Angie Cox, R.N., M.S.N., AHN-BC

Archive for the ‘Intuition’ Category

Life takes us on some interesting journeys. Doors open and close. People walk in and walk out. Opportunities sprawl in front of us awaiting our decision to reach out and pluck it’s juicy fruit. Yet sometimes what seems like an opportunity is actually a glimpse at what may not be part of our dream.

I typically prefer to focus on the dream itself, keeping my energies directed at what works for me rather than what doesn’t work for me. However, occasionally, it becomes necessary to look closely at the NOTs in life in order to more fully reveal the AMs.

And often times, the process of experiencing a NOT leaves me with a small treasure that enhances the AMs in amazing ways.

This morning finds me meditating on what I AM, my dreams, my desires, my space of expertise and influence. It’s leaving me with a strong desire to identify out loud some of my NOTs.

Apparently, I am NOT interested in being a fitness-center-type personal trainer. The idea of calculating METS and reps and VO2 Max just annoys the crap out of me. Of course, a good class and good instructor might have been able to send that in a different direction, yet for now, this does not feel as if it is for me.

Dear Amarillo College, enjoy my $300 donation. Be sure to use it to pay that teacher for not teaching his online class at all.

I AM interested in coaching and teaching people basic principals about how their bodies work, what strengthens and weakens the body, as well as how food, stress, and exercise work together to support health and wellness. I am a cheerleader for these people.

I am NOT interested in being tied to a bureaucratic hierarchy that is public education. Too many chiefs, not enough warriors, and way too much rigid scheduling. I’m all for having some structure in my day, but lose structure seems to be more my thing. I like choosing my schedule as I go.

I AM interested in working when I choose to work with whom I choose to work. I am also interested in answering mostly to me and the person with whom I am providing services. That process eliminates a lot of second-guessing, condescending supervisory crap that tends to make me nuts. I am rapidly approaching the point at which I think I’ve made a good decision in choosing to be an entrepreneur.

I am NOT interested in trying to please supervisors by keeping my mouth shut when I see something with which I disagree. I am not thrilled about being bound by chains of command and 47 jillion policies and procedures which have been designed to discourage negative feedback. If compliments required as much hoop-jumping as requesting a review of something that is causing concern, no one would ever get an ataboy.

I AM interested in working with those people who will provide immediate feedback on what is effective and what doesn’t seem to be improving the situation. That just works for me.  And it strokes my ego.

My ego needs lots of stroking.

I am NOT interested in working for someone from whom I have to request permission to get or give professional training. I must admit, it is nice when their dime picks up part of the tab, but that frequently seems to come with a side dish of guilt, some soul-level ownership, and a dose of “you owe me”.

I AM interested in work that allows me to choose what, when, where, and how much training I will receive or provide. Yes, taking this approach means I am likely going to be paying for the training from my own earnings, but in most cases, the earnings out pace the cost of the training in some way.

I am NOT interested in working with people who don’t value what I have to offer. Hmmm…. that pretty much eliminates my children. Except when I offer money. Then they seem to value dear ol’ mom.

I AM interested in working with those people for whom my training has the potential to impact in a HUGE way. That would include children with disabilities, adults desperately seeking something outside of the ordinary box, those looking for information to help them take control of their health, people looking for a way to release stress and tension, and service providers who know there is something out there just begging to be revealed to them.

Let’s see. If I enter this information into the trusty ol’ computer, divide by my desire to take a vacation whenever I like, add in a smidgen of creativity, weirdness, and nature, the result is……….

Exactly where I am today.

Thank you, Universe, God, instinct, Spirit, whomever or whatever you are that has led me to this particular place in life.

I’m lovin’ it!

No matter how prepared you are, words can’t begin to describe the feeling that accompanies a middle of the night phone call with the news.

It’s like a sucker punch to the gut, delivered with a gentle dose of love and relief.

We’ve been waiting on that phone call for quite awhile. I guess if the truth be known, it’s been about five years we’ve been waiting and wondering when the call would come. However, recent days have heightened the intensity and expectation as decisions were made to stop life extending medical interventions and let nature work her spirit-freeing genius.

The call came at about 1:30 am Friday morning. It was the hospital delivering the news we knew would be coming, and had even predicted the likelihood of it being this night. No surprise at all.

No tears. At least not yet. It’s the circle of life, Cox style.

Just a big dose of raw practical gratitude and relief.

Plus that feeling of being lovingly slugged in the stomach.

And the opportunity to pass on the sucker punch to other somewhat prepared, but not bullet-proofed guts.

The Call is actually a game of tag. We were tagged first this time. We then tagged the others. We became their gut-punch of love, relief, and sadness.

Thirty minutes after our phone first rang, we were back in bed planning on a peaceful night’s rest knowing THAT call would never come again.

WRONG.

There are just some things life skills class doesn’t teach you.

Like the fact that there is never just one phone call after a loved one passes.

And the phone calls will come at intervals designed to make sure you will not get that peaceful night’s rest tonight.

2:30 AM: “Would you like to donate his skin for skin grafts?”

Huh? It’s 87 years old and paper thin. Why would you even want it? Not exactly a decision to be made at 2:30 AM by only one of four brothers. Someone should have asked that about 3 days ago during daytime, wide-awake hours.

Another hour passed, our brains began to settle down just a bit, and the fit-full, mind-racing sleep almost overtook us again.

And the phone rang…..again.

It was Steve, the sweet guy who will graciously prepare our loved one for ceremony and burial asking my husband’s permission to begin his work. It never occurred to me that his night would be interrupted, too. However, I did give his precious wife the heads up Thursday evening that I thought Eric’s dad would pass before morning.

And so we are up. Coffee is made. It’s now 3:40 AM. Sleep will have to wait until later this afternoon when our bodies decide to slam us into the relaxing embrace of an easy chair.

Mama said there’d be days like this, but she forgot to mention there’d be a few nights, too.

Adios, Charlie. Give Alex a hug for us. You boys try to stay out of trouble up there, ya hear? Say hi to my Pappy, if you see him. He’ll be the one out hunting rabbits, dove, and pheasant.

Are you tired of always doing “it” the “right” way? Have you always wanted to march to the beat of your own drum instead of to the beat of other’s expectations?

Here’s what you’ve been looking for:

Danielle LaPorte’s Permission Slip from the Universe

Permisson granted. Now go live.

Reality is setting in. Finality is becoming very present and very real. Panic is creeping up on me. I’m standing at the edge of the high diving board with my toes hanging off and the line behind me is too long to go back. I’m headed over the edge.

I have officially been replaced. My position at work has been filled. There is a name and a face, and he’s showing up tomorrow to receive a download of data from my brain into his. My boss is transferring “usernames” to him. Days of employment remaining is down to 5.

And I am scared bleepless.

But I am not.

Because I know — I KNOW — that I did exactly what I was supposed to do. It was time to step away. Time to experience something new. Time to do what I love. The question is…..

How do I get there from here?

There’s quite a free fall between this diving board and the water below.

I have a very bipolar relationship with safety. On the one hand, I prefer the safety and security of the known quantity. Feet solidly on the ground. Steady paycheck. On the other hand, when the wild calls, my heart usually trumps my head. It’s been awhile since wild trumped safety and security. Last time that happened, I promised myself to a man who did not seem to be my match at all. He was wild, a little bit dangerous, different from what my safe head always told me I SHOULD have. Twenty years later, I thank God on a daily basis that my wild heart trumped my safe head.

Now here I stand once again….wild heart said let go of safe and boring. Let go of what’s sucking the life out of me. Wild heart said reach for adventure. Trust the Great Provider to meet all my needs. Do what brings me joy.

Jump.

My head knows there’s no going back. At least not to the place I am leaving. My head also knows that I have no idea what I’m walking toward, who is waiting in the water below to catch me, what dangers lurk in the water. My head says this is not very safe.

In five days, I will be free-falling. Between now and then, I stand with my toes on the edge of the diving board, nervous, crying, panicky, wanting to go backward but knowing I will miss the adventure if I do. The water is safe. I can swim. My loving Father/Mother waits below arms outstretched to catch me and help me to shore. I have faith.

In five days, I will take a deep breath and jump.

Last week, I was forced privileged to witness the brutal brain exploding ugliness of another human being’s meltdown.

Did I mention it was ugly?

Through a series of events involving the decoration and fru-fru-ization of a previously plain, institutional public restroom, I saw what can only be desribed as another human being leaping off the edge of the sanity cliff, because someone decided to make our shared private, personal, potty space pretty and homey.

Frankly, I had always been fine with the institutional look. I do simple very well, and we are, after all, working in an institution. Yet I can respect the desperate need of another to make the space where we spend our most inventive and creative moments a little more aesthetically pleasing.

Evidently, not everyone is as accommodating of the needs of the decorating addicted as I am.

The conflict and drama that arose can only be describe as potty-gate. I could elaborate, but suffice to say the only appropriate response was a head-cocked-half-sideways-confused-German-shepherd look.

You know that moment when you look at a situation and you wonder if there is something more than just a disdain for decorating that triggered the nuclear explosion? Apparently that instinct was right. And apparently, I was supposed to learn something about harshly judging another person’s harsh reaction to a situation.

Because apparently Post Traumatic Stress Disorder can randomly screw you up even 30 years later by yanking back to present reality a really devastating, mind-altering experience that was thought to have been dealt with and buried long ago. Apparently, it can make you hate bathroom decorations with a vengeance.

So today, I must trade in my opinion of jerk and asshole for one of sympathy, respect, and admiration to a person who dedicated 20 years to the United States military, who saw things incomprehensible to most of us, and who just happened to have one of the horrible memories resurface by new restroom decor.

The old saying about walking a mile in another man’s moccasins seems appropriate here.

I guess you could call this my Memorial Day tribute a day late.

This morning I sit here at my computer, less than one month from my final REAL paycheck. Only one more month of knowing exactly where my income will originate and when it will be deposited. And only three more weeks of showing up to work for someone else because I think I have to.

It’s a very sobering place to reside. Maybe even a little bit uncomfortable.

Maybe a lot uncomfortable.

But a little bit exciting.

Maybe a lot exciting.

Here’s what I know that I know that I know. Just before spring break, I made a decision to break free. After almost two years of talking about leaving, I finally read the signs, cut the ties, handed in the resignation, stopped trying to figure out how to make something else work, and said  “I’m outta here”. Of course with education, that simply means that summer will mark the end of my services to the organization. The “outta here” gets dragged on for months.

I rationalized that all the signs from God I had been requesting had been quite clear, and that my continuing to ask for signs might result in my being hit “upside the head” with one.

I don’t really want to be hit upside the head with a sign from God. Those sometimes hurt.

With my sweet and ever patient husband on board (at least somewhat), I let it go. After all, what’s the worst that could possibly happen? I could fail miserably and have to go beg someone to let me teach again? Meanwhile our already insane debt load could climb higher and higher and I could bankrupt our family.

No big deal.

I just gotta have faith.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=883t2Pac8pk]

Besides, didn’t Jesus tell us to consider the lilies of the field and the birds of the air? Matthew 6:28 says, “And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.” Okay, so there aren’t any birds in that verse. I thought there were.

And I’m thinking his lilies never met up with a good ol’ West Texas hail storm to rip their pretty little dresses right off.

Needless to say, I am down to only one more “steady” paycheck from a tax-payer-funded entity. I am struggling to keep my mind away from fear and onto the positiveness of knowing I made the right choice and my family and I will be provided with everything we need.

I’m just not so sure Visa will get everything it needs.

Or Home Depot.

Or Citibank.

Or GMAC Financial.

My only ace in the hole is a massage therapy license and not nearly enough clientèle to replace my current income. For that matter, I currently have enough steady clients to almost pay the bills at my wellness center.

Almost.

And actually, I have lots of aces. I have tons of fabulous knowledge and expertise that blesses people every time an opportunity presents itself. I just haven’t quite figured out how to get people in these parts to pay money for what I am offering up.

They call it marketing. I apparently have a weird aversion to it.

I can market the heck out other people’s stuff, yet when it comes to something I am promoting, I seem to get weirded out about it and don’t give it the massive effort it warrants.

So I sit here, typing away, trying to convince myself that I am not a stupid doofus who quit her job with bills to pay and a daughter headed off to college this fall. I sit here telling myself that opportunity is about to explode all around me and my dreams are about to come true. I play the affirmation game telling myself that I am worthy, cared for, and quite capable. I discuss with my goddess brain the fact that I have a ton of skills, information, and talents and that the world is about to knock my door down begging (and paying) for my knowledge.

Hey, God? Do you think you might send a few paying door knockers a bit early so I’ll know you aren’t calling me a stupid doofus, too?

I guess I have some marketing to do. See you later.

It was a mild October evening four years ago. The Church was hosting a Halloween trunk-or-treat, if memory serves me correctly. The kids were adorned in the cutest costumes and the adults were exercising the inner child with their tailgate and trunk decorations.

A week had passed since my debut as a women’s retreat speaker. I had always pushed the legalistic edges of my faith heritage through carefully worded questions and responses in Bible class, but that women’s retreat had seen me blow a few holes through the walls that marked the ultimate line in the sand for those with whom I had worshiped since a toddler.

The presentation had been well received, or so it seemed. Women I had long held in high esteem stood at the conclusion of my words and thanked me for having the courage to speak boldly and thoroughly about aspects of Christianity for which they had not had the courage to speak. Cards of encouragement arrived during the week thanking me and acknowledging my contribution to the event. Even my parents received cards of congratulations and appreciation for having done a good job of raising me.

I knew the words spoken weren’t really mine. They had come from somewhere both within and beyond me. They had risen up from the depths of a place or an energy  that wanted–no, needed–them spoken. I knew without a moment’s doubt I had truly spoken God’s message. It was a good feeling to be used by God, and the acknowledgment of others was a little bit of an ego trip. It was after all, my debut as a “preacher”.

But that night, the reality of why those women had never had the courage to speak as I had spoken walked right up to me in the shadowy, late evening air that hung over the church parking lot. He was an elder, not just older, but an officially-dubbed, ceremonially-installed elder of The Church. This man had watched me grow from a small child into a married woman who had birthed four children. I graduated from high school with his youngest son. He had been co-teacher in the Bible class my husband and I attended for several years. He had witnessed years of my sarcastic questions challenging church “law” and its abundance of contradictions.

Even though he had not been a witness to my women’s retreat presentation, word had gotten back to him of its message. Apparently all the negative feedback that didn’t find its way to my mailbox had instead found its way to his ear. He pulled me aside, looked me squarely in the eye, and said, “You really need to be careful what you say to others, particularly when there are those present whose faith isn’t as strong as yours.”

I’m sure there were some other words, but those are the words that have stuck with me, literally, as though a knife had been thrust straight into my heart. Didn’t he understand that it wasn’t really me? Could he not see that I had been a messenger speaking exactly what God wanted me to speak? God was awakening things inside of me that needed to be shared, and this message was of great importance. After all, I had been struggling with a nasty cough during the retreat, complete with the most inopportune of coughing fits, yet during the entire time I spoke to those ladies, I never so much as cleared my throat. By late afternoon I had complete and total laryngitis. It was as if God said, “You spoke what I asked of you, now shut up so you don’t screw it up.”

Adding insult to injury, the elder handed me a book with chapters marked explaining exactly what the Holy Spirit, my women’s retreat topic, is and how members of The Church are supposed to experience “him”. He indicated he wanted me to read the marked chapters and then he’d like to meet with me to discuss things.

I curtly accepted his “challenge” taking his book into my possession, yet the entire time feeling an incredible urge to vomit in hopes of somehow untying the knots that had taken up residence throughout my body between my throat and my womb. The ego trip of the previous week had suddenly experienced the ultimate smack down.

I could hardly wait to read his little book, for I had always been told The Church had no book of doctrine except the Bible. Yet there in my hands that night, I held what appeared to be the rights and wrongs of how a good Christian should conduct themselves in worship and beyond. I held the previously believed non-existent doctrine of The Church.

Go to Part 2.

The divine feminine spirit remains first and foremost on my mind these days.

As I continue my trek through Sue Monk Kidd’s Dance of the Dissident Daughter, each page opens my eyes to a part of the journey of awakening that began in me about 5 years ago. With each new section, I recognize myself trudging through the jungle whacking a branch here and pushing something aside there, each representing a piece of my old belief system that no longer serves me.

She talks about the myth of Ariadne, and how the minotaur of King Minos’ labyrinth represented for her the dark side of patriarchy.

“In the female psyche the Minotaur represents negative, uncivilized (beastly), masculine power… In other words, the Minotaur is the bullish, bullying, bulldozing force of patriarchy internalized in the cellar of a woman’s psyche. It is a presence that works invisibily, hampering, limiting, driving, even destroying a woman’s inner and outer life.”

It is a belief system that we use to feed our own self-doubt, contributing to our feelings of inadequacy and the repeated action of handing over our feminine power to another.

This reading dove-tailed with a conversation I had yesterday. The person with whom I was conversing is a strong powerful feminine spirit who is struggling with more than one emotional load at this point in her life. One of the more irritating of these is the pervasiveness of the male authoritarian figures influencing and affecting her career.

And yet during the conversation, she remarked that she holds to the belief that as a Christian woman, her husband is the head of the household and she submits to him. Outwardly, I see a strong woman who is very much in partnership, rather than submission to her husband. Yet because of the influence of Christianity’s patriarchy (and the teachings of those other than Jesus Christ), I believe she has convinced her subconscious that in fact, she should submit to the male in a relationship, whatever that relationship should be. Though not afraid to confront a wrong, she fears the power held by the male to consume her life and livelihood if she stands up for her divine feminine wisdom.

I have been in that place. I have held fast to that belief. I have spoken that to other women. And like her, I have never truly lived it in my marriage, because my man and I are a team–both strong and independent, but willing to compromise to meet each other in harmony. He would never ask me to submit to him, and he would never stoop to guilting, manipulating, or threatening me into obeying him.

Ain’t gonna happen.

And yet I find that just like her, this concept of submitting to male authority has so parasitically attached itself to our souls and metastasized into the far reaches of our very essence, that we struggle to stand up for ourselves when male leadership oversteps its humanness and leaps headlong into the assholeness that is the Minotaur. (Sorry, Mom. It is what it is.)

That was never the intended message of Christ.

And so our wise woman divine feminine spirit shrinks back into a little girl and cows in obedience to whatever great man-god we choose to submit to in the moment. We become one of the many children sacrificed to feed the Minotaur so he can continue to feel strong and powerful. Our feminine spirit is crushed between the Minotaur’s jaws while he stands triumphantly over his prey.

Fear allowed this…fear of job loss, fear of approval loss, fear of angering the Minotaur.

I’m over it.

I choose to no longer feed the Minotaur.

I choose to no longer submit to a male (or female) simply because I fear what they might do to me if I disagree with them.

I choose not participate in (or submit my daughters to) a faith or belief system in which submission to a male is ingrained in my psyche as a condition for the salvation of my soul.

I choose not to be employed in a situation that requires any arrangement other than teamwork.

I choose to identify my Minotaurs and slay them.

I choose to live as a a wise woman full of the divine feminine spirit.

I am beginning to recognize the Minotaurs in my life. What are yours?

This morning finds my mind racing….again. It’s mulling over options.

In my head I have pretty much just slain a dragon with my bare mama hands…

…Ripped out a jugular vein and watched the blood spill on the cement floor.

…Consumed with ferocious atrocity the would-be predator threatening to steal the fire and thunder that feeds the Divine Feminine Spirit in my daughters.

I have played out a thousand scenarios. Some begin politely enough offering the perceived adversary a chance to help me understand these disturbing things I am hearing. Others rush fairly quickly straight to the feeding frenzy of the media.

Sidenote: This little town is no stranger to media scrutiny. My family endured that insanity. For better or worse, that media scrutiny and trial in the court of public opinion did more to invoke social change on this country than eons of legal wrangling and writing letters to elected officials could have done. It was not without casualties, and it was not a lesson wasted on me.

I have come to believe my adversary has two faces. One is a polite accommodating gentleman that seeks to be the savior of a small town. A reprieve from the agony of defeat that has plagued a portion of our lives for decades. A friendly smiling idealistic face with praise and accolades for the hardworking among us, both male and female.

Quite charming from what I can tell.

The second face of which I  have only seen glimpses in a somewhat distorted reflection is the one that disturbs me.

Intensely.

It reflects a self-serving, win-at-all-costs, male chauvinist, arrogant, sly fox who charmed his way into a role of power that has the potential to improve the lives of my daughters or destroy the things they have worked so hard to develop. The reflected images suggest destruction is encroaching like a wildfire. This is the dragon that has stolen peace and tranquility from my dreams.

Unfortunately I have no way to know which face is the true face. If I approach the beast, I will see the first face, for that is the only face he willingly shows where potential critics are concerned. I feel certain that all my fears will either be addressed with the smoothness only befitting an experienced fox, or will be dismissed as the warped reflections of a disgruntled few who are being moved out to make room for the new and improved.

I’m all for new and improved…

…So long as the  new and improved improves the lives and opportunities of my amazing women.

...and so long as the messages he sends to my daughters encourage their feminine strength and power.

…and so long as those who are moved out are treated with dignity and respect.

Yet I can’t help but wonder which face is true. The fox must be outfoxed into showing his true colors—the dragon’s face—if in fact it exists.

And that, my dear friends, requires a thoughtfully laid, thoroughly detailed, wise woman plan.

True (dragon) colors tend to show up when things get a little uncomfortable and tight-quartered for the fox.

Pardon me while I delicately corner a fox in the hen house.

Of the many changes that have staked their claim over me in recent years, the one that I am delighting in most is the realization that

I am an intuitive person.

Apparently I have been all along.

I just didn’t know it until now. I owe a debt of gratitude to some extremely beautiful women and one incredible man who have helped me to realize this important bit of knowledge.

There simply had to be something inside of me that was aware of where my life has been headed, and it was present in me from a very early age. Time and again, I would rebel against that which was rational, seemingly intelligent, and made the most sense on the surface in favor of the passions of my heart.

Case in point: Boys and Men

Nothing I have ever done in my pursuit of male affection has EVER made sense or aligned with the ideals of my religious heritage.

THANK GOD!!!!! (Literally.)

Otherwise, not only would my spiritual life be a bit scrambled, my marriage could have been, too.

I’ve never been one to desire the “good boys”. I used to call them the Bible Bangers at college, and I had absolutely NO interest in them whatsoever. They creeped me out. My one and only experience with an honest to goodness “nice Christian young man” (translate CofC gentle-guy from church camp) lasted through months of cards and letters, but all of one real date. Ugh….he was just……TOO nice.  That relationship cooled like ice plunged in a bucket almost immediately. Something was just….weird…about that deal. I didn’t pick up on it at camp, but it showed up on that date when no one was around but the two of us. Years later we learned that Mr. Gentleman robbed a bank so he could have enough money to go see his girlfriend.

Score one for intuition.

My first REAL BF was the bad boy of high school. Lineman on the varsity football team. He was a junior who had enjoyed an extra year of school and was a fall birthday. I was a freshman. That made him technically A LOT older than me. We met on the track bus one evening. We were sort of an item. Never regretted that deal. He respected my boundaries, yet still made the experience exciting for me. He certainly wasn’t the church going, Bible-carrying type. He also wasn’t exactly the potential son-in-law of my parents’ dreams. Fortunately they were smart enough to sit back and watch—and probably pray alot—knowing that it wouldn’t last. And it didn’t.

He eventually broke up with me after he graduated and moved on to other women. As fate would have it, the high school bad boy ended up back in our hometown serving his community as a police officer. I still get a smile on my face when I see him. It’s a smile of appreciation and respect. Appreciation for letting me know I was worth something to someone, and respect for the way he treated me even though he had the physical power to  do anything he wanted.  I didn’t get him in the end, yet I grew so much in the process.

Score two for intuition.

There was the younger guy. I was more like mom to him. It was kind of a weird deal, but with the older guys having graduated, and the guys my age interested in the younger girls, that pretty much left the younger guys. I don’t go back there very often. That one had to be released pretty quickly. Nice kid. Nice family. Just a bit on the weird side.

Score three for intuition.

One night in my junior year, I found a sweet bad boy on Dip Street, the main drag through town. Violating every principal of safe, intelligent interactions with strangers, I was drawn to him immediately. His kiss was passionate and tender. His demeanor one of a romantic. He was in town visiting family, and in less than two weeks he was headed to basic training for the Navy. I will always remember the beautiful cards he sent me from San Diego and later (for awhile) from his station in Florida.

I’d like to think I was his angel for awhile until he found one with whom to spend his life. His words always made me feel special and I trust that mine kept him going through the tough and lonely times. We had “our song” and I would play it over and over. To this day, I think of him and get a lump in my throat every time I hear REO Speedwagon hit the classic rock airwaves. He made his escape from this world a few years ago, way too soon. I’d like to think somewhere in another dimension, he still remembers what a gift he was to me at that point in my life.

Score again for intuition.

Then I met “the one”. EVERYTHING about the situation violated all the rules of “good girl” relationships. I was CofC. He was a Catholic. I was 17 and about to start my senior year in high school. He was 29, and a working man with a bucket truck and a tool belt. I didn’t drink, dance, smoke, or partake of any mind-altering substance. He was a bass guitar player in a well-known area dance band, smoked, played in bars, and graduated in 1974 (which automatically addresses the mind-altering part). My brain said this was stupid and dangerous. Everything else inside of me said, “I WANT HIM!”

For four and a half years, I battled my brain and my heart. Rules and boundaries were shot to hell where he was concerned. Other guys came in and out of the picture, but he was always somewhere in the painting. Like a haunting spirit, he never left the corners of my soul. I would sneak visits to this forbidden love, this bad-boy of a man, even in the midst of  budding college romances. I ached at the thought of leaving him. I hurt for him when I was away. I loathed the drive between him and college. He was everything I wasn’t supposed to have, be, or do.

And yet…..

He was exactly what I needed. He didn’t complete me. He allowed me. He accepted me. He endured me. He caught me when my world began shifting. His patient tolerance of my “growing up” has been nothing short of saintly. Had he been one of  those good boys that I SHOULD have married, he probably would have left me or driven me insane when my awakening began. Instead, he has welcomed me into that place so that now we share it together finally united as one after 20+ years.

The ultimate score for intuition.