Rocketing down the runway a few days ago, I suddenly remembered another flight home from the West Coast many years ago. I was sitting at my gate, listening to music and absorbed in a book that had been waiting far too long in my “to read” pile. I had several uninterrupted hours ahead of me and intended to enjoy every one of them.
I was driving home with my daughter when we noticed a large snapping turtle crossing the roadway. It was a tiny back street lined with a small pond.
Eight years ago, I traveled to Costa Rica for a week-long retreat centered around ayahuasca, breathwork, yoga, and deep inner exploration.
Like many people who are drawn to these experiences, I went seeking something.
About twenty-five years ago, I was driving with a colleague to a local conference. As we approached the hotel entrance, I noticed an open parking spot near the front door.
“There’s a spot,” I said, pointing to the right. He drove past it.
A few months ago, when the world was cold and the snow came often, I left for work a little earlier than usual. The roads had already been plowed, but I knew better than to assume they were clear. That kind of winter morning holds a particular deception.
“I think we need to be friends.”
Those were the first words out of my mouth when I introduced myself to Rev. Hilda Covington. We’d just finished a county meeting of nonprofit mental health and social service agencies. She was the presenter that month. We almost didn’t meet because Hilda arrived an hour and a half late to a two-hour meeting.
