What Sport Builds That No Medal Can Measure

Watching elite athletes compete—whether in this summer's World Cup or at the Olympic and Paralympic Games—it's easy to see only what's visible. Tangible. I'm more interested in what’s not so visible and not so tangible. The struggle. The heart. The doubt. The dedication. The resilience. The grace. The tears. The commitment. The decision to keep pursuing excellence. In my recent conversation with two-time Paralympian Sophia Herzog-Gibb, we talked about more than swimming. We talked about what sport builds inside the athlete.

Sophia graduated from high school early to train at the U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center. Years of early mornings, double workouts and relentless discipline led her to a silver medal at the 2016 Paralympics in Rio de Janeiro. But what shined through for me even more than that medal… is Sophia’s mettle.

One phrase from our conversation really captivated me. Sophia described herself in the run up to Rio as being “the hunter.” One day, in advance of going to Rio, Sophia told me about putting up a time that, if official, would have ranked near the top in the world. She surprised herself that day, and it gave her confidence. And no one knew. So no one saw her coming. She showed up in Rio, competed with the best and came home with hard-earned hardware.

By the 2020 Paralympics in Tokyo (in 2021), she had become what she described as “the hunted.” Expectations had changed, so the pressure was different. Yet she showed up and wowed again.

What I find instructive is what happened next. Sophia, like so many athletes, entered the workforce without traditional work experience. What she did have was discipline, composure under pressure and the ability to keep showing up when things got hard. She had athletic skills and life skills.

As we watch the world's best compete on the biggest stages this summer, it's worth remembering we're seeing only a shard of their story. The time that athlete is seen on the field or in the pool can be measured in hours, minutes or seconds. The time and effort that athlete invested to become the mosaic of the person they are is measured in years. We can devote ourselves to the pursuit of something, and sometimes we can even achieve it. And when we do, then that achievement almost becomes a “square one” all its own. 

Can we do it again? Once we achieve something — a mountain climbed, a design delivered,  a degree or a diploma — can we carry the excellence forward? To answer that is to call on the invisible elements inside ourselves. The same ones an athlete calls up. The struggle. The heart. The doubt. The dedication. The resilience. The grace. The tears. The commitment. The decision to keep pursuing excellence. As we advance, we learn the greatness is in the trying, the going for it, the “daring greatly.” Then the next step of greatness is carrying hard lessons forward every time we start over, again and again and again. 

Maybe that's what your efforts and experiences are really doing. Maybe they’re not just helping you achieve something. Maybe they’re assembling the light and glimmers and sharp edges too that make you uniquely you. So that you can get up again tomorrow morning to pursue excellence once again. 

Watch for the next Voreen Podcast episode release this Sunday. You can find it anywhere you listen to podcasts. If you want to support the podcast, you can leave a review, tell a friend and for more options, visit https://www.patreon.com/voreen. 

What’s Your Anatomical Aha?

Have you ever felt drawn to an idea, a place or a possibility before you could explain why? For one person, it’s wide open flatlands. For another, towering skyscrapers. For you, maybe it's the high desert or sitting face to face with someone dear to you. What’s the signal you pick up that explains the draw? Can you identify it?

Katrine Formby shared her signal in the recent inaugural episode of the Voreen Podcast. She described that knowing feeling as her “heart clapping." For her, it's an inner signal that something is meaningful, beautiful or worth exploring. She felt it in the sunshine of southern California, near the lake in Austin, Texas, and when she and her husband, Bill, visited Telluride, Colorado. While visiting the mountain town, she noticed a sketch on the wall. She was drawn to it. The image depicted a historic building with elegant arched windows and a tower. “Where is that building?” she asked. The realtor they were meeting with replied, “You’re sitting in it—and it’s for sale.”

Katrine’s heart was clapping. Even though the existing building looked nothing like the one in the sketch, in Katrine’s mind’s eye, it could again. Her heart told her so through her honed signaling system, one she’s learned to feel, notice and trust. 

That “heart clapping” signal inspired Katrine and her husband, Bill, to take on a renovation project that would span 20 years. There were delays, financial challenges and moments of fear in those two decades. But they kept going. And eventually, the tower returned to the Telluride skyline and its original beauty. The historic Nugget Building was later sold to the Telluride Film Festival, giving it a new future centered on creativity, community and storytelling.

Katrine’s story started with a moment of noticing — the “heart clapping” — followed by curiosity, inquiry and then action.  For me, this story sparked a question: What gets my heart clapping? And what is my body’s equivalent signal? Do you know your personal “heart clapping” equivalent? Can you name it? If not, can you feel it? Do you recognize it when it shows up?

For decades now, I have called mine the “honeycomb crackling effect.” I know. The words make no sense. The best way I can describe it is when I feel something opening up or filling up, rearranging, aligning inside me. Sometimes I feel it in my head. Sometimes I feel it in my veins. Who knows what it is on a scientific level. But on a woo level, maybe it's molecules moving, synapses syncing or hormones harmonizing. It’s energy for sure. It’s an anatomical aha. 

Like any signal, if the environment is too noisy — due to actual noise or stress or distraction or overwhelm — it can be hard to hear. I hear signals best when my mind and heart are open and my lips are closed. Like a flesh and bone and blood radar detection system. We’re sentient beings. We’re sensing, filtering, detecting, amplifying, classifying, deciding. The quiet moments can let me know what to give voice to — be it a song or a word or a simple newsletter message typed out on a keyboard.

What is your signal? In what circumstances do you notice it? What happens next?

As you roll into your weekend, notice what gives you energy. Notice what keeps returning. Notice what feels true to you. Your heart can walk you straight to where your new path begins. 

If you haven’t listened to my interview with Katrine Formby, you can listen here or anywhere you listen to podcasts. Coming up next is my interview with Sophia Herzog-Gibb. I hope you’ll listen in to another conversation to connect.

New Podcast

I’ve thought about ways to be able to meet more people and to build more connections in my life. To learn more, to expand my vision for what is possible and to ground into what is real and true. A recurring desire when I’d get quiet continued to be to start another podcast. That’s because with 2.2 million English language podcasts already existing in the world, the world needs one more.

In truth, this is a little bit of a social prescription for me. I’m a seeker and a searcher, and I am trying to find my way, just like you. I’ve decided to stop self- censoring to the degree that I have for so long, and I’ve decided to stop being so scared of using my voice or even hearing it. Because of that, I will be sharing conversations to connect from my new podcast with you starting today.

This morning I picked up a book I’d read years ago. It’s called Invisible Acts of Power by Carolyn Myss. In it, she writes, “Many people have creative ideas and yearnings that they do not pursue out of the fear of financial failure or embarrassment, or because they are reluctant to step outside of their normal way of life and change it. They abort their dreams, not realizing that psychological and emotional abortions can be more devastating than physical ones.”

And so, here is my simple offering to you. This is my first podcast episode of my new show called Voreen. As you may know, that’s my middle name. I am calling these conversations to connect, and I want to ask more intimate questions where appropriate, including what people are in the middle of, what they are doing to get through it, and also what books they’re reading, do they like to sing, would they sing for me on the podcast?

I’ve asked myself what is the thread of all the people I hope to talk to on this podcast? The answer is kindness. The thread that links all the people I hope to talk to will be kindness. Again, this is a social prescription for me, and I’m sharing it with you in case you need a little hope Rx.

Whatever you are in the middle of, I hope for you that it brings you joy if not today then someday. And that it brings you health and well-being, if not today then someday. And that it brings you a sense of fulfillment and purpose, if not today then someday.

The podcast is not even available on all platforms yet. This is so fresh that the ink hasn’t even dried.

It is my imperfect offering. And there will be more imperfect offerings to come. Link to the first episode here: https://www.stephaniehimango.com/podcast.

Presence

I remember my grandpa sitting at the upright piano playing songs while grandkids scooted in closer, gathering around him. His back was straight as all nine and a half fingers danced along the piano keyboard. He’d sing, “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” and when it was time, we'd bark, “Ruff, ruff!” And then squeal, “I do hope that doggie’s for sale.” 

Ease. Joy.

At Christmas years later, when he picked up a guitar, harmonica or accordion, we stirred with anticipation because that meant the singing was about to begin. We passed around sheets of lyrics since nobody knew more than one verse of any song. Grandpa always sat on the end, never in the middle, and he softly tapped not just one but both feet as he played. I’d watch his fascinated eyes scanning the room, taking in the joy of the moment.

That was his way. 

What am I trying to show you here? To say? My grandpa, our grandpa, was so easy to be around. That sounds like a small thing until you realize how rare it is. His kindness was like a warm field of energy that surrounded him and enveloped you.

As a child, I didn't have a word for it.

Whether he was playing music, sharing cookies, delivering Meals on Wheels, going to the nursing home to “play for the old people” (who were all younger than him), or simply sitting in his chair listening, he gave his full attention.

He was present.

He never seemed to be rushing toward the next thing. When you spoke, he listened. Really listened. He found humor and lightness in simple moments.

He would turn up his hearing aids and lean in.

“Ohhhh.”

His eyes would brighten.

“Is that right?”

His eyebrows would rise.

“Oh, okay.”

These were simple responses. But they carried something many of us are hungry for: the feeling that what we are saying matters. That we are safe to say what is on our heart.

Today, we talk a lot about communication. We talk about leadership, connection and influence. But maybe all of those start with presence.

When I think about him now, I don't just remember the songs he played or the stories he told. What I remember — and what all of us remember most — is how it felt to sit in a room with him. Calm. Safe. Seen.

His most lasting gift wasn't music, although it remains. His truest gift was making people feel like they mattered. Every adult and child — family, friend or stranger — felt this way in his presence.

In a world that is so distracted, that may be one of the greatest gifts a person can give.

Create Before You Consume

Collage of drawings in my 2026 Creativity Calendar. Available here.

I admire people who put their craft or heart or any part of themselves out into the world if it is not in their nature to do so. Maybe some people never experience the psychological stop signs that prevent them from expressing themselves. But there’s a whole population of us who, when we put something out into the world — particularly something creative — we are doing it in spite of ourselves. I mean, who ever said creativity was supposed to be tidy? Who ever said creativity was supposed to be perfect? And yet, we silently recite these stories to ourselves all the time.

When I find myself pulled to create, but then shying away from doing it for fear of judgment (not just from others, but my own too) I do better to do it anyway. We all do. To just see if magic can happen. Why line up a field-full of stop signs in our anticipatory mind before we whirl a wondrous wand? Why do we halt before we hallelujah? Why do we deprive ourselves the chance to experience the joy of seeing a dazzling something come to life on paper or in song or elsewhere? Why do we allow invisible bonds to cage our innate desire to self-express?

When we do this, we don’t just experience an innocuous void from not creating something. We don’t just suffer the pain and shame of self-censorship. And we don’t just deprive others of seeing our vulnerability as a beacon.

We also rob them and ourselves of the cellular energy boost experienced while witnessing something you might call bravery or at least guts. Lastly, I believe the biggest damage that comes from stopping ourselves before we even attempt a creative act is that we deprive our spirit, our inner child, of something essential. It’s not about the end product — it’s about what we experience in the process. When it comes to creative expression, the best thing we can do is express. And it's only through this trial that the miracles of innovation have ever come to life.

My drawings may be crude and my skills may be lacking, but I know that doing the thing is better than not doing the thing. And I know that creating the thing is better than judging the thing. My daily creativity calendar circles are a place to start my day practicing my 2026 mantra which is to Create Before I Consume. It will earn me no Emmys or Oscars, it won’t land me on a best sellers list, and my one inch by one inch drawings won’t be sought out for museum or gallery display. But doing this… Just. Makes. Me. Feel. Good. It calms my nervous system. It’s really hard to share of ourselves because creativity is vulnerable. But the birds I hear singing every morning sing to sing, not to perform. If we could just remember that, right?

I find joy in appreciating the creative imaginings you and people all over the world make real, so I have to believe that when I share my own creative blossoms or weeds with others, those might could sprout something in you too. (Might could is an expression I’ve learned in Texas.) We are not meant to hoard our joy, our light or our true being.

What if we could bring ourselves to a place where we create to create… and give not a second thought or a micro-sparkle of energy to the judgment that may follow?

A Friday Night Light

I looked up at the clock today and it was 4:17pm. “Ha!” I blurted, laughing. I caught the numerals 4:17 on 4/17/2026. I love these kinds of synchronicities, don’t you? And if that’s not enough, I woke up this morning at 4:17am. I’m not making that up.

Sometimes I find light in my days through synchronicities like that and sometimes through little moments of connection with another person.

In the name of connection, I am send out a Friday night light.

At the crack of dawn today, I was seated next to a man at my morning meeting. That’s why I was up so dang early on a Friday. I sometimes have Friday morning meetings and today I woke up just before the 4:30am alarm.

Anyway, since I’d been the guest speaker at the meeting just a couple of weeks prior, the man sitting next to me asked me to tell him more about what I do for work. During my presentation, I enthusiastically shared my recent experiences covering the Olympics and Paralympics for NBC. But the man wanted to know what I do when I’m not doing that.

I told him I’m gathering stories for families.

And the best thing happened. His wheels immediately started turning. And he told me about his surname and how it was changed at Ellis Island but he doesn’t know what it was originally. He told me he once met a waiter in New York City who shared his same uncommon surname and they tried to piece together whether or not they were related. They decided not. One family had come from Poland and the other had Russian Jewish roots. But they made a connection.

Then he told me a story about his grandfather who was one of nine children. He lived in the Jefferson Park section of Chicago in the 1920s, was a butcher and also the breeder of little dogs. I can’t remember what kind — chihuahuas maybe? Don’t worry, this story is not going where you just thought it might.

The butcher had a frequent visitor who always arrived flanked by two henchmen. The man was not interested in the butcher’s meat, but instead in the little dogs he was breeding. Every time a new litter was ready, the man and his sidekicks showed up and bought two, three, four dogs at a time.

Why did he buy so many of these fabulous little dogs? To pay off judges, cops and more.

Can you guess who the customer was?

I could see my friend’s joy in sharing this tale, and he concluded wistfully that he needed to write it down for his kids or one day it will be a lost story.

Exactly. Get the stories down somehow. If you need help, I’m here for you.

This is your first Friday night light. Have a beautiful weekend.

When Grit Meets Grace: Who Were You Two Years Ago?

Today I was driving through the mist of morning and listening to The One Thing Podcast with Jay Papasan when Jay made a casual comment that became my most important takeaway. It came in response to a hypothetical question of who were you two years ago?

He and guest Courtney Johnson were focusing on Career Cheat Codes and touched briefly on not comparing ourselves to others. Instead, compare ourselves only to who we were a year ago or two years ago. 

[Who were you two years ago?] 

[Hmmm. We moved to Texas two years ago. I started my business, Great Family Legacies, two years ago. In fact, we moved into this house on this day two years ago today.]

The windshield wipers pumped.

Jay and Courtney were reminding listeners like me that by doing this, we avoid social comparison and those menacing feelings of imposter syndrome. I’m getting to my aha.

When you asked yourself, above, who you were a year ago or two years ago, did your body make a quick assessment of your own reality? Did you sit up a little straighter feeling a sense of pride? Did you slump a little with a feeling of vague dread? Did you have a well, hell! response that requires its own novella? Or maybe your answer is it’s complicated.

Who was I two years ago?

I instinctively knew the answer.

And so did you.

For me, in some ways, I'm better than I was two years ago. In other ways, I’m not. 

But here’s the part of the podcast conversation that captured my imagination, and I wanted to share it with you:

Jay said something on the order of: “Maybe we’re not in a better place than we were two years ago, but maybe we’ve weathered a storm without retreating.” 

Maybe we’ve weathered a storm without retreating.

Maybe we’ve weathered a storm without retreating.

And that’s something.

This nuanced way of looking at this question is, to me, a vision of grit meeting grace.

May your grit meet your grace today.

And thank you, Jay and Courtney.

The Pond

When it hasn’t rained and the water is low, a white culvert pipe is visible jutting out from the earthen pond wall. Sometimes evaporation draws the veil back further, revealing errant plastic bags or trash discarded by humans into what is otherwise a patch of enchantment.

We are blind to it most of the time when there’s enough water to change the visual landscape. With some rain, we just see the pond face gleaming — her soul sending glints of glittering light into the break of day. Facets. Reflections of the trees and brush appear like a painting, a mottled mirrored version of the naked eye’s sharper image. Ducks and little birds dazzle with their airborne approach. Their flight, seemingly effortless. They land with elegance and seem giddy here, as though they’ve lost all track of time. Or is that us?

Even though it’s a suburban pond, to us it’s a magical nature colony. The dark, sometimes black water is surrounded by shaggy brush, yellow-green grass and fringed by straw-colored reeds. The flora is quiet and steady, springing to life with feathery youth playing on nature’s jungle gym.

Morning dew clings to blades of grass as we march up the small hillside to see if we can glimpse our friends — feathered and otherwise — from higher ground. I feel the cool dampness through my woven shoes as the blades shed their beads. Once we gain the tiniest bit of elevation, that’s when we gasp, point or whisper. “There!” That’s when this daily gift is fully revealed. 

On this day, when I haven't packed my phone or camera, there are two adult ducks and seven little ones, one great egret and one regal hawk. Just… splendor. We get lost in their graceful movements as we stand in awe, delighting at the smallest details. Then we spot a well-camouflaged heron too, blending into the blotted mix of water and earth. It’s our first time to see him this year. As we observe, a chorus is warming up all around us — countless red winged blackbirds, grackles, mockingbirds, bluejays, robins and cardinals. To the east, a creamsicle sky is melting into sunrise.

The early morning light is reflected in the pond now, along with the tree and leaves that twirl in shades of emerald and vanilla mint. We call this cottonwood “hawk tree” because that’s where we usually see hawk friend. He is not alone here anymore. Just the other day, we saw four hawks — diving, swooping, gliding, perching then even pecking the ground. One by one, they disappeared into denser woods. 

The yellow-crowned night heron who we’ve nicknamed Bandit for his eye patch makes a stealthy deliberate march deeper into the pond. He appears light as a feather atop this small patch of wetland. With each high step of his spindly legs, he advances in the direction of the ducks. Will the ducks mind? We wait. The adults don’t move at all and the ducklings are busy showing off their emerging swimming skills. Peaceful coexistence. A turtle head breaks the surface and creates a ripple, then disappears. The ripple remains. 

As we stand lost in wonder, a deep inhale is summoned, involuntary. Mother Nature has gently woven her golden threads through our eyes and perception and into our lungs. It’s so rare I can take a deep satisfying breath these days. Alchemy.

Replenished, we say thank you to the universe for her blessings, her treasures. Nature is life. She stirs our imaginations, our breath and our bodies. Our core and limbs and brain awaken, drawn forth by the pull of love found in the nature all around us and within us. From the hawk to the wildflower. Now I remember what I forgot for a moment. We are one.

A Simple Kindness

Have you ever noticed your shoulders drop after the din of an air conditioner clicks off? Or maybe you’ve been sitting in what you thought was silence, then some kind of far off machinery powers down and you realize there hadn’t been silence at all? We can function through layers of friction, but by definition, they don’t make a situation easier. Our brains and bodies compensate and absorb and rearrange for it, and often that all happens unconsciously.

Storytelling opportunities soldier on through every kind of friction — rain or shine. On this day, we were working at the Alpine venue in Cortina, Italy. It was the final days of the Paralympics in March of 2026, and we finally saw some real winter weather. We were glad for it. 

But what goes along with that are added layers of friction. It’s okay. We can handle friction. Journalism trains you to keep moving through friction — to adjust, absorb, and stay calm enough to get the story. On this day, it looked like this: Working outside in snow mixed with rain. Bulky clothing. The fickleness of our comms. Standing right under a huge speaker. Trying desperately not to block anyone’s view. It was all going to be okay, but honestly, it was a little harder to move, a little harder to hear, and in a moment it would be a little harder for me to see too.

I heard my glasses hit the muddy metal bleachers. When I looked down, I noticed one lens had popped out, and my heart sank a little. There was a lot of day ahead of me, and I’d forgotten to pack a spare pair to the mountain that morning. I always joke that I can see Cleveland from just about anywhere, but to read something near or small, I need my readers. 

I stretched my leg out over the clear lens, kicking it out of the way with my boot. I bent to scoop up my frames and continued walking down the ramp to speak to a colleague. Onward. Moments later, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. I turned and looked up at a volunteer wearing a neon reflector vest. He’d been right next to me in the congested little bottleneck when my glasses fell. 

Tall and thin, he extended his hand down from the ramp above and practically whispered, “Give me your glasses. I try to fix.” I didn’t know anyone had noticed what happened let alone cared. I reached into my pocket and gave him a wan smile. I said thank you as I handed him my frames — my gaze holding an extra moment to express my appreciation for his optimism. My posture lifted a little as he turned away. If my thinking said Hm, I wonder…. my feeling was hope.

I carried on with my business and soon walked back up the ramp. As I approached the volunteer’s post, he was smiling a half smile as he handed me my glasses. He said no words. Two lenses back in place. The only evidence of the spectacle debacle was the scraped lens from using my foot to slide it out of the way. All that I had on me to give him — in addition to my words of thanks and gratitude — was a Paralympic pin. Hopefully it felt like a form of payment since pins are sort of a form of currency at events like this.

Despite the continued forms of friction I described above, in that moment, I felt my shoulders drop a little. I gently exhaled. And everything felt a little easier.

I’ll be keeping these glasses as a memory of the power of a simple kindness. And of the angels among us.

When I see something, I want to be quicker to ask myself, can I do something? 

Can I do something to make someone’s shoulders drop a little?

Paying Attention to Attention

My friend scanned handmade earrings displayed on top of the pizza counter, and I turned to look out through the tiny storefront window to catch the gaze of another friend who was saving our table outside. I held up a Coke in one hand then a Dolomiti beer in the other. He gestured to the Coke. Va bene. That makes three identical orders.

It was a dinner of kings and queens: Three coworker-friends demolishing three pizza pies and three Coke Zeros. One for each of us. It might sound ordinary, but it felt to me like an intoxicating blend of cool late winter air, savory sustenance and deep gratitude. It was so much more than fresh tomatoes, hand-tossed dough and fake sugars. This was a moment that felt like life. It was joy. It was a sense of being alive.

Just as we finished, we were joined by a fourth friend. 

Together, we set out into the Italian mountain village for a group gelato experience like an uneven string of fascinated distracted school kids. We trotted through cobblestoned streets with visions of pistachios and hazelnuts and maybe salted caramel coned treats. Anticipation was high after our carby culinary crusade, and I was already in an elevated state: Great company, delicious food, invigorating winter temps, the novelty of travel and the privilege of fulfilling work. Not only that, we had supportive and encouraging families back home. It was a rare bit of free time in our wall to wall work schedules, and I was one hundred percent on board to enjoy every second of it.

Day was turning into night when I noticed an illuminated shop window that was a jungle of plants and flowers. I followed my heart and walked through the portal into this floor-to-ceiling Eden with one intention: to inhale. I wanted to breathe in the green goodness I glimpsed through the window pane. And with one breath, I was transported. I called out to my friends through the rectangular portal, “Come in! Just come in and inhale.”

The four of us tucked into the tiny shop like cold travelers on a snowy evening. We weren’t cold, and it wasn’t snowing, but still, an enchanting mood burst from every plant and flower, swirling around us like benevolent spirits dressed as floral circus performers. Together it all felt as though we were Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening —  the Robert Frost poem that blends the contrasting energies of beauty and duty.

Inside, the shopkeeper welcomed each of us with a warm smile. Her associate  reminded me of skier Patrick Halgren. He entered and exited back and forth through the door, each time nestling another potted plant into this enchanted space. 

Two Brits and two Americans, we were in Cortina, Italy, to work at the Milan-Cortina 2026 Winter Paralympics, so athletes and their stories were front of mind even on an evening of exploration.

The store windows in this town feature mannequins sporting dreamy ski outfits and leathery luxury goods. Prada and Louis Vuitton. Fashion and effortless style were as all-encompassing here as the surrounding Dolomites. I’m telling you, no matter how well you dress, no matter your level of creativity and style, you would be inspired by the sartorial state of this place. The price tags mostly matched the elevation. I know because I arrived without my luggage. (It arrived a few days later). Shopping for a few basics, I found a single pair of utilitarian underwear for $17 and a pair of brown and white striped socks for $9. A quick scan of the JC Penney website and I found a six pack of underwear for 12 bucks. 

Anyway, of all the tantalizing souvenirs I contemplated buying in this Aspen of Italy, it was inside this sweet merchant’s shop that I found an imperfect handcrafted metal ornament with the relief of a deer on it. I felt butterflies. No, seriously. Even more than the suede cowboy hats, the leather boots and the cream-colored wide-lined corduroy trousers I coveted in other storefront displays, it was this little piece of art that excited me most. I suppose it’s because it has a soul after being caringly crafted by someone’s hands. The irregular piece of thin square tin is no more than  2” x 2” and is broken only by a narrow leather cord for hanging it somewhere or maybe fastening it to a Christmas tree. I asked the merchant about the price for one piece. The answer: two Euros — a little more than two dollars.

This green vortex finally released us out onto the street and into the blissful destination of our gelato desserts. As we relaxed into the deer-adorned gelato shop benches, I was thinking about attention. About joy. About divine guidance.

My life would not be unfulfilling if I’d neglected the pull to enter the flower shop that night. But by following my joy, my curiosity, my attention, I found a little bit of magic. And my friends experienced a little magic too. I wouldn’t have wanted us to miss that. It was a reminder to me to pay attention to where your intuition leads you — especially when nature is involved. It may lead you into a moment of magic.