1. And So We Begin . . .

Intuition.

I deal with you every day. Searching the scaffolding of your heights. Spanning your arches and then plumbing your depths. You are the hidden guide without a voice. Who guides me in strange and mysterious ways. I know not your purpose, yet sense your presence. Who are you, who propels me in this strange direction? To what end? What knowledge of the future is in your sails, that would carry me from place to place, land to land?

My religion has not prepared me for you. Nor my parents, who only alluded to your existence. No admonition to follow your intuition; only acknowledgement of your existence. And now, too late, I can not ask what I should have, years ago. The self I think of as "me" supposes that some person is in command. I beg to differ. I only pretend to be the commander of this ship.

Some other force appears to be calling the shots; too many things have come about quite by chance. And when I truly have to make a command decision, the awareness begins that two of us are needed to steer the rudder. This "guide" who only hints in the most subtle way a suggestion here, a thought there, a feeling that is less than a thought. How do I decode your messages?

These pushes, these nudges. They come at times of their own choosing. Not as a plan, but as a step. A single step, isolated, out of context with everything else. And I can only guess that this is not some piece of indigestion, or hiccup in thinking that I am feeling.

To know who you are, I ask simple questions:

"Who will this hurt?"
"How does this affect the lives of those around me?"
"Does it break any laws?"
"Is it harmful to my self?"

And if no harm can be found and no laws broken, then perhaps it won't hurt to accept this guidance one more time. It's probably a good thing. It won't do any harm to try it. Then yes, I let intuition be the tillerman for a little while more. Accepting the bidding of some divine source. And look to the horizon to see from whence I came and to where I go.

My plan had been to horde my money for a rainy day. To settle in and wait for old age . . . and finally death . . . to claim me. Safe. Secure. A moment of bored safety while awaiting conversion to dust. It had a comfortable sense to it, too.

People would call me smart for being conservative with money. My nieces & nephews would call me generous as they raced to spend my money. And everyone would be happy.