The Spirited Life
The official website of Paul Quinn: author, teacher and intuitive consultant

There’s a wonderful secondhand bookstore in my neighborhood that I’ve browsed and shopped for at least seven years. The frequency of my visits qualifies me as a Regular Customer. Yet every time I walk in, the proprietors regard me as if they (A) have never seen me before and (B) merely tolerate my presence. The greetings, which I initiate, are met with a darting of the eyes and a hasty, barely audible “hi.” Having consistently observed them treat other customers this way, I view it as their quirky little pathology and don’t take it personally.

But it bothers me enough to write about it.

My favorite local greeting card shop, a funky, cheerful place, is run by people who—no matter how many times you come in—will greet you with indifference or wariness, and sometimes a withering combination of each. I’ve never considered myself a suspicious-looking person. In fact, some have commented that I look like a grown-up Opie of Mayberry.  And still I get the once-over.

(Note: As a Caucasian, I realize that I am able to write about this casually with a sense of bemusement; for black and brown skinned people, being treated as objects of an establishment’s distrust is an insult of far greater magnitude, occurring for many on a distressingly daily basis. My issues pale in comparison.)

My friend Bob shares my disappointment in the state of merchant hospitality. He recently told me about a camera store he had patronized for over a decade in which the owner never bothered to learn his name or acknowledge him as a familiar face. Deciding that it was no longer okay to feel invisible and unappreciated, Bob eventually took his business elsewhere, a move he admits was overdue.

Bob and I have expressed our mutual bewilderment at how any business owner could fail to understand the importance of hospitality. Why do so many seem unable to express in words or attitudes, “Thanks for coming in! Glad that you chose our business and not our competitors’! I’d like to you to feel good about spending your money here. You are the reason we’re here at all, and it’s my pleasure to help you enjoy the experience so you’ll tell others about it.”

If you’re snickering at the preceding paragraph, perhaps it’s because you too have come to expect indifference.  This is why experiences of genuine hospitality stand out. Whenever I visit my sister in Eugene, Oregon, I’m struck by the consistent friendliness of the people in service roles. Eye contact, greetings, and smiles appear to be the norm. After a sixteen-year-old grocery bagger engaged me in light conversation one morning, I exclaimed to my sister, “Talking teenagers? You do live in a magical place!”

I doubt the bagger’s hospitality is something he picked up in a customer service seminar. The kid just gets it. He likes people, finds them worthy of respect. He’s comfortable in his own skin, unafraid of human interaction.  He may even feel a personal investment in the store, and care about its success.

In Tarot terms, the bagger embodies the essence of THE LOVERS —not the romantic, sexual aspect of the archetype, but the part that informs our ability to focus on people other than ourselves, to connect with our fellow human beings through a core sense of commonality, relatedness, and goodwill.

I’m not saying that hospitable people can’t be found outside of Eugene, Oregon (there’s a postal clerk in my neighborhood who makes Disney theme park characters look inattentive). Nor do I propose that introverted shopkeepers be denied their business licenses. I’m just asking for a little more of their notice, a little engagement. I want merchants to act as if giving them my business makes a difference. If THE LOVERS offers the gift of recognition and appreciation, wouldn’t it be nice to find more of them behind cash registers?

In stories of angelic visitations and interventions, heavenly emissaries appear in many forms.  At their most spectacular, angels make their presence known as shimmering, radiant light, leaving awestruck beholders forever transformed.  Operating at subtler levels, angels have shown up in human form to provide critical interventions for people in peril, only to quite literally disappear upon completion of their divine task.

“My” angel took the latter form.

I was 21 years old, reclining in the examination chair of the family dentist, whom I’ll call “Dr. S.” I should tell you that I never liked Dr. S.; as a young child I would gag during dental exams, and he would give me tight slaps across my cheek, not sharp enough to be heard in the waiting room outside the sliding doors, but hard enough to make me cry. “Stop it,” he’d say in a menacing tone, his face close to mine. The motherly hygienist, Mary, was never present during these exams, and I felt too ashamed to tell my own mother about Dr. S’s tactics. Many years later he would lose his license after it was discovered he had fondled several female patients.

“You’ll need a root canal,” Dr. S. informed me as he poked my tender molar. No longer covered by my family’s dental plan, it dawned on me that I would have to pay for the dental work myself. And then a brighter thought: I could choose my own dentist – someone I actually liked. As if he had heard me and wanted to leave me with something to remember him, Dr. S. suddenly dug into my tooth. I cried out like a wounded animal, my neck and back arcing off the chair, heels digging into the vinyl foot rest, tears streaming down my face. I had never experienced such agony, though it lasted but a few merciful seconds.

For my troubles, the dental assistant slipped me a new toothbrush and dental floss. As I left the chair (voluntarily this time), the memory of the terrible pain and the fear of its return left me trembling. Yet an even deeper nerve was struck, an existential horror at the fact that such pain was even possible. Physical life, it suddenly occurred to my young, invincible self, could include sensations that had the potential to be unbearable. I left the examination room feeling shaken, vulnerable, and in great need of comfort.

As I made my way to the exit, self-conscious about the still-streaming tears in my eyes, I noticed that a guy in the waiting room was watching me.  He was roughly the same age as myself, with brown hair and a slight frame. To say he was “smiling” at me does not begin to describe what was actually transmitted. Something about this young man’s smile beamed palpable waves of peace and reassurance into me that instantly washed away my fear. I felt total love, compassion, and encouragement  from this person, and a feeling of safety and calm so soft I felt like I was floating. I knew I was going to be okay.

And all this transpired in my ten or twelve steps from the examination room to the exit door.

I paused in the parking lot, wanting to go back and try to express my gratitude for the man’s gift of spontaneous healing. I feared, though, that I would be unable to adequately express my appreciation and humility, especially for something so seemingly simple as a smile.

On the other hand, the feeling of grace was so extraordinary that I had to allow for the possibility that he might not even be there—or anywhere in physical form. Angels work fast, and they don’t stick around for thank-you’s.

Whether my angel was human or a Winged One in human form now seems beautifully irrelevant. The work of angels and humans is not so different. Bestowing love is an act of the Divine, no matter the vessel.

Have you had encounters with angels? Write me about it — I’d love to hear from you.

“…an essential connectedness and unity underlie all the levels of reality.”
-  John Stewart Bell, physicist

A dozen years ago I was strolling the busy French Quarter in New Orleans when I noticed the slow approach of a small, mule-driven flower cart. The man seated on the cart kept it close to the sidewalk, making it easier for passersby to stop and select from his buckets of gladiolas, daffodils, and irises. Yet, as colorful as the flowers were, my attention drifted to the mule.

A feeling of appreciation suddenly came upon me not only for this particular animal, but for every beast of burden that has toiled nobly, patiently for man since the invention of the harness.  I found myself hoping the mule was well treated, even loved, as she hauled the flower cart without sign of complaint in the hot midday sun. As the cart came nearer I began to flow good thoughts toward this humble animal.

“Thank you for your service. I wish you a contented life. You are loved.”

Just as the mule and I were about to pass each other along that bustling walkway, me silently beaming blessings, she dipped her head in my direction and gently brushed my forearm with her muzzle.

I am not trying to pass myself off as Saint Francis in this anecdote. Or Dr. Doolittle. Nor do I claim any full-time, Tarzan-like rapport with the animal kingdom. There were actually several factors conspiring together that enabled this meaningful man-mule moment.

Being on vacation, I was especially relaxed and present, pleasurably taking in the French Quarter’s lush courtyards, out-of-the-past facades, and strolling Dixieland bands.  I walked with a sense of discovery, no agendas or expectations (and, in case you’re wondering, no alcohol!). In that receptive state, my heart and eyes open, I had caught the essence of the mule and sent out a current of feeling for her well-being, which, to my utter joy, she acknowledged.

Message sent, message received. It’s that simple.

And that wondrous.

Albert Einstein wrote, “Our task [is to widen] our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” In the Tarot, we see this idea depicted almost literally in the traditional image of the World card. A woman representing expanded, unified consciousness floats joyously in the center of a sphere surrounded by animal and human figures. The card underscores the mystical truth that as creative expressions of the divine Source we are each connected to everyone and every thing. And the feeling that so effortlessly arises from this awareness is love.

© Contents of this site copyright 2009. No portion may be copied or reproduced without the express written permission of Paul Quinn.