There is a lot more to this story, but I will start here. Our small red jeep was sideswiped by an oncoming car that came hurtling toward us, skidding on the ice and out of control. The impact not only hurled the jeep with us in it, over the side of the mountain, but it also threw me out of my body.
In this out-of-body state, I was shown poignant moments of my life. In particular, I was shown three very odd and seemingly disparate things.
First, I was shown that, although I had seen the sun come up over the horizon many times, I had never truly seen it. I had never actually viewed the awe and splendor of the arrival of a new day. Never taken the time to experience the fingered rays of light as they slowly peeled back the black of night. I had never truly witnessed the symbolic hope of a new day. The possibility of the soul. The grace and beauty of life.
Second, I was made to understand that I had never smelled the earthy aroma of freshly cut grass. And again, of course, I had and many times, but only in passing. I had never done so with the deliberate intent of experiencing the magic moments of pleasure and grace offered by my senses. For the most part, I had totally disregarded my senses and hurried through my life. I was always too busy, on my way somewhere else, to stop and smell the roses, much less the freshly cut grass.
At that time in my life, everything was a means to an end. My life as a single mother was a matter of practicality, utility and necessity and not pleasure. The grass had to be cut, it did not have to be inhaled or experienced on a visceral level of pleasure—that was optional. And again, I was too busy. The same was true of my other senses. In my survival rush, I had forgotten, literally and figuratively, to see, smell, listen, taste and touch the beauty of my life.
To this point, touch was the third thing I was shown. I had never reached out and touched another. Truly touched them with my physical body. Obviously, I had two children, so I had touched another and very intimately. But my contact with most was again utilitarian. It was a means to an end. I brushed my children’s hair to send them off to school, but I rarely took the time to simply caress their tender heads.
In the lonely time after my divorce, unaccompanied by a mate, I went through long periods with little or no physical contact. On some level, I must have known that this would be detrimental to my body, as I somehow decided to schedule a weekly massage. At that time, I did not know why I craved massage so much. Now I understand the importance of physical contact. So now, if we meet in person, you most assuredly will get a hug.
All of this and more was shown to me as the jeep tumbled to the bottom of the icy mountain. In that suspended moment where time seemed to be absent, I experienced an overwhelming wave of remorse for the wasted and unacknowledged moments of my life. I was also shown that many others, at the point of death, have the same great sadness and sense of loss. For many, the value of human life was not fully acknowledged until it was too late and they were slipping over the edge into death.
In that instant, I understood that each soul is here for the bliss of its own existence.
It was a glorious but ironic discovery, as it was too late for me. Too late for bliss. Too late for anything. Our small red jeep was skidding out of control on the icy mountain road and falling fast toward the unmoving ground below. We helplessly fell twenty-five feet through empty space before hitting the unforgiving embankment of ice below. After rolling and flipping, over and over ten more times, we finally came to a sudden halt and were wedged into the side of the icy mountain.
Everything was in slow motion as I resigned myself to my impending death. I closed my eyes and disappeared into a blur of darkness and bursts of light. I was quite shocked to wake up back in my body and overjoyed to be given a second chance at life. The sense of being given another chance to live in the same life but with a different perspective was overwhelming. Rather than just surviving, I would truly be alive.
After the accident, there was a subtle, but important change in the verbiage and experience of my life. Instead of seeing life as a heavy burden where I had to be responsible, take care of myself, look after my children and others—I realized that I “get to” do all the above. That I get to be responsible. Get to be a good mother. To smell the roses—and freshly cut grass. That I get to experience the joy and pain of life—that nothing was forced upon me. That we all, on some level, choose to be here.
I was also shown multiple destinies, in one of which I would die and in others where my life would be negatively impacted by the accident, as well as the one I chose—this one. To come back and to be a force of good. Why? Because I chose to and I get to. This small change in perspective changed everything.
In addition, I was no longer afraid of death. I knew, experientially, that what comes after we die, in the physical sense, is good, abundant and loving. In an instant, my perspective was forever altered. Now, rather than fearing death, it was time to truly savor my life. Time to live a meaningful existence. To listen to the deep longing of my soul and to be of service to others. To be of service to you. Time to shift directions.
Instead of running from death, I would purposefully run towards life, love, and the opportunity to be of service.
None of the above changes were necessarily hard, but they were not easy either. The negative spiral of fear is heavy and weighs on this planet. I had to be diligent in my daily commitment to be more conscious, purposeful and alive. To this very day, some thirty years later, I still have to purposefully choose every day to see the good and the God in all.
It is an ongoing practice of remembrance.
To purposefully remember “who I really am,” beyond my body, mind, intellect and emotions. To remember that we are not defined by the circumstances or the conditions of a fleeting human life. To connect with that greater part of us that is unchanging and eternal.
To choose love over fear.
All the aforementioned shifts in consciousness require that we take full responsibility for our lives, irrespective of the inner or outer circumstances that quake through our being. To choose love is to reclaim our birthright and power by aligning with the goodness and grace of God. As we recognize the full impact and consequence of our choices, we naturally reclaim our power and open the door to previously unavailable opportunities and unimaginable universes.
This requires that we refuse to live on automatic, refuse to give our power away, and most importantly, refuse to be a victim of our circumstances.
My life was forever changed as a result of the devastating car accident that brought me to the precipice of my life in this body—and face to face with God. In an instant, as the jeep tumbled down the side of an icy mountain, and I watched from above, I was shown several available life options.
One of the options was to leave my body and this Earth behind—to die. Another option, and the one I chose, was to come back to this life and share this message of love.
I was also shown many realities and given free will to choose. As I said, I could have chosen to leave this world, but I didn’t. I came back to be a lighthouse. A beacon of hope. To be a candle in the night for you—and for anyone and everyone with eyes to see and ears to hear. I came back on a mission of love.
As we helplessly spiraled out of control on that icy mountain road, a being of light told me to tell the world that love is all that matters. I was shown that I would write a book and share the message of unconditional love with the world. I was also shown that sound and light were the future of medicine—and told to include that in the book.
It was all so beautiful and so overwhelming too. At that time in my life, I wasn’t yet able to fully understand the immensity of this message or how to share it. I most certainly did not feel worthy or ready to be a conduit and spokesperson of the unfathomable love that had enveloped me in grace and light. I had to first heal my childhood wounds before I could embody this message of unconditional love and fully share it. It took a lot of time, patience, and determination to step into my power and embody and tell the world that “love is all that matters.”
The cumulation of my readiness was to share the message of love. Which I am ready to do now.
If I had to sum up in one sentence what I learned in the past twenty years as I prepared myself to embody and share this message, it would be simply that the purpose of life is to love.
Love is all that matters.