Where the heck did this book come from?

My tango with the Universe

Ever had a book show up in your life right when you needed it most?

I went to the bookshelf, seeking something that would inspire, a can't-put-down kind of read and found something I'd never bought or borrowed.

Shelf by shelf, I combed through the books when a spine caught my eye. Black and glossy, titled, E-Squared by Pam Grout, I read the back cover. Where'd this come from? We don't have many books in this house, and the 95% we do? I purchased them as research and background for my podcast, Curious Cat, so I know them well. In many instances, the pages are marked with a rainbow of sticky notes. Our dust-covered book collection is stored elsewhere because this place is a temporary way station before we move to other realms. We are the Mother Hubbard of bookshelf owners.

I share all this to convey the true marvel I felt at not recognizing this particular book among the slim pickens. The full title of the book is, E-Squared: Nine Do It Yourself Energy Experiments that Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality.

Damn.

The subject was right up my alley, but the black cover and science undercurrent are more my partner's thing. It was undeniable. This book found me. But why?

I've been reading it these last few days and like the author's last name, Grout, the contents have brought together my own crazy quilt of recent downloads, imaginings, thoughts, morning minute-entries and dreams. The book is making sense of my last few months.

There's a phrase I used in the most recent podcast episode I recorded about the language of the Universe. I explained that the Universe is showing up, has been all along, we just haven't been paying attention. It's almost spooky. Grout wrote nearly the same thing in her introduction.

This journey I'm on with her book and the Universe reflects my shadow-self, I'm either a firehouse or a trickle, there's no in-between when it comes to my energy and attention. In fact, of her nine experiments, I'm conducting the first two at the same time because why not?

In that podcast episode, I share ways to tune into the Universe better, likening the stream of messages to tuning into a radio station. Over the course of the last week, my ear has become more sensitive. I have received cosmic breadcrumbs, even when the volume is low. This is truly new territory.

In the past, I've asked for signs, then forgotten to track them. The Universe, ever diligent and faithful, showed up. I've no doubt I was shown the messages I sought, but missed them because my mind was elsewhere. Then the Universe resorted to drama, like a bird careening at the window or a car nearly t-boning me.

I was on a hike yesterday. New to Colorado, I was the only person in the state that wasn't training to summit my next 14,000 foot mountain. Hoping to fit in, I've been doing the same. Instead of those near-impossible Fourteeners (as the locals call them) I've crafted my own challenge–the Four Weiners. Yes, they are lower peaks, under nine thousand feet and traversable in under four hours. The mountains on my list have defined trails that switchback up the mountain at a forgiving pace, but still include a handful of cardio-busting vertical ascents.

You get the gist.

This week I checked off another Four Weiner, South Table Mountain. It’s technically a butte but 'mountain' is in the name so it counts, dammit. I summited South Table Mountain, bought the t-shirt and checked it off my list. Once home, I studied the park map (a glossy park map offered in a plexiglass holder near a proper bathroom is a clear sign that this trek wasn't a real TEENER, but whatever) and noticed there were paths that crisscrossed the other side of the mesa!

Curious, the next morning, I packed a granola bar and water, then laced up my dusty boots. I drove to the trailhead (another red alert, by the way, because true mountain hikes, the stuff of beef jerky commercials, require at least a half day of gradual incline before the actual climb even begins! Meh, whatevs) and parked by the side of the road.

The trail was quiet, eerily so. Paranoid, as I followed the incline, I checked the landscape for rattlesnakes and coyotes trying to remember what I'd read. In the case of the poisonous rattlers, move slow and silent; do not surprise them! For coyotes, remember this is their home, but also don't turn your back to them. Appear strong. Don't give off the scent of fear, which is a mix of farts and clammy underwear, by the way.

A grasshopper whizzed across the trail and snapped me out of that fear-loop.

Lungs burning, I stopped to rest and had the sense I was being watched. I hoped my wheezing hadn't attracted a pack of predators. I chalked it up to reading too much Bill Bryson, but felt an itching up my spine, a telltale sign eyes were on me. I glanced up and saw two hawks swirling in the air.

They danced on the wind, dodging, looping, floating and falling like a pair of ice skaters. That's when I recalled asking the Universe for a specific sign the day before (be specific and give the Universe a deadline, Grout advises) which was two hawks and I wanted them to show up in the next 24 hours.

And here they were.

I kept moving up the trail to the place where the Welch Ditch trail intersects with the Croc Tooth jag. Which way to go? I opted for Croc Tooth, my thinking being that a prehistoric relic and interpretive sign might make the calorie burn worth the while. I traveled upward. Onward and upward.

Still the only hiker on the path, I said to the rocks, "I feel so alone," and crested a basalt ridge. I scanned the ground, its dips and shadows for fossils, but soon learned the trail name, Croc Tooth, had been a sexy come-on. There were no 32 million year old crocodile teeth. I congratulated myself for not falling for the Prehistoric Palm Frond trail signage.

Though the ascent had been anticlimactic, I'd summited the peak.

Hungry and thirsty, I sat on a red rock to savor the panorama and celebrate the climb with a granola bar and a sip of tepid water. That morning as I filled my backpack for the hike, I added an orogone dragon to the bag. It had done a great job pulverizing my granola bar, but I pretended it was fine dining, calling it a 'deconstructed snack' in my head.

Something about a view, fresh air, and high altitude makes carbs taste fabulous, even smashed-Nature Valley ones.

Licking bits of oats off my hands, I heard, "Screeeee!" A bald eagle swooped past and I watched her massive wings navigate the edge of the butte.

I stood up and stuffed the empty wrapper into my pocket, checking the ground to make certain I hadn't littered. There tucked in the rocks where I'd just been resting was a ladybug, fire engine red with sassy black spots.

"Hi, Sissy!" I said, tears clouding my vision. " I miss you. How's heaven? How is your daughter? Did she find the episode about you yet?" I asked, offering my finger to the beetle.

The ladybug considered my nail then scuttled past and into a shadowed crevice.

Feeling refreshed, I considered extending my hike with the Basalt Loop trail and consulted my map. It would add another 1.5 miles. As I checked in with my legs, a cabbage white butterfly flitted past my nose.

"Well hey, Betty! How are you?" My mother-in-law has shown up as butterflies, specifically cabbage whites, since the day she passed.

With nary a green plant or flower in sight, few and far between because this is the high desert, the butterfly dipped and dodged, opting not to land on the dusty trail or basalt column. Off it flew.

"On your left!" A biker cried out, zipping past.

He had ruined the spell. The window of magic visitations had been firmly shut.

It wasn't until I opened E-Squared over coffee the next morning that I realized how fast and bold the Universe had acted on South Table Mountain. I'd said into the wind that I felt alone, hadn't I?

And in turn, I'd received visits on a mountain top from hawks, an eagle, Sissy, Betty and a biker.

Holy smokes. Was all this proof that the Universe is an active listener and one heck of an efficient wish-granter?

If you're not into podcasts, then I'll spare you from listening to my Language of the Universe episode (available free, by the way, everywhere you like to stream), the conversation boils down to one sentence–If you think it's a sign, it IS a sign.

We are energy. We attract the vibration we emit. If we desire something, and come to it with heartfelt emotion, authentic desire, then a manifestation can come to fruition fast. Yes, we are that powerful. We are the gust of wind that launches a kite and the Universe? It is the wide blue sky.

We are constantly manifesting, it's something we do without thinking. 'I need a parking space.' 'I hope she texts me back.' 'I can do this.' 'Don't fall.' 'I wish it was quitting time.' 'Call back, please!'

Maybe we should endeavor to be more intentional, more specific with our asks? Pull our manifesting into the light of day, to the realm of conscious action.

If this concept sounds intriguing, play with your skills this week. Put the Universe to the test. Start small. Ask for the Universe to send a certain type of bird your way, or a specific car, like the green Mini Cooper I asked for this week. Come to the experiment with a sense of joy, playfulness, a cheeky come-on-Universe-show-me-what-you've-got attitude, and write down what happens.

Could we create more comfort, safety, beauty and joy in the world this way?

With all life has shown me, I'm still shocked that a book could appear out of thin air, settling into my sparse collection to be found at the perfect moment. But, it happened.

I'm wishing for you to receive a moment of wonder and awe this week. I hope the Universe sends an unexpected blessing your way soon.

I love you,

Jennifer