I’d made it a mile from home in another attempt at a couch to 5k when I stopped. It was trash collection day in the neighborhood, so maybe that’s all it was.  Trash. I got closer to see a couple of school books sprawled on the edge of the sidewalk, a black spiral notebook beside them.

Had a teen been bullied and their back pack emptied?  Had someone been kicked out of the house by an angry parent?  Was I really nosing around in someone’s garbage? I was.

I looked inside the books for a name. Nothing. I picked up the notebook. Inside the front cover Chuck had written his name and date of birth and created a title page: aka of Chucky Cutty. “Poems and Songs,” and on the back cover he added: “Poetry 2016.”

Surely this was too important to be tossed in the trash. I tucked it under my arm.

Once home I hopped on my phone to search for Chuck. No luck. I pondered returning to the corner of the discovery to knock on doors to ask, “Hey, Chuck, did you really mean to throw this away?” I didn’t.

A year later I launched my spring paper purge. I came upon Chuck’s wide ruled notebook.

I am a 29 year old guy. I have a twin brother two half-sisters… I grew up poor…I lived in Cheyenne, Wyoming…I moved there to try and be a father and work. ..I was injured in a car accident….

There is “Chuck’s first movie script” and “Chuck’s ideas for Travel Green Tunnels—making energy, saving pollution, safe travel, saving the world” —illustrated by an ink drawing.

The walk of life isn’t always what you want…work for it the right way and you will find yourself enjoying whatever it may be with a clear conscious and trust in your gut feeling when you go for it and make the choice… I know I have angels watching over me… Love can change the world.

I return to my filing project. I take old tax records to the shredder. As I toss pages into the recycle bin I forgive myself for all I did not do—send that of congratulations, write that letter to the editor, donate to that fundraiser.

Maybe Chuck trashed his works intentionally. Maybe he knew that the season for some ideas had passed.  Maybe he realized that not every thought he had demanded action. Meanwhile, I struggle to part not only with my own precious papers, but apparently with releasing documents that are the refuse of another.

I choose to take Chuck’s counsel. I’ll trust my gut. I add the black notebook with a few more piles of my own papers.  I’ll use the now-empty space to keep a stack of my own spiral notebooks, treasures that, like Chuck’s, are filled with ideas, poetry and possibilities.

Coach Koenig

What are you holding on to that may no longer be serving you?

Can you trust your gut to distinguish between trash and treasure?

For what do you long to have more room for in your life?

I told myself I wasn’t going back. The last time I spent a week drinking wheatgrass juice and eating plates of sprouts sprinkled with seaweed I said I was satisfied. No need to return. I’d find some other way to cleanse my body and mind.

But here I was. Back again. The chance to join both my best friend and my life coach in warm weather while winter overstayed its welcome in Nebraska was irresistible. A taste of the Texas beauty I was about to experience in the week ahead first appeared on the drive in the country from the airport to the health institute.  The awe of the Lady Bird Johnson led legacy of planting miles of roadside wildflowers over 50 years ago met us at each turn.

We spent our days in education, meditation, and contemplation. A single slice of cucumber to garnish my green drink breakfast was cause for celebration.  I’ve been known to eat a bowl of cherry tomatoes faster than I gobble my fun size bag of buttered popcorn at the movies. But one morning I spent fifteen minutes admiring the little red orb adorning my glass before I gingerly nibbled it for desert, closing my eyes to take in the sweetness.

As a return visitor and graduate of the classes on everything from the function of the small intestine to conscious breathing, I skipped a lot of classes. Instead I enjoyed walks, learning the names Texas bluebonnet and Indian paintbrush.

There were about twenty of us. We took our “meals” together, intentionally chewing our lettuce and focusing on the healing properties of the organic if not tasty nutrition.  I met Nikki who’d come for a rest from reconstructing her home after a devastating flood. I met Denny, a construction contractor who’s business motto was “Don’t live it. Love it.”  I met Obayo, an African American filmmaker professor heading to New Hampshire to a new post.

And I met Angie. Angie sat on the edge, observing through her large dark rimmed classes. We saw one another at our 7:20 daily exercise class, but we had never exchanged more than a smile and a good morning. Unlike most of the other participants, it was late in the week and she had not yet shared what brought her to this week of focus on health. And then she did.

Angie was a trauma surgeon and a cancer survivor. In a few days she would interview with a group of physicians far younger than her, hoping to convince them she was the right and perfect doctor to be accepted into a residency program to become a breast surgeon. 

As my own mind and body became more clear with each passing day, I could see more clearly the beauty surrounding me.  Nikki, a devoted wife struggling to overcome perfectionism. Denny, a businessman called back to his earlier life in a seminary.  And Angie, the healer who was healed and ready to heal anew.

I told myself I wasn’t going back. But beauty called and I’m grateful I answered.       

Coach Koenig

• What challenge in your life might hold a beautiful surprise?
• What beauty surrounds you that you aren’t seeing?
• How do you allow healing into your life?

“Why should I bother? No one is going to see it. It’s only me.”

As I listened to my friend make his case for never making his bed, I immediately understood. Why rush to do the dishes when there’s no one but you and your pet rabbit to see it?  Who cares if there are crumbs in between the sofa cushions, when only you know they are there?

If a friend is dropping in for a chat, I dust the table top, trim the wick so the candle will light, and hang a fresh towel in the bathroom. Clothes slung over the footboard of the bed vanish into drawers. Piles of papers land in the recycle bin.

If there’s no one else in your home or your closet, you lack the everyday accountability buddy whose mere presence keeps you from leaving your bra and panties lying on the floor for the second day. But when you know the plumber will be beneath the kitchen sink, suddenly the trash bags, the sponges and the cleanser align as though Marie Kondo were dropping by.

He’s right.  Why do I care whether I surround myself with a bit of clutter and chaos? Why do I deserve to come home to a tidy abode after a long day’s work?  Why should I have clean sheets on my bed if I’m the only one in it? What’s wrong with shoving aside the stack of papers as I sit down to eat my eggs at my kitchen table?

Our human longing for order and beauty can stay hidden when we swim in a sea of messiness long enough. Like a fish in water, we no longer notice the environment we’re swimming in.

What I know about myself is that how I am being in the small things is often an indicator of how I am being in the big things, and observing something small gives me insight about the bigger aspects of my life. 

If I’m overly critical of a client, it’s like I’m not being compassionate with my loved ones. If I’m not paying attention to my bank balance, it’s likely I’m not paying attention to health. If I’m rushing through my lunch, there’s a good chance I’m rushing through my life.

What would it be like if we could see ourselves worthy of having surroundings that reflect our true selves, our most beautiful selves?  And what if we were to discover that a freshly made bed with clean sheets and fluffed pillows rocked our world?

Integrity is doing the right thing no one else is looking. This includes how we treat ourselves.

Coach Koenig

                        Is there an area of your life calling for your attention?

                        How are the big and the small in your life connected?

                        Are you willing to treat yourself like a welcomed guest?

I’m glad John isn’t alive to see this. Devastation in three-fourths of our state’s 93 counties.  Three people killed.  Entire towns underwater. Breached levies and flooding rivers mix to form toxic pools.

They say the damage in Nebraska is well over a billion dollars. That doesn’t begin to measure the loss.

John loved Mother Earth.  He prohibited all poisons in his garden. A genuine tree hugger, this six foot three man tenderly cared for the tiniest green blades poking out of spring soil. He taught school children how to compost with little red worms. He was a member of the Arbor Day Foundation, a donor to the National Conservancy, and a supporter of the Sierra Club. 

Though outwardly always cheerful, John was prone to melancholy. I have no doubt that this disaster which has destroyed trees, the land, and our water would have driven him to into depression. The hardest hurt is the loss of what you love most.  

We all have something we love. Those of us who love our dog cannot bear to look at photos of drowned calves. Those of us who grew up in small towns cannot remove the image of century old buildings with water up to the rooftops.  Those of us who are human are filled with compassion with each tragic story told.

And those of us who are spared are grateful.

These disasters don’t seem to stop coming. Hurricanes, droughts, wildfires and floods feel like every day news. For the most part, in the past the most I have done is an occasional check or send up a good thought to any powers who might be listening.

Now I watch people showing their love. People working without sleep to fill sandbags and make sandwiches. People diving into icy waters to save a herd of 200 goats. People taking in a family found homeless in a matter of minutes.

The hurt will be a long time healing; for many a lifetime.  For those of us spared and grateful, it is a time for showing our love for what we have not yet lost. While we still have it. 

John left this earth he treasured years ago. I am here. I’m grateful to be able to show my love for what I love most, which is the spirit of the people of Nebraska.

Coach Koenig

• What do you love most?

• What are you grateful for in this moment?

• How will you show your love today?

For more information on how our firm can help with these devastating floods see our blog Nebraska Flood Relief: How a Bankruptcy Can Help

The longer I live the luckier I get.

My working parents didn’t know a lot of prosperity. Sleeping on a bed in the dining room, receiving powdered milk from the government, and learning how to transfer buses were a part of my growing up. I got lucky that for the rest of my life I never took a car that runs, a decent bowl of soup, or having my own bedroom for granted.

When my Catholic parents could no longer afford the parochial school tuition, my siblings and I transferred to public school. Most of my classmates were not college bound. I got lucky with the reduced competition for scholarships and landed on campus with much of my tuition paid.

My first job as a lawyer ended when my boss couldn’t pay the promised $15,000 salary. I then went into practice with my husband, which he left for a job that promised a steady paycheck and health insurance. I got lucky when I became a solo practitioner and mother in the same month, which eventually led to my becoming the founder of a full-fledged law firm of nine lawyers.

When I was married with two children and a bustling law practice, the children and the practice made me happy. The marriage did not. I got lucky when the unhappiness and the unhealthiness remained unhealed by multiple counselors. This gave me the courage to divorce and later marry one of the kindest men I ever knew.

Midway through my legal career I applied to be a juvenile court judge. My credentials were good enough that the nominating commission forwarded my name to the governor—six times. I got lucky and to never get appointed. A decade later I found my calling as a life coach.

My brother Tim was a victim of the AIDS crisis that swept the country. He moved back to Omaha from Atlanta to be near family. I got lucky when he allowed me to learn how to walk a dying man to the toilet and manage a morphine pump. I would need these exact skills sooner that I knew.

The month my second husband and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary, he received a metastasized terminal cancer diagnosis. I got lucky when John lived years beyond what doctors predicted. I got luckier still when I cared for him during the most meaningful summer of my life, learning what it means to die with grace.  I can now see myself being and end-of-life doula as an old woman, guiding others to the end.

As I look for my next pot of gold, I see the rainbow that’s been above me all along and give thanks for my endless good fortune.

On this St. Patrick’s Day, I wish you all of the luck of the Irish and more.

Coach Koenig

“You need to meet Laila,” she said. Amidst my law partner’s sparkling holiday celebration, my friend left me in awe with the story of a twenty-something woman living an hour away from me and helping women halfway across the world.

For as long as I can remember, my heart has been drawn to the plight of women in foreign lands. I wept as I walked through the home of Winnie Mandela, who in her war against South African apartheid spent 491 days in prison—with months in solitary confinement. I once eagerly pressed my business card into the hand of a spokeswoman for Afghani women oppressed by the Taliban, asking how I could help. When my husband was in the last year of his life, Syrian President Assad was torturing his own people who fled by the tens of thousands. I found myself googling statistics on how many million women were in refugee camps around the world.

I needed to meet Laila.

In 2004, Isis militants attacked the northwest Sinjar region in Iraq. The Yazidis, a religious minority, were captured and separated by sex.  Women and girls were sold into sex slavery and subjected to horrific crimes. Lincoln, Nebraska, is home to the largest community of Yazidis in the United States. There Laila serves as a luminous link to survival for Yazidi women seeking to escape.

Laila Khoudeida has taken calls at all hours of the day and night from women held captive by their rapists and torturers. She has been an international voice for the invisible and a local founder of the Yazidi Cultural Center. It’s hard to imagine how many souls she has salvaged through her sacrifice.

Despite the moving stories of suffering from women around the globe, I have yet to come close to doing the brave work or having the huge impact of my heroines. But, like we all must, I do what I can.  Support efforts to end human trafficking in my own community. Advocate for women escaping out of abusive relationships. Help elect women of integrity to office.  Empower every good woman I can.

Earlier this week a group Yazidi women and children were reunited with their families after five years in captivity.  Yesterday lawyers filed the first lawsuits alleging war crimes against Assad. Afghanistan remains perhaps still the worst place in the world for women.

We may or may not see the results of our efforts during our lifetime. But it is the Lailas who continue to inspire us each to “Think globally. Act locally.”

To my Laila and every Laila, I give my gratitude and all honor. To all who are doing what they can, I say carry on. And to all I wish a hopeful International Women’s Day.

Coach Koenig

Searching for hope, I checked my weather app. With the month of March  a day away, I was certain I’d see some good news.

Our Midwestern winter seems endless. The average temperature for the past week is typically 42, but instead is was mostly 4s and 2s, sometimes below zero.  The first heavy snow of the season that closed schools brought smiles, sledding, and Instagram photos of snowpeople.  The most recent brought traffic jams, multiple cancellations of meaningful events, and many an aching back from ceaseless shoveling.

I was seeking some solace in a future forecast of sunshine. Instead I saw that it would be two more weeks before the temperature would rise above freezing. 

With the news filled with stories that stoke controversy between conservatives and progressives and potentially anyone in between, talking about the weather takes a meteoric rise in popularity. Apologies for tardiness as immediately accepted as everyone is coping despite their crankiness.

“Everyone talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it” we joke. A few give earnest effort to deal with it well. My friend Holly hosts a Mardi Gras party tomorrow night. Katy volunteers to shovel her neighbor’s driveway.  Gretchen dons her Wisconsin winter wardrobe and goes for a walk in the snow despite it all.

I do my best to shift my focus from the gray skies and bitter cold as my little silver convertible sits stuck on the icy lot.  I light more candles. I burn more incense.  I start to remember.

Winters come in many forms.  The spring that unexpected debt buried me like a pile of dirty snow. The summer my husband didn’t know if wanted to be married to me.  The autumn my youngest child left for college at 15. 

I turned my calendar to the next month and the image of Alfonse Mucha’s Spring appeared. Despite the dreary forecast, in ink I saw First Day of Spring on a date three weeks  away. I chose to believe.

I began to envision the pansies I would purchase for the pot at my front door. The pigeon who would roost on her egg in my window box before I have a chance to plant my petunias. The purple crocus that is waiting to pop her pretty head up after such a long sleep under the snow.

Then I remember. That mountain of debt is now paid. That husband and I went on to have another happy decade together. That child is now grown yet ever so close to me. 

My memories of the past and my picture of the future remind me. Everything is impermanent. This seemingly endless winter, like all others, will come to a close.  I found the hope I had I failed to find on my phone.

One of the sweetest springs of all time is soon to arrive.

Coach Koenig

• How do you cope with a difficult season?
• What challenging season have you survived?
• What gives you hope?