I journal just about every day. There is no literary genius in this daily journal. In fact if anyone were to find it and read it after I’m gone, I’d be posthumously embarrassed, if there’s such a possibility. Not because there’s anything nefarious in it, but because it’s mostly positive self-pep-talk and gratitude for stuff and things that have yet to manifest.
Journaling keeps me sane and grateful. Sometimes, especially when I’m down, I ask for signs from the Universe.
I’m mindful not to ask for those too much. It’s not even that I don’t want to be greedy, I just tend to get plenty of those without asking.
Yesterday, though, I was feeling absolutely buoyant, for no particular reason. Actually, for lots of little reasons would be more accurate, just not one big one in particular.
While I was journaling I realized I rarely ask the Universe for anything when I’m feeling good. So I did.
And then I forgot all about it. Which is how I roll. That’s basically the key to manifesting, difficult as it may be to master.
Last night I was at the high school football game three hours away watching Cora Jane in marching band and wondering why I still remember the jersey numbers of the kids on the football team when I was a cheerleader in high school.
I’m going to rewind for a minute to tell a story within a story because none of this will make sense unless I do.
A week after Keenan was born, I gathered up two-year-old Cora and her new baby brother and we all took the two hour sojourn to the airport to pick up my Mom.
As we neared the airport, Keenan was sleeping soundly, as newborns tend to do, and Cora was beginning to get bored, as two-year-olds tend to do. I was getting flustered, as new Moms tend to do.
I took advantage of the airplanes that started appearing.
“Ooh, Cora, look at the airplane!”
She quietly observed each plane I pointed out.
After about the fourth one she sighed and soberly remarked (to herself mostly), “Wow. My Mom really likes airplanes.” Absolutely nonplussed. Deadpan.
You guys, I was hormonal and frazzled, as any week out mother on a two hour solo journey with two kids would be, and I cannot describe to you how funny this was. I’d been schooled by my two-year-old.
I was like, “I don’t like airplanes! I don’t give a shit about airplanes! You’re two! I’m pointing at the airplanes because TWO-YEAR-OLDS like airplanes!”
In my head of course. Also, in my head, I wished another adult was around to share how absolutely hilarious my two-year-old was.
I tell my kids stories about when they were little all the time. If I didn’t, I don’t know that they’d remember the good stuff about us together and there was so much of it. I worry sometimes that my storytelling is annoying, but they always prompt me to ‘tell it again’ when I stop midway because I’ve already told this one. Which warms my heart. More than you can imagine.
Cora loves this story in particular. Especially because she’s older and can see it from my point of view.
As a joke I text her videos and photos of airplanes accompanied with, “Look, a boring airplane.”
Ahem, anyway. Circling back to last night.
We’re in the stands at the stadium and there is a *dull roar behind us. As the rumble gets louder, a very low-flying plane approaching the nearby airport emerges from directly behind us and every head in the stands turns upward.
(*see what I did there? Dull roar…I can almost hear the dull roar of your laughter…)
I swear to you, time slowed down.
I looked to my left and damn near every kid in the marching band was pointing at the plane and saying, “Ooooooh! A plane!”
Except for my kid. My kid was looking at me incredulously with the biggest grin ever on her face.
I nearly froze with joy. Momentarily I gained my composure and mouthed, “Did you see the plane?”
She nodded and we both threw our heads back laughing.
On the three hour drive home I mostly meditated. Or had a meditative time observing how fucking fast Texans drive.
When suddenly I realized. The airplane. That unexpected perfect moment.
I’d received my gift.
I’m so glad I asked for it.
Have a blessed day.
Teresa Zube 