A Magnet for Emergencies: How I Dodged a Big One
When I travel, it often feels like emergencies follow me. A tsunami warning post-touchdown in Southern California. A seizure behind me in line at the coffee shop within first hours of a Hawaii trip – followed by a deadly hit-and-run in front of me days later. A fellow retreat goer’s anaphylactic shock in Greece. Sun poisoning in Bali. A second cyclone post-arrival in Mozambique (yes, I said second). The world shutting down days after landing in Switzerland. Maybe I’ll dive into those stories later… But there was one emergency I seemed to dodge before it happened. Or perhaps I should say, caused to not happen. And I’m convinced it wasn’t by accident.
It was just before midnight when an invisible force suddenly took over my body. Lying in bed, I couldn’t stop shaking, rattling – not unlike a tin can being dragged through the streets from the back of a car. My mind dispersed its little SOS army of soldiers searching for answers as sweat seeped into my bed sheets. This was not the flu, not a sickness. Something so very, very distant from that. This was tied to my gut. Heavy, hot nerves rippled from the deepest part of my insides, quickly turning to a chill by the time they hit my skin. Maybe a panic attack? But scanning my mind, there was nothing to set me off on this rare quiet-ish night in downtown Chicago. And then, visions.
Images of a road kept flashing over and over in my mind’s eye. But I thought – and here’s the keyword: “thought” – nothing of it. Because the next day, I was set to depart on a road trip to the belly of the Midwest for a family get-together planned months in advance. So, duh. Roads made sense. But Ferg’s sense also piqued. Alert, knowing something was off, he hoisted himself from his usual spot at the foot of the bed onto the pillow beside me. Then another flash, this one a lightning quick thought: Don’t go. I remember being in this weird, concerning state for about twenty minutes, though who actually knows. Premonitions run in my family, but what did they actually feel like? Was this some sort of warning? All of this gut-based stuff took an automatic back seat behind my (then) perceived superpower: wicked fast logic. An ability to make sense and meaning from nearly everything. Of course I would go on this road trip. It was perfect weather, perfect timing that both my cousin and I had pinpointed on the calendar. A visit with my twin godsons an anticipated highlight. And so, I awoke hours later to load my bags, Ferg, and myself onto the train headed for the burbs where I’d borrow my parents’ car for the trip. “Hi, cutie!” Dad said scooping us up from the train station, coffee in tow. We drove to the house and then, right as we turned the corner into the driveway...
bzzzzzz. A text from my cousin. “The boys have strep. So sorry to have to do this – but best not to come.” There it was, the powers at be tossing another brick upside my head. For the love of Jiminy Christmas, Katie. Do. Not. Get. On. That. Road. During whatever time I have left as a muggle on this planet, I’ll never get the satisfaction of knowing why. Of what could have happened or NOT happened had I defied that directive. My human meat suit a mere vessel for transporting a message, urging me to pay attention. And when that didn’t work, the message needed to come from another angle.
I once had a mentor tell me in college: There are two ways to go about living your life. One, with the flow of the river. Or two, getting smacked upside the head harder and harder by the universe until you pay attention – and learn to flow with the river. This was one loud smack. It's this day six years ago that's reminded me lately just how scarily powerful our minds are at overriding our built-in crystal ball, fire alarm, way-finder: our intuition. That “moms have eyes in the back of their heads” saying? We all do. But we’re taught to ignore it. It fades so freaking quickly against the backdrop of our society’s overemphasis on logic and data and neat, sensible manufactured ways of life. And so, I’ve embarked on a giant experiment to strip down and dust off as much of that baby as I can to see what happens. Like “unlearning” over and over again. All signs truly did said “go” when Ferg and I hopped in the car April 1, 2022 to move to DC. I remember the moment the decision was illuminated so clearly for me as I lay on my bed in my robe after a bath having just finished a chapter of Martha Beck’s book, The Way of Integrity. There, she had described maybe the simplest and most refreshing way to make a decision I’ve heard: go toward what feels warm.
‘Okay, self. What feels warm?’ A slow melt came over weeks of pro/con lists featuring temp housing and lease extensions and coastal options. DC feels warm. My community there feels warm. Sparkly. Exciting. Enticing. So why not just try it?
And let me tell you, once I listened to the message and gave a little internal nod (mind you, on top of the same quilt where I hadn’t years before) it really did feel like nothing other than peace.
Despite not knowing the rawest of all emergencies in my life was soon to follow me. The only thing I felt was clarity headed in the next right direction. Because, it was.
I look back now seeing that Ferg’s last duty to fulfill on Earth was to escort me to my next chapter, my new home, my community. He was to see me through one last transition. I’m coming to accept: our minds can only take us so far. Not everything’s meant to be known with our noggins.
The other day, I glanced out the window admiring the sun during a pause from plunking on this keyboard. A simple urge to step outside in the sunshine. On a delightful 78 degree day. I wanna go where it feels warm, I thought.
So there I lay on the park bench across the street phoneless, blissed out, just chillin’. Soaking up what felt so damn good. Getting back on my feet only when I felt ready.
And there, mid-shuffle on the crosswalk, I hear: “Oh, hey girl!” and glance up to see my dear friend – now neighbor! – waving on her bike. Those words in the wind arriving at just the right time, in just the right place.
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