A few weeks ago, my colleague Karen Nell and I were scheduled to fly from Boston to Buffalo for a strategic planning session with 25 participants early the next morning.  It was one of those rare early March days without snow, so we were feeling pretty lucky.  We had a 4:30 p.m. flight, not the last one of the day either, so we also were feeling confident that we’d get to our destination.

By 3:30 p.m., though, the signs were ominous.  Our flight started accumulating one delay after another, apparently due to mechanical issues.  Finally, it was cancelled. Karen Nell and I began scrambling with our client to consider alternatives.  All other flights to Buffalo had been cancelled or were full for the next two days, so our choices were either to drive or reschedule.

Then, amazingly, our flight was reinstated.  Passengers were called back from parking lots and baggage claims.  We celebrated and waited.  And waited.  And then started to wonder.  Finally, at 8:30 p.m., our now-repaired plane was reassigned to another route, and our Buffalo flight was definitively cancelled.  No explanation. Barely an apology. No assistance.

Karen Nell had driven to the airport and her car was in the parking garage.  We agreed to make the drive to Buffalo.  I don’t know what made us decide to do what we did next, but neither of us hesitated.  We stood in the middle of the passenger waiting area and announced, “We’re driving to Buffalo right now and we have two seats.  Anyone want to join us?”

Without missing a beat, a young man stepped forward, shouldered his backpack, and replied, “I’m in.”  Then a young woman, who seemed almost surprised by what she was about to say, proposed to join us as well.  All four of us were vulnerable in the unknown of each other. Yet in the wake of our shared experience, we trusted each other’s good intentions, no questions asked.

It turned out that the young man worked in Boston, but lived in Toronto.  He’d been planning to fly home to spend the weekend with his 14-month-old daughter.  The young woman was originally from Buffalo and now lived in Cambridge. Her grandfather was dying and this was her weekend to say good-bye.  This is what we held in our car – birth and death, the full cycle of life.  Precious cargo.

Intrepid travelers, we made our way west, through the dark, frigid night, in soft conversation and occasional slumber.  Karen Nell, stalwart and steady, safely piloted us to our destination.  We arrived at 4 a.m., wished each other well and went our separate ways.  Our client compassionately delayed our morning start time by 2 hours, so we got some desperately needed sleep and our work went off without further incident.

On the drive home (we couldn’t fly because we had her car), Karen Nell and I talked about why we had offered to share our ride with two strangers, and why neither of us had hesitated.  It’s not that we are incautious or lack discernment.  But the heart knows what the heart knows.  And we were thinking with our hearts.  We were in that place of deep trust, knowing without a doubt the “rightness” of what we were doing.  In that process of trusting, something wounded was healed.  Anger dissipated, replaced with delight.  Cold yielded to warmth.  The world was a sweeter place to be.

So here are today’s questions:  How do you quiet your mind in order to hear your heart?  And when you listen to your heart, what is it telling you?

While visiting northern Mexico last fall, I took a photo of this amazing tree.  Changes over time had hollowed its insides to the point where its trunk looked like a stage prop in a children’s theater.  Definitely not something that could hold up a magnificent crown of leaves.  How was it possible?  How could this tree continue to sustain itself?

We all make assumptions; it’s part of how we order and make sense of our world.  Assumptions can give us the illusion of structure and safety. But those assumptions also can limit us, restrict our creativity, and deny our openness to what might be.  Like the tree.  If I looked only at its trunk and root structure, I would have assumed it was dead.  Instead, it had grown to redefine itself as a work of art, a living sculpture, and a playground.

So here are some questions for you today.  What limiting assumptions have you made about what you’re capable of in your life’s work?  Have you committed to your ongoing growth and the leafing out of your canopy of capabilities?

Next time, when you think of what’s possible, remember the tree.

I am fortunate to work with many wonderful colleagues every day.  One very special colleague is Gabby, our canine assistant – and a labradoodle.  Her job is to remind us to “take a paws” occasionally from the endless stream of emails and to-dos to smell the roses (in her case, literally).

Gabby is a senior citizen now, approaching 14 years on this earth.  Every morning, I guide her to the stairs and hold her collar while she works up the courage to take that first step down.  Her failing eyes have robbed her of her depth perception.  She is reluctant, shrinking from an undifferentiated horizontal plane that she knows will play tricks on her.  Yet once she dares to take that first step, she descends the others with the confidence and grace of yesterday.

Never the kind of dog to wolf down her food, she has an even more discerning palate these days.  Sometimes food rests easily in her stomach; other times, she barely nibbles if the food is not to her liking.  She seems to know best what she needs and eats accordingly.  Designer dog food is appreciated, along with home-cooked meals.  I create intriguing mixtures of wet and dry and people foods.  She likes these best.  I’ve become a chef for my dog.

Whole days are spent sleeping.  Typically, she transitions from one doggie bed to the next, following the sunlight or me.  Occasionally, duty calls.  A FedEx or UPS truck needs to be chased from the property.  Another dog passing by requires intruder barking.  Old habits persist, despite the fact that she’s lost her hearing as well as her sight.  She has a job to do and she still performs it beautifully.  She’s part of the team.

A trip to the beach in the autumn sunlight turns back her clock.  Gabby gambols and struts, a friend to all, canine and human, happy to lean up against a perfect stranger, indiscriminate in her loving nature.  If she’s lucky, there will be birds to chase, or the carcass of a crab to munch on.

The tragedy of giving our heart over to a dog is that their life is so abbreviated relative to our own, and painful loss is an inevitable part of the relationship.  I try not to think of the day when she’ll follow her brother “over the Rainbow Bridge” and I’ll be left wishing for just one more afternoon together.  Instead, I treasure every day she has left and wonder at her resilience in the face of stiffening joints, disorienting vision and hearing impairment, and the loss of her lifelong canine companion.  I acknowledge her store of wisdom, and notice how she conserves her energy for what’s important.  She ages with grace.

No amount of wishing for it to be otherwise prevents her from getting older.   I can only appreciate her in the now. She is a treasure too easily overlooked in the busyness of my life.  Still, she calls me to be present every day.  She insists on it.  And a good thing too – we all need such reminders.  Such is the gift she offers – the opportunity to awaken to the preciousness of her being and to be aware of all the exquisite, tender moments in my life.

There’s a lesson for us in Gabby’s story.  Something to do with how we decide what’s important in our work lives and how we show up for each other.  We can get so focused on the task and working to desired outcomes that we forget we are living our lives in the meantime.  Both matter.  So today at work, like Gabby, take a paws, smell the roses, and appreciate your colleagues.