“But Dad, I’m only nine and I can barely reach the pedals!” I protested.

“Jump in. I’ll teach you,” he replied.

Grabbing a phone book, he explained the difference between the gas and brake, then I drive him to his brother’s farm, in a trance of terror. “Slowing-down-to-turn” wasn’t part of our one minute lesson, so Dad grabbed the wheel, slamming the brakes, missing the ditch (at what felt like Formula-1 speed) by a heartbeat.

Long before sunrise each day, I walk through the golf course by my home. On the bench by hole nine, I gaze to the sky, taking a deep breath like I’m trying to suck some beauty into my tired bones. Then I meditate to sirens, people rushing to work, dogs barking, a jogger’s beat. The rhythm pulses outside of me to inside. I’m connected.

Not often, but sometimes, I can feel my Dad. It’s him alright.

The man who said me “Jump in! I need a ride. You drive.”

His confidence in me, his humor, wakens me with a new lesson on how to drive forward in life. How to connect to inspiration. Inspired action. That’s what I learn.

Understanding the power of the alignment. The power of feeling better. The power of relief.

Knowing that every decision I make that doesn’t include a big feeling of relief, is a decision that will work against me. It will backfire. I need to connect to my “true self” first.

It’s like toasting some bread, and I put the bread in, but I don’t plug in the toaster. So the bread just sits there and I wait. And wait. And wait. And the bread never gets toasted.

That’s what happens when I take action before I’m plugged in. I just wait and wait and wait and wait and wait. My life never moves forward.

How do I plug in? By milking that moment my son hugged the breath out of me for finding his best Pokemon card. And when my baby danced to Fergie. Or the neighbor ran across the street to tell me my hair looks great (it does?). These moments are proof.

I recognize their perfection as it’s happening, write about them later to hardwire the memory, then relive them when I need clarity.

This “plugs in” my toaster. And now I can put a waffle in it, a Pop Tart, a piece of bread. It doesn’t matter. I’m hooked up and inspired action just pops. Ideas flow. I’m in the zone.

Later at home, each morning while opening the curtains towards the East, I say to my son, “Let’s see the sunrise you and Grandpa John made together.” Holding my breath, just for a second, I soak in the glory of the sun kissing the new sky, again, and again and again, and it never gets old. In fact, just the opposite.

Today is Grandpa John’s birthday so my five year old asked we celebrate with pumpkin muffins. Fresh out of the oven, he declares he has a stomach ache, so I ate most of them then rushed to the school bus. Pretty much like any day. Yet, it felt new, unique, perfect, breath taking, just like those sunrises.

The lessons you teach me, Dad, behind the wheel of your Chevy Truck and on the bench at hole nine, are amazing. They are a new birth, each day. Every day.

I love you so much!

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