for me. A friend of mine was talking about a moment in time when everything just seemed crappy. In one day, injury struck, personal unhappiness struck, medical bills struck, financial issues struck, stress struck, and moving forward seemed harder than hell.

Wow. That’s a tough place. My impulse is to help find solutions, to help make it better. It pains me, too. So I did try even though I could hear, in her voice, the unmistakable overload that seems to be saying, “I hear you but I’m not really listening. I can’t right now.” I know how that is, and I wish people would leave me alone when I hit it.

Enter my Sunday morning Flirt – seeing Mutts and reading Longfellow in the Sunday comics. After the prickle of goose bumps (a sure sign that something very elemental is at work), I stopped to allow this moment – this sign – to unfold. Rain is what it is, just as reality is what it is. If I don’t fight it, but simply let it rain, how much better I ultimately am. I detach a little. I get on doing the next thing and the next thing rather than dwelling on the rain and how I feel about it. And the rain eventually ends. The sun comes out. It dries up. It reminds me a lot of Constructive Living, an Eastern philosophy that makes a lot of sense to me.

So what I can do, whether it’s me in the rain or me watching someone else in the rain, is to let go and “be” and let it rain. To experience the rain. What I can do for others is to be there with them in the rain, where it’s uncomfortable, and also with them when it’s not raining and the sun’s shining, where it’s infinitely nicer.

Sometimes it’s best to just sit there in that moment and experience it, and not worry about making it better right then and there. I think my friend is wise, too, because about a week afterward, she told me pretty much the same thing as my Sunday morning Flirt, adding that she actually needed to stop for a bit, to slow down. Painful as it was, her situation forced that to happen.

I got that, but it took Mutts and Longfellow to memorably drive it home. Maybe the universe sent me that Flirt for just that reason. It’s my interpretation, after all.

You might say that gate flirted with me.

Yes, flirted. Let me explain. I can see that gate from my front door. It falls within my vision almost daily, but something in this moment made me “see” it anew, made it captivate my thoughts. A month or two ago, I might’ve used the word “epiphany” – or coincidence, perhaps a “sign” or an “aha.” But after some excellent coach training last month, I now know what it was: a Quantum Flirt.

The Center for Right Relationship (the provider of that most excellent coach training), says a quantum flirt is “a short-lived, transient, perceptual signal which can be used to provide us with insight.” Flirts are everywhere and come in any form: We can see them, hear them, feel them … even smell or taste them. What matters is not so much what they are but how (or that) we notice them. Whatever meaning we unfold from a flirt can be anything from a major perspective shift to a gentle affirmation.

It’s a part of quantum physics. When a flirt catches our attention, we actually observe – or notice – whatever object produced that flirt. And when we notice that flirt, we can choose to stop and unfold whatever meaning it might hold for us. Flirts are usually so quick and momentary that we tend to miss their significance. But there’s power in them.

The other day I was wandering around the Tidal Basin in Washington, DC, deep in coaching conversation with a client about bearing the burdens of everyday life. Out of nowhere, a voice boomed out, “Thank you for your service, and welcome to your memorial!”

In tandem, we spun around, only to see a stream of elderly World War II veterans, some walking and some in wheelchairs, moving slowly toward the World War II Memorial. A white haired volunteer was greeting each one, shaking hands with gusto and offering a hearty thanks. We stood transfixed, not noticing until later that both of us had to wipe away tears. With wet eyes, my client looked at me and said, “Oh, my God. What burdens? I have no burdens.”

That, my friends, was a quantum flirt, and quite possibly the coolest one I’ve noticed in a long while. You might say that booming voice followed by the visual sight were the universe’s way of sending a flirt, a sign, a signal – one that had the potential of altering our perceptions in a major way. Provided we let it, and we did.

Later that week, while finishing up my DC-based training, I stood on the balcony of the hotel, soaking up the sun and gazing at the impossibly blue sky with puffy white clouds. I was taking part in an exercise with a co-learner about flirts, actually. But I also was thinking about how to incorporate this amazing work into my job. My co-learner and I  noticed that the clouds reflected in the mirrored windows of the neighboring building moved slower – and in the opposite direction – than the real ones coursing across the sky. It was one of those head-tilting moments, not unlike the RCA dog, for those who remember that.

Ah, another Quantum Flirt. Here’s how I unfolded that flirt’s meaning for me:

What’s here,” I wondered. After a moment I’d pinpointed a disconnect between reality and its mirror image, between rapid transit and leisurely pace.

“Which is more real,” I thought, “the clouds in the sky or the clouds reflected in the building? They’re the same clouds, after all.” I decided both were real, because I could look from one to the other and see the connection. The difference, then? The mirrored version moved in an alternate, leisurely way.

“Wow,” I thought. “So what’s that saying to me right now?”

That took a bit more thought. I’d been wrestling with how to incorporate this knowledge with the myriad teams and systems at my job. But it was those slower moving clouds in the mirror that ultimately brought the “aha” of that quantum flirt. See, I’m retiring in five years, and, while I yearn to continue meaningful work, I don’t want the same pace. My cloud-laden flirt helped me understand that bringing this work to my personal passions – nonprofits, communities , couples – is as important and infinitely more leisurely.

That simple Quantum Flirt – clouds skittering across the sky and reflected in the mirrored windows – helped me fine tune a vision with awesome heart and soul for me. And by the way, that flirt held quite different meaning for my co-learner. We both got something from it. Mind boggling, isn’t it?

And so I leave you with a challenge: watch for Quantum Flirts. Let them tease your awareness. Spend a few minutes unfolding what those flirts have to offer, and you might find some startling insights for life.

It was a leftover gate, a rusty old thing; an echo of a fence that once kept kids and dogs in and strangers out. What once served as an exit or an entrance – depending on your direction and your goal – was now an aging reminder in the yard. There was no fence left, no support for the mere existence of that gate. Just the gate.

I’d like to think the homeowners just liked the architectural look.

As usual, that gate triggered a whole thought process, and I was off. Gates are tricky things, I said to Charlie, as I let my thoughts pick their way along.

They’re often of our own making in life. We install gates in nearly everything we do. We place gates around our homes, our lives, our families, our careers, our thinking, our willingness to hear … even our hearts.

Sometimes we don’t install those gates – others do. Many gates are placed by well-meaning parents, by lovers and friends, by enemies and bullies, by churches, by upbringing and beliefs and public opinion.

Some gates are meant to protect, others to intimidate. Some keep others out, some keep us in. Some contain, some exclude.
Some start out as decorative but, as time wears on, the hinges rust, the latch gets contrary, and pretty soon it’s just easier to leave it shut – or open.

I’m reminded of a moment that’s etched into my 20-something memory. In the lunchroom, a friend suggested to me that men didn’t like women who were “too often correct,” the unspoken suggestion being: “Play dumb. Appear to be less capable and smart so you might attract one.” Ouch.

Ah, I didn’t know it then, but there was a gate there. She would have been happy to help me build one just like hers. Under different circumstances, I might have let her. But eventually, that decorative gate would have created a person who had no idea who she was.

I love gates. I love that little, lonely, rusting gate across the street. Not only because it reminds me of history and childhoods and unique old craftsmanship, but because it reminds me that gates offer choices. See, we have the choice of lifting the latch and going through – to whatever might be out there – or leaving it shut and staying in the comfort of what’s familiar.

That’s a choice we get to make every day, at every gate, along every path. Whether the gate you stand before is one you set up yourself or one that’s just always been there, it’s still a choice. It’s always a choice.

When we encounter gates, we look past them at the landscape, at the activity, at the world beyond. Sometimes we’re afraid, and sometimes we’re sad. Sometimes we’re happy at being on this side, and sometimes we’re stirred to walk through – because what’s out there either smiles and beckons to us or stands with feet apart and fists clenched, the hostility palpable. What’s there calls us to come out and play or implores us to join the fray or dares us to try. What’s beyond the gate may seem sunny and bright or shrouded in mists and darkness.

If we’ve been particularly good at building gates – or we’ve just become used to the gates others put up for us – it’s a hard choice, indeed.

So as I consider gates, my mind wanders to a friend who, as I write, is in the midst of leaving behind a gated life – one that she’d known for years. She’s striking out on her own. I am in awe of her bravery. Some days she feels brave and confident and some days she feels overwhelmed. But she exercises her choices every time. It has to be a frightening, exhilarating, traumatic, thrilling time.

For all of us, there’s opportunity, there’s authenticity, there’s so much beyond our gates. We may pass through for a visit or for good. We may choose to not pass through today, but change our minds tomorrow. We may be satisfied on this side of the gate or we may feel a gnawing sense that there’s something more out there.

My neighbor’s gate will forever be a symbol – the only thing stopping me from moving through is my own choice. Besides, there’s no fence on either side. I could just walk around.

What if you became a Possibilitarian?

A Possibilitarian! How rich and ripe with potential. What a juicy and marvelous word that brings to mind a barely contained inferno – ideas, thoughts, words, things, colors – all jumbling about, ricocheting, sparking, bursting forth in a swirling mass of joyous abandon, yet loosely contained in some serene, contented, centered place. To me it’s a riotous, even overwhelming, cacophony of color and sound and potential.

Let me put it this way. It’s like attending your first Cirque du Soleil performance. You’re mesmerized by the colors, the movement, the impossible acrobatics, the music – the whole out-of-control event – that’s somehow barely held together. Yeah, it’s like that.

I think it’s that loose containment – that barely-there sense of control – that allows the rise of a Possibilitarian. Without it, the colors and sounds and ideas and words and thoughts would simply spin off and expand like the universe following the Big Bang. No, the containment is essential because it allows all those possibilities to cross paths again and again, to respark, to recombine in new and innovative ways. That containment so reverently upholds the irrepressible sense that anything, everything, is possible.

I ran across the phrase while browsing through a local artisan shop. In the corner, I spied a jumble of affirmative decorative plaques, boxes, hearts, baskets, doo-dads. One, a small ceramic pedestal (not unlike a miniature cake platter), practically jumped out at me. “Become A Possibilitarian” was decoratively stamped on the top. It might as well have shouted those words at me. And I listened. It now sits on my desk, a constant reminder – or maybe a constant prodding – of how I feel when I encourage my own free-range possibilities.

That’s heady stuff if you think about it: It’s a little tough to capture in words, but I do love the concept. I’m sure it means something different to all of us, and I wouldn’t begin to guess someone else’s thoughts. But I can tell you what it means to me.

To become a Possibilitarian means I exist in the world of “what if?” I revel in options and refuse to be limited only to what’s solid, real, provable, and known. It means I encourage myself to think outside the box, to love imagination, to honor creativity, to cultivate curiosity. It’s entertaining wild, outlandish, and even impossible concepts.

And maybe this is the secret: allowing those possibilities to find expression serves a greater purpose. It allows those sparks and ricochets to bump up against one another, to play together in hopes of discovering new rules and possibilities, new solutions and answers, new perspectives and values. Entertaining the outlandish strengthens my values, my beliefs and my actions. It leads me toward enlightenment because it helps me find the possibility in everything.

Lewis Carroll knew that. In Through the Looking Glass, he wrote:

“‘There’s no use trying,’ [Alice] said. ‘One can’t believe impossible things.’
‘I daresay you haven’t had much practice,’ said the Queen. ‘When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’”

I never want to tamp down that rich, inner Cirque du Soleil that roils inside me, lest I numb my soul and blind myself to what might be possible. To me, a Possibilitarian – and I hope to always be becoming one – serves as a calm, serene vessel just barely holding in check all that’s possible within “what if.”

Become a Possibilitarian, whatever that might mean to you!

By the way, Become a Possibilitarian is the creation of Kelly Rae Roberts, an artist and Possibilitarian. Her mission, she writes, is to create beautiful, meaningful artwork that tells the truth. Check out her stuff.

So I don’t move. Not that I’m against turning right on red, mind you. I do it all the time. But I’m lost in thought today. I’m in no hurry. And, quite frankly, I’m sort of oblivious to the fact there’s no traffic to stop me from turning. I imagine that, to another driver, I epitomize an old fart driver. Heh. Little do they know I’m about as assertive a driver as they’ll ever encounter. Just ask Charlie.

I guess the car behind me decides it’s his duty to remind me about the right on red issue , so he honks the horn, which flips me back into the present and makes me realize that, “Oh, yeah. Oops! I can turn.” So I dutifully begin that process. I glance to my left to check out oncoming traffic and slip my foot onto the gas. The Prius nudges its nose forward slightly, and we’re all good to go.

Apparently, I’m not moving quickly enough, because the guy behind me decides his plaintive honk must have gone unheeded. (Or maybe unheard. After all, I have gray hair. I probably can’t hear, right? Maybe he figures I’m a little-old-lady driver.) So he lays on the horn just to make sure I get the message.

Oh, yeah, I get the message. Loud and clear. I step on the brake, stop the Prius’ momentum, and sit back to await the green light. I’m fully present, fully aware that I could turn right on red, fully aware that I usually DO turn right on red, and just as fully determined to not budge.

So for about 30 or 45 seconds – which feels more like five minutes – I sit still while the car behind me (and, for a brief time, the car behind him) lays on the horn. When the light finally turns green, like all conservative drivers with gray hair, I decide it’s a good time to practice economic driving by accelerating slowly until I hit the speed limit, thus burning up much less fossil fuel than, say, that late-model Chevy and SUV behind me.

Now, it’s true that state law says it’s OK to turn right on red. (I looked it up just to get the wording right):

§17C-3-5. Traffic-control signal legend. “blah blah blah on red … may cautiously make a right turn.”

Notice that it doesn’t say you must turn right on red. It does say you may cautiously do so. You certainly don’t have to, and I can’t find any kind of mandate that requires it.  I’ve looked.

What I decided in that split second or two of car horn hell was this: I made a choice to stay put until the light officially changed, which was fully within legal limits. It was my choice – my legal choice – and those antsy drivers behind me actually had no business abusing their car horns. In fact, they had no business forcing their belief (that turning right on red is required, for instance) on me.

Since then, I’ve been doing some thinking, which is probably what got me into this situation in the first place. I really do love the Four (Five) Agreements of don Miguel Ruiz. And I figure I broke three of them with my passive-aggressive but oh-so-satisfying behavior.

• First, I made an assumption. I assumed that the drivers behind me saw me as some old fart and therefore categorized me unfairly.
• Second, I took things personally. Yes, I allowed myself to get pissed off about their behavior and to counter with my own.
• Third, I didn’t do my best – I retaliated (though I have to admit it was strangely satisfying). And if you want to know the truth, I’m really not sure that’s a broken agreement because the Four (Five) Agreements also hold that my best will vary from day to day. So maybe that passive/aggressiveness actually was my best for today. If so, that’s OK because there’s always tomorrow, and my best will vary then, too.

Ultimately, my takeaway is this: I’m no more “right” to not turn right on red out of spite than those drivers are to insist that I do so. We’re all entitled to hold the opinion that turning right on red is good (them) or optional (me). We’re just not entitled to force those opinions on others.

Ah, what we all needed more of today was tolerance. And patience. Oh, and a little kindness wouldn’t hurt. For good measure, let’s toss in some real empathy. Maybe one day …

“Your point of view is something personal to you. It is no one’s truth but yours.”

I really like that. It gives me a sense of justification that it’s OK for me to have my point of view. Even if I were not nearly so sure of my convictions, it would still be, well, my truth. Because my point of view is rightfully, beautifully mine, I don’t really need to justify it to anyone else. I get to have it and love it, hold it and believe it, carve it in stone or scrawl it in the sand. It doesn’t matter that I may be constructing that point of view based on my own perspective, my own reality.

My gaze wanders to a colorful little plaque sitting askew on my shelf. “I Have Permission,” it says. Yeah, it’s like that. This nugget of wisdom gives me permission to honor my own point of view.

Even while part of me is saying, “Yeah, baby! Affirmation is mine” – another part of me is lifting one eyebrow in consternation. Because if I’m honest, I have to acknowledge that there’s a flip side implicit in that statement. And the more I ponder it, the more I believe it’s equally true:

“Others’ points of view are as true for them as your point of view is for you.”

Oh, wow. That one’s inching into uncomfortable territory, isn’t it, because entwined among the letters is the proverbial goose and gander conundrum (what’s good for the goose is good for the gander …). In other words, if your point of view is true for you (yay, by the way), then my point of view is true for me (and it follows, too, that it’s a yay for me, too).

Hmmm. So, which of us is wrong? Or to construct in don Miguel’s way, which point of view is false? Well, neither one. True, your point of view is not necessarily true for me nor mine for you. But they’re both right. Right?

Now, here’s where some of us might immediately go for the judgment call of right vs. wrong and work tirelessly to convince the other person of the error of his ways. (Actually, that’s accurate for just about every political and religious rant. Although I think we sometimes do that kind of judgmental thing because deep down we’re not so convinced of the truth of our convictions and we feel that if we can just get others to our side, to the “right” point of view, we stand affirmed. Of course, that’s a whole other topic.)

That’s probably why I’m thinking that don Miguel’s words beg for yet another corollary:

“While your point of view is your own personal truth, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s accurate.”

EEEEE. That one smarts. And, sure, it might be a slight slippery slope, but bear with me. Just because I hold a specific point of view, it doesn’t automatically mean it’s accurate and correct. It’s really pretty easy to delude ourselves about most things. Maybe I get my news from a really biased source. Maybe I just don’t want to acknowledge certain realities. Maybe it’s just easier to accept someone else’s strong convictions than to question and analyze and make up my own mind.

Don Miguel’s writings point out this very idea: we all live and star in our own stories. We create our own realities. We construct our own truths. Oh, we may share space and think we share the same story and reality, but we don’t. It’s all a matter of perspective. We incorporate friends, lovers, strangers, family members, and acquaintances into our stories. We assign them roles based on our own mental constructs. We align their beliefs with our perception of them — our view of that storyline we’re creating. In the end, however, it’s only true for one person –that’s us — the creator of our story and the architect of our reality.

I do this, and I’d bet you do, too. I do this when I assign a motivation to a co-worker. I do this when I’m people watching and trying to second guess someone’s purpose for being in that place at that time. I assign all the roles in my own reality in an attempt to make it all fit correctly in my world. I use them to support my point of view.

So if I accept that my point of view is no one’s truth but my own, I also accept that others’ points of view are no one’s truth but their own, right? And if we’re all entitled to our own points of view, then doesn’t it also follow that we can’t take exception to anyone else’s point of view? They’re just as right as we are.

Don Miguel Ruiz would be the first to acknowledge these thoughts, I believe. His Four Agreements – (1) be impeccable with your word, (2) don’t take anything personally, (3) don’t make assumptions, and (4) always do your best – paved the way. And the crux of the Fifth Agreement – be skeptical but learn to listen – is that we should question even our own points of view, to illuminate our reality with truth. How? By accepting ourselves and others as we are.

So what I take away is this: I’m entitled to my opinion, to my point of view. (In America, I’m even entitled to share it with the world at large.) I’m entitled to believe every word of it and hold it sacrosanct.

What I’m not entitled to do is presume that anyone else shares it – or that they even should. Nor am I entitled to think that anyone who doesn’t share my point of view is wrong. Or crazy. Or misguided. I’m not entitled to judge anyone, just as they aren’t entitled to judge me.

My point of view is true only for me, and in my own self interest I should even be skeptical of that self-constructed truth. After all, it may not be accurate, no matter how real it seems.