The teachers quieted down as she began the exercise. Assembled for an early morning meeting before school, we were there to participate in a workshop on creative problem solving. What we didn’t know was that we would be taking a journey—a journey that would stay with me.
We were supposed to visualize where we would like to go if we could go anywhere in the world. It was to be a sort of refuge, a place of peace, a place to put things in order. We took a few deep breaths to relax, closed our eyes, and put our place into focus. It seemed to me a childish exercise, but as I closed my eyes a clear picture materialized in my head.
Standing atop a sand dune that sloped gradually toward the ocean, I recognized a familiar stretch of deserted beach on Cape Cod. It was summer. Carried by a light breeze, the scent of seaweed drifted in from the ocean as the warm sun soothed my shoulders. Sea water gently spumed up onto the beach in its orderly cadence of washing and rinsing as the terns inspected the deposits of each wave. Absorbing the rhythm and balance of the environment, I experienced a sense of complete tranquility.
Our leader informed us that we should be joined by a guide, one that didn’t have to be a person. Almost immediately a figure emerged from a neighboring dune. It was my grandfather. Dressed in the plaid wool shirt, olive work pants, and worn leather work boots I remember so well, he blended in perfect harmony with the landscape even though I had never seen him on the beach. He waited patiently as our leader intervened again. We were told this time that the guide should be joined by something called a “power animal,” and, sure enough, a figure appeared standing next to my grandfather. It was my dog.
Although they had never known each other, they belonged there, they fit together. My grandfather reached down and patted her head, and then they turned in unison and proceeded up the beach. It was clear that I was to follow. It made perfect sense somehow. Independent of one another, both had taught me many valuable lessons during their lifetimes, and I realized they would now teach me together.
I followed them to a wide inlet where our leader said we should find a bright light illuminating a portion of the setting there. Within the light I would find a gift. My vision actually preceded her instructions because I had already seen the light from far down the beach, and I had been drawn to it. When I arrived at the light, my mentors paused as I waded into the shallow water. A few yards from shore I discovered the gift—a treasure chest submerged just under the water’s surface. It was filled with sparkling shells of all shapes, sizes and colors. That made sense, too. A gift of beauty, of nature, of spiritual wealth. As I turned to thank them, I saw that they had started to trudge back down the beach, so I followed again. When we stopped this time, I was told to expect a message. The message came from my grandfather, and it was short and clear. “Don’t ever forget what is really important,” he said. As his words hung in the air, the vision slowly evaporated, and my mind reverted back to the world of the conference room.
Several of the workshop participants spent the rest of the day discussing their journeys, gifts, and messages. What struck me most was how clear and moving each journey had been. The novelty of the exercise eventually wore off during the next few days, however, and my life returned to its usual hectic pace.
The following week it was nearly time for dinner when my four-year-old daughter approached me with a question. “Daddy, could we go on a moon and star walk, just you and me?” she asked. She had just witnessed the full moon ascend out of the trees behind our house. “I’m afraid we are just about to eat dinner and Daddy has a lot to do tonight,” I replied. Suddenly I felt a tender hand on my shoulder, or I thought I did, but no one else was in the room. I looked into my daughter’s face and knew what we were to do. We were supposed to take that walk. Dinner and other things could wait.
She slipped her hand into mine, led me out the door, and took me on a new journey, one through her eyes. “See, Daddy, there’s the moon right there. Watch. It will follow us if we walk down this path. See? See how it rolls through the trees with us? It’s our friend.” We came to a clearing where we could see more of the evening sky. “Look, there’s three stars up there twinkling like this.” She blinked her eyes several times. “They look like eyes, don’t’ they?” As we continued on our walk, she showed me many wondrous things, ones I had never noticed. We found more stars and our shadows and a grasshopper, and the moon followed us wherever we traveled.
As we skipped down the final walkway leading to the house, my vision appeared again. Standing at the end of the sidewalk stood my grandfather and my dog. A broad smile arose on my grandfather’s face; he winked at me, and then they vanished. “Don’t ever forget what is really important,” echoed softly down the street as we entered our house to join the rest of the family for dinner.
