It was a sun-kissed Florida morning, heavy with humidity which is typical for July. I had decided to meet a friend for a beach walk. Months of non-socializing due to Covid-19 made the idea of physically distancing outdoors on the white sands along the Gulf of Mexico with Linda an attractive draw. I even blew off a 9:30am ZOOM business meeting in my haste to be immersed in nature. After all it was a Friday in the middle of summer!
My convertible top was down, and I was cruising along the Tamiami Trail from Naples to Bonita Springs. I baked in the hot sun at stoplights but otherwise felt the rush of the wind and took in the cerulean skies dotted with blurs of lush green palm trees as I whizzed past. Deeply intense colors seemed to engulf me as if from the palette of a master painter and reminded me of the special glow of light that I used to appreciate in Arles in the south of France this time of year.
Linda was waiting for me on the balcony of her new investment-condo overlooking the beachfront. A voluptuous woman, she was the epitome of femininity in her elegant bathing suit coverup and generous wide-brimmed sunhat. Her thick blonde shoulder-length hair seemed perfectly coiffed. I motioned for her to come down. In contrast, I wore boyish Columbia shorts and t-shirt over my petite frame and a baseball cap to shield me from damaging rays. She emerged from the elevator dragging a colorful beach umbrella and chair. “I’ll get another chair for you,” she exclaimed. “After our walk.” I was anxious to be walking, get some exercise and luxuriate in the moment. Sitting on the beach was not on my radar. I’m not very adept at vegging out or being motionless.
We paused just past the beach entrance to drop our stuff. I helped secure the pointed wooden base of the umbrella in the sand, rocking it side to side to deepen the hole. At last, we were walking. The water, which was usually tinged a brownish color from the runoff of mangrove trees, was surprisingly clear. Very few people dotted the beach. In the distance, a fisherman had an elaborate setup of fishing poles and was standing knee deep in water. Strolling barefoot along the water’s edge, Linda and I began catching up, sharing stories of our significant others, tennis and dealing with Covid. Rather than refreshing, the sea water was the temperature of a warm bath. I didn’t care. There was an unbridled feeling of freedom just being here along with a mild case of guilt for playing hooky from work. Work would always be there but the simple pleasures of being with a friend, enjoying nature at its best took priority and fed my soul.
As we passed the fisherman, I was immediately attracted to the craggy white boulders piled high forming a barrier-like a jetty into the seawater. It created a beautiful textured contrast to the smooth blue-green waters and the massive expanse of deep blue sky. At the very peak, a snowy white egret perched proudly alone, its feathers gently ruffling in the slight breeze. I’ve been working on an ambitious video series “Mindfulness Moments from the Paradise Coast” and in addition to episodes of a swamp walk through the Everglades, an eco-tour of a fresh-water estuarine and an award-winning botanical garden, I was including a virtual retreat to the beaches of Southwest Florida. The egret caught my eye.
I was shooting a lot of footage with my Smartphone loaded with Filmic Pro software and of course I carried my phone always at the ready. In fact, since working on this project I’ve found myself constantly “seeing” reality as if through the lens of a camera. I particularly notice shapes, colors, compositions, and elements of interest. I see life in movie frames. With bare, wet feet, I stepped up onto the first boulder to get a bit closer to the angelic bird. I began shooting and continued climbing. I was astonished at how awfully close I was getting; so close I could have reached out and petted the creature. Atop the rocks with the Gulf as a spectacular backdrop, I was ecstatic to be bird bonding and capturing incredible video. He seemed to watch me intently as I recorded the moment. That was the moment before catastrophe.
I’ve always prided myself on my balance. I could hold Vriksasana (Tree Pose) longer than anyone I knew in my yoga training. But as I turned to descend, something happened, and my foot slipped. In a wild blur, I was out of control, falling, falling on the rugged boulders. Down. Down. Instinctively I extended my left arm to break my fall. My other hand gripped my phone keeping it out of harms ways. I saw the moment unfold both in excruciatingly slow motion and in warp speed. And then, crunch. I landed, searing, agonizing pain in my left arm. Both Linda and the fisherman rushed over asking in alarmed voices if I was okay. My mind was spinning. I can’t be hurt. In the middle of a pandemic, I cannot go to an emergency room. I was now sitting fully rooted in the soft sand which coated the back of my legs. My ankle and side of my leg were bleeding. I immediately began doing my yogic straw breathing to calm my mind and mitigate my pain. As I did, the fisherman with kind eyes, his face hidden by a Covid-protecting mask, instructed me to breathe out slowly through pursed lips. I laughed, as I confessed that was exactly what I was doing.
“How do you know about that breathing technique,” I looked up at him looming above me.
“My wife is a nurse and that’s what she always tells me,” he said. “How do you know it?,” he questioned.
“I teach it,” I chuckled. “I’m trained by a world-renowned yogi master and I’m a life coach. I use it with many clients.” We were having such a normal, civilized conversation when my mind reconnected with the pain “Ice,” I blurted. “I need ice immediately.” I was hunched forward cradling my arm. Linda’s condo was quite a distance but fortunately the fisherman had an ice pack. I gratefully wrapped it around my arm. “You’re bleeding,” Linda was pointing to my leg. “I don’t care. It’s nothing. My arm…” my voice trailed off.
Pain has a way of completely altering your perspective on the world. Suddenly the beach was hot and inhospitable. I needed to get into air conditioning and assess the damages. I was no longer enamored by my pristine surroundings, nor was I enjoying the silky sand beneath each step. We trudged back to the condo. “Oh my gosh,” Linda exclaimed several times along the way. “What a bizarre accident.” I was silent.
Finally, in the condo, Linda transformed into Florence Nightingale; setting up a standing fan to cool me more quickly, bringing me water and settling me on her couch with a clear view of the Gulf. I am usually the one to spring into action; the helper, the one who smooths out the rough edges and quiets situations. I was unused to being on the receiving end. I was appreciative of Linda’s amazing support, but it made me feel uncomfortable, vulnerable. But I had to surrender.
She offered me a Motrin. Ironically, she had just shared her saga of getting her Motrin prescription filled and how her integrative doctor had unceremoniously closed her practice and left along with all of Linda’s records. Linda had had to find a new doctor and start all over. While I rarely take any medications, I accepted.
“Do you think you need an X ray?” Linda was being proactive while my brain seemed to go missing. “There is an urgent care near here.”
“Actually, I’d like to be able to get closer to home. I wonder if I can drive.”
“I can drive you. Or I can follow you.” Linda said searching urgent care locations on her cellphone. “There’s one near where we met at the Farmer’s Market. That’s near you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I know that one. I went there with Patrick when he had taken a fall at work.”
Patrick, my life partner, was out of town for another week, attending to an elderly friend in Indiana who was suffering mild dementia. Patrick had taken time off to help and also to see his daughter and granddaughters in the city of Fort Wayne, where he grew up. I was on my own.
“A 2.5-hour wait?,” Linda exclaimed into the phone in an incredulous voice.
“Forget it. I’m not waiting there. Let me just cool off and I’ll drive home.”
Linda brought me some crackers and tuna to munch. I wasn’t hungry as I was mentally processing what had happened. One minute I’m gloriously on top of the world and then in the blink of an eye, everything changed.
“I guess I’m off the tennis courts for a while,” I bemoaned.
Linda began reading details on her phone about sprains. It seemed to fit perfectly what I was experiencing.
The drive home with my arm wrapped in an ice bag held in place with Linda’s decorative kitchen towel crisscrossed with generous amounts of duct tape must’ve been quite a sight in my convertible!
Home at last, I alternated between applications of ice and bio-electrotherapy treatments for sprained tendons. I own an FDA-approved device with over a million frequency codes that stimulate the peripheral nerves interfering with pain signals traveling to the brain which reduces the brain’s perception of pain. Frequencies are selected based on the issue being treated. I have found the device ultimately activates healing. I’m hopeful. My pain subsides unless I move or twist my arm. It is a long weekend trying to work, type, grocery shop, cook, or shower with one hand.
On Monday I have not significantly improved. A friend arranges for me to get an Xray. Simple things are so much more difficult during Covid. It is the new “abnormal.” Even putting on my mask is a struggle. I drive to the radiology center which is packed with people in close quarters. We physically distance in a queue at the front door to get our temperature checked and announce ourselves. I insist on waiting outside in the broiling heat of the day until I am called. In less than 10 minutes, X rays taken, I’m rushing back outside not even waiting for the results. “Call me, please,” I beg, wanting to avoid any potential contact with the dreaded virus.
The call comes and my doctor friend is asking if I have a surgeon. I feel my air-conditioned living room suddenly shoots to 120-degrees. “Surgeon? I need a surgeon?”
I hang up shaken and feeling stuck in a situation I do not want. My distal radius is fractured and has shifted out of alignment. When in my mid-30s I had a slipped disk in my neck and lost all muscle in my right arm, I was told I needed surgery. I healed without any intervention and have never looked back. When in my 50s, I was riding my motorcycle out of my gated community and had to do an Evil-Knievel slide to lay the bike down on the pavement rather than get hit by the closing gate, I broke my collarbone. I was told I needed surgery to put a plate in. Again, I healed and have never looked back. Why can’t I heal now?
Patrick would still not be home for days. I asked him what to do and he suggested I see the surgeon who fixed his shoulder since arms, wrists and shoulders are his specialty. He set up an appointment for Friday morning when he would be back to take me.
Ex-star-hockey player turned surgeon; Patrick’s doctor is a very likeable guy. But he pointed out my mishappen arm and recommended surgery which made him less endearing to me. If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. I’ve always felt surgeons see solutions in cutting and suturing since that’s their training. He would put in a plate to align the bone.
“I really don’t want a foreign object in my body,” I blurted out like it was some poisonous material.
“It’s Titanium,” he responded as if that’s a natural biological substance.
He had an opening Monday afternoon. “We like to do surgery within 10 days of the fracture.”
I felt pressured. I could not decide in that moment for two reasons. First, I wanted to be sure surgery was absolutely necessary. Secondly, I was having another problem. A molar that had an abscess years earlier was giving me pause and I had a dentist’s appointment Monday morning. I was fairly certain I would need an extraction, which was also causing me considerable angst. My mother used to say, “the tongue is a great exaggerator…in many ways.” I knew a missing molar in my mouth would feel like an open Siberian mine and I’d be reluctant to smile for fear of looking like a druggie or hillbilly. As my mind spun images, the good doctor put my arm in a pretty purple cast that immediately made me feel claustrophobic. I started quietly doing my deep breathing to accept what is as is.
Over the weekend my brother, a doctor at a major New York City hospital arranged a second opinion for me with the head of sports medicine, an orthopedic surgeon and medical advisor to several U.S. sports teams (including tennis). I was in good hands and felt renewed optimism. But I could not get a copy of the X rays until Monday morning which delayed the process. And Monday I faced the dental situation. Oy vey. So many activities I did not want to be doing in the middle of a pandemic…and yet here I was.
To cope, I was more actively meditating and doing Yoga Nidra. At the beginning of the stay-at-home confinement in late March, I’d created a YouTube recording to help others calm frazzled nerves. I was listening to my own “A Gratitude Meditation to Stop Anxiety” with an almost addictive frenzy. Each time I devoted those 14 minutes to focusing inward; to creating heart coherence and inviting the glow of gratitude to fill my body and mind, I felt better, revitalized.
Since sleep had become elusive with this dead weight on my arm that would undermine any attempt at comfort, I was practicing my own Yoga Nidra recording for health and wellbeing. In just 30 minutes, I felt restored. Studies have shown that just 20 minutes of this ancient “yogic sleep” provides the equivalent rest of 3–4 hours of deep sleep. I was getting more and more connected to just being.
Work was challenging as I was relegated to pecking at keys with just the index finger of my right hand. I was always an amazingly fast typist which allowed me to produce copiously. In fact, in my journalism days in New York City, my much prized (at the time) selectric typewriter with letters on a spinning ball could not keep up with my speed. Now I was at a frustrating snail pace. I was getting a repetitious and boring message from the universe to slow down.
I searched for the silver lining. I never questioned: “Why me?” Instead I wanted to explore exactly what was I learning from this major pause in all activities? Why did this happen? What new meaning does it give my life?
I was watching YouTube programs of scientist/author Gregg Braden about the matrix, quantum energies and cosmic cycles. I listened to Dr. Joe Dispenza and how he healed his crippling spine injury and how to create your future by adapting to those desired energies now in your mind and your behavior. I watched Bruce Lipton’s interviews on Biology of Belief, one of my favorite books of his. I listened to binaural beats of healing music.
I watched editing lessons on using Power Director to improve my video productions and especially how use a green screen which I had set up in my foyer pre-injury; and had planned to use it that afternoon when my schedule was rudely interrupted. The green screen and new floodlights stood like unwanted visitors taunting me daily.
I finished reading Breathe, The New Science of a Lost Art by James Nestor which sheds great insights into how poor breathing techniques cause a multitude of illnesses and malformations. We homo sapiens have forgotten how to breathe properly! It also reinforced the impact of my “go to”” yogic straw breathing technique with longer exhalations eliciting a stronger parasympathetic response. This sheetali breathing counters the body’s natural biological stress response, activated by fears, anxieties, and traumas. Ironically, the next morning, I got an email announcing that the author would be the keynote speaker at the Global Wellness Summit where I am to be a panelist! Synchronicity!
I even managed a few client sessions on ZOOM, welcoming the distractions and the opportunity to be of service to others. I watched videos produced by the HeartMath Institute on cultivating resilience by practicing compassion and love. And I indulged in reading novels, a luxury I never seemed to have time to do. Those readings are what inspired me to share my saga in this format.
My hours were filled with such engaging pursuits that I never had time to miss playing tennis or walking with friends or even going outdoors. My indoor interests were opening whole new universes to me and I was — dare I admit? — enjoying my time.
On Monday morning I said goodbye to my molar and acquired a cavernous hole in the side of my mouth.
“My specialty is bridges,” my friendly dentist asserted. “And the new porcelain they make these days is much better quality. You’ll be incredibly pleased with the outcome.” I felt mildly reassured that I would not be destined to a future of toothless smiles. And best of all, I would have a sparkling replacement within weeks; maybe it would coincide with the recovery of my left arm function and the absence of pain!
Off to the radiology center to pick up my CD of X rays that were supposed to be left at the front desk. Patrick had been patiently chauffeuring me all morning and now waited in his car watching me. He looked very handsome with his ample sandy-colored greying hair in a tousled style around his chiseled face with the dimple in his chin giving him a boyish look. He appeared regal sitting in his classic 1997 Cadillac Eldorado convertible which still needed repairs on the back bumper from a rear-end collision we had a few weeks earlier.
The morning of that accident, Patrick was almost giddy to drive his “honey” to play tennis downtown…only we never arrived. A car was stopped in the road ahead and as Patrick deftly brought the mammoth Cadillac to a stop, the woman in the car behind us didn’t. Police, ambulance, fire-engine. The front-end of her Toyota was demolished, setting off her airbag, and leaking pink liquid onto the road. She dutifully presented her insurance certificate which we discovered days later was unpaid and inactive. We lacked uninsured motorist insurance. So, the $5,000 estimate for repairs sits abandoned on Patrick’s desk.
My brother had already called looking for the X rays but I couldn’t bear to share my dental episode along with everything else so I texted him I would send them shortly. But I guess the weekend intervened or wires got crossed, my CD was not yet prepared. I paced once again in the scorching heat, feeling like I was pulling liquid cement into my lungs sucking in the heavy air. I waited, apologizing to Patrick for the delay.
Finally, at home with the CD loaded, I searched for the “image” files; pulled them up on my screen which I photographed and texted off to my brother with my prayers for good news.
For a few hours, I gave myself permission to turn off any thoughts about my injury. I answered a few work-related emails and did more bio-electrotherapy treatments. Suddenly my brother’s name was vibrating on the face of my phone. I swallowed hard.
“Peggy, he looked at the X rays…” my brother’s voice was both compassionate and straightforward. “He says without surgery the fracture will not heal properly. It will be misaligned. Do you want to fly to New York and have the top specialist here do the surgery?”
I felt a deep groan emerge from my gut. “But I’d have to quarantine for two weeks,” I rejected the idea. “At least the local surgeon has his own surgery center, so I won’t be in any hospital, reducing possible Covid exposure.”
When I hung up the phone, I felt a calm awareness of what I had to do. All the meditating and quieting of my mind was clearly keeping my mental state more level. But I was having flushes of discord moving like waves through my heart sending signals that my blood pressure was going to the moon. It was now almost 5PM on Monday and I dialed Patrick’s surgeon…now to be my surgeon. I left a matter-of-fact voice message asking for a spot on his surgery schedule as soon as possible.
Surgery. So here it was. The “Wellness Warrior of Naples” was on a new adventure. A new experience. I had witnessed the surgical process as a caregiver through Patrick’s hip replacement, his shoulder surgery. This time I would not be the one confined to the waiting room.
My mind flitted through disturbing thoughts. What if my bones are so weak and soft that when he goes to put in the plate, my radius disintegrates, and my arm must be amputated? What if I throw an embolism and die on the operating table? What if the anesthesia wipes out my memory? What if I get an infection? What if…? Whoa. I had to erase fears and worry. I had to practice all the mental skills I teach my clients.
Thoughts manifest reality. I knew that what I was thinking influenced my energy and cellular bodies which start behaving in alignment with those thoughts. I was increasing neurochemicals that were draining mental and emotional stability, creating incoherence and imbalances. I was playing out future scenarios that were illusions; that did not exist. I was dooming myself to misery.
I had to stay focused on the present. In the moment, I was okay. In the moment I could connect to my higher self; a more expanded quantum dimension filled with infinite possibilities. I could use my mind to impact positive outcomes. I could enter deeper into myself, attracting grace and healing. I could conjure up an image of myself post-surgery with my body welcoming the metal plate and my radius bone healing effortlessly; almost miraculously better than imaginable.
I quieted my mind. Deep breathing. I dropped into that silent space where all doing stops. I surrendered. A part of me was insatiably curious as to how I would navigate the experience. I felt like a child peeking through dark cloaks to watch the devastation of a train wreck over and over and over again in which I was playing the starring role. I kept replaying the fall; the boulder approaching as I was going down…down. I knew I was best served by letting go of all panicky disturbances. I needed to slow the stress hormones so my body would function more optimally to be better prepared for the inevitable.
Surgery was scheduled for Wednesday. I would be the doctor’s last patient at 1PM. At midnight, I had to stop eating or drinking. Ugh.
I liked the Benevolent Prayer Tom T. Moore requested for me on his Facebook page: “I ask any and all beings to aid and assist Peggy in her surgery July 29, and may the surgeon and staff perform their work perfectly, so that Peggy regains full use of her arm, thank you!” I felt buoyed as many of his followers wrote “Done,” as I have done for countless others in the past.
Friends were reaching out to me with encouraging words: “You’re tough.” “You’re strong.” “You’ve got this.” Funny how we rarely know how others perceive us until moments like this. I’d quip back: “I may be tough but I’m breakable.” In that comment, I had an enormous recognition of something I had fleetingly noticed during my writhing pain at Linda’s condo.
My mother had always been the strong one in our family. She was the Rock of Gibraltar, an indestructible, knowledgeable, disciplinarian who often frightened me with her toughness. She would raise her arm in a gesture, and I’d flinch as if she would hit me, which I never recollect her doing. Then she got cancer and in a few months she was dead. No more toughness. No more rock to lean on. I was 31.
The loss was traumatic. I never imagined life without my mother. Unconsciously I patterned myself after her no-nonsense toughness and take-charge attitude. Yet I had watched her become vulnerable, which I equated with an undesirable trait of weakness…and death. Yet now I was unexpectedly recognizing the importance of vulnerability and how it speaks to our humanness; our openness to feel life with all its polarities of pain and pleasure, fear, and safety.
The word “vulnerable” is synonymous with defenseless and the antonym is impervious and invincible. But if we are impervious, we cannot feel compassion or love. We block life to protect ourselves from hurt, disappointment, discomfort. When we numb ourselves, we miss life’s richness and deny our human emotions rather than accept and embrace them. We need not be afraid. Vulnerability opens our connection to one another for support, love — and yes — even surgical skills.
I suddenly felt a rush of gratitude that I had the option of surgery to fix what’s broken. I imagined primitive times when people had terrible accidents and suffered with distorted limbs that no longer functioned as intended.
I was feeling the high vibrational frequency of gratitude filling every cell, overflowing with white pulsating light generating a delicious feeling of harmony. “YES! I’ve got this,” I announced to my brain. I’m grateful for Patrick’s love and attentiveness. He seems to know what I need before I do. I’m grateful I live in such a beautiful place where I can go on boulder-climbing escapades along the Gulf. I’m grateful for my family and friends.
Messages rushed in from more friends touting the outstanding reputation of the surgeon I’d chosen. As I share my saga with more friends, I begin to wear the incident like a rite of passage. I know similarly aged seniors who had fractures from falls in their bathtub or tripping over a coffee table. I have no regrets.
I’m sitting in the uninspiring reception room of the surgery center. A TV is blaring the news and two women are jammering loudly in Spanish at a machine-gun speed in a corner. Patrick and I made small talk as I’m beginning to feel an impatience to get beyond the “no entry” door and get this over with.
Finally, I hear my name announced; kiss Patrick and bravely proceed through the looking glass. I’m guided into a large bathroom and instructed to put the gown on with the opening at the back, put on the fabric footies, my hair goes in the cap, put my clothes in the plastic bag and come out when I’m ready. Katie, the nurse leaves me alone and I replay the directions in slow motion in my mind. I’m not liking any of this, but I dutifully follow orders.
I step out unable to close the back of the gown with my one hand. “Is this the right outfit for my spa treatment?,” I ask stupidly eliciting a few giggles. On my way to a seat in the intake area, I pass the doctor who is concentrating on a computer screen.
“Hey doc. I have a tee time at 11AM tomorrow. I’ll be good to go by then, right?” I’m being silly and get no response. I add: “Okay, I’m ready to be fixed.” I plop down in the designated chair. I’m told the basic process and meet the anesthesiologist: IV in one arm for antibiotics, fluids, and Propofol and a peripheral nerve block in the other. I don’t want general anesthesia, but the young, attractive anesthesiologist assures me she uses very little and will monitor me. Heart sensor pads are placed on my back. We chat briefly about “wellness” and I discover she has launched her own acupuncture business. I suggest I stay in touch with her for my wellness programs and she puts her business cards in my clothing bag.
The nurse brings out a frightening-looking chain-saw device that must’ve come directly from Home Depot. “This won’t cut your skin,” she explains. “It goes through the cast with vibrations.” Just moments later, the doctor is using the noisy device. It works. I watch with rapt amazement until he tries to move my arm slightly left and I wince in pain. “We’ll do the rest in there,” he says gesturing at a door in front of me.
I notice on a big wall clock, it is now 1:30PM. I vaguely remember being wheeled into the operating room. It is very spacious but not very modern or inspiring. I’m now surrounded by unidentified equipment.
In the next millisecond, I’m back in the chair outside the operating room and a nurse is helping me get dressed. I lean to the side to pick up something and suddenly an enormously heavy object begins to fall out of my lap and my reflex is to catch it. I realize it is my arm; completely numb in a sling. I laugh and so does the nurse commenting “Be glad you won’t feel it for about 10 hours.” I hear Patrick’s voice approaching.
“Give us a minute,” the nurse can see him, but I can’t through the dull green curtain giving me a little privacy.
I notice the time is now 2:15PM. It’s over. I’m pleasantly pleased that I’m not feeling trapped or claustrophobic with my left arm being so incapacitated. I have a Titanium plate holding my poor broken bone in place and I’m going home to heal and be okay.
Surprising to me, I feel no aftereffects of the anesthesia. I’m given a prescription for Hydrocodone — Acetaminophen which I’m able to abandon in less than 36 hours.
It is now a week after surgery and every day I feel subtle improvements in my excessively bandaged arm. I’m still moving more slowly and taking more time to keep my spirit filled with positive vibes. I’m learning how much the journey reflects our true essence, our soul. I’m still spending more time alone and enjoying the solace…and my work.
My biggest lesson has been to accept my own human vulnerability. I can live in harmony between polarities of being tough and being yielding. I can establish a balance between extremes. I recall my days of training in Tai Chi and how I could yield to a 300-pound force coming fully at me and miraculously dissolve that power. Doing so effortlessly gives way to an inner strength that allows the fight to slip past without disturbing a single hair. It feels magical, the secret sauce.
From my own experience, I know we are far more resilient than we realize. We have everything we need within us to move through challenges; to overcome any obstacles that life throws our way. I know that something deep within me has shifted connecting me more easily with my higher self. I’m walking my walk and sooner than later I’ll be ably hitting both tennis and golf balls! And I’ll always have my tough yet yielding abilities.
When we pause to notice life with intention, we see beyond the surface to far deeper understandings. Sometimes we need a subtle push off a ledge to rediscover what we already know and so the universe gives us what we need. Trust.