When Plans Change and Magic Begins...
Trust the Pivot!
The best-laid plans of mice and men oft' go awry… leaving us grief and pain, in place of promised joy.
Boy, did the Scottish poet Robert Burns get that right!
This past Holy Saturday, one moment I was upright and heading for my car — rotisserie chicken from the grocery store in hand — and the next I was kissing the asphalt, my ankle turned sharply in an uneven crack.
Sprawled across the pavement, but triumphant — I had saved the chicken!
An older man, his son, another gentleman, and a woman rushed to my aid. Angels! After a moment to assess the damage (it didn’t seem too severe, except for the blow to my pride), I was up and on my way.
The very next morning — Easter Sunday — I set off on a 31-day road trip. I was bound for the Ozarks of Arkansas, the Cumberland Mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee, and my beloved Appalachians of West Virginia. I was so excited!
Night one: no sleep — too sore. A weary drive to Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Night two: maybe two hours of sleep — still too sore. Another exhausted drive, this time to Amarillo, Texas.
That night, Bill called from near Machu Picchu, Peru — he had just spoken at an Ultimate Experience event. His voice sounded tired and strained.
"I'm really sick, honey," he said. "I may have to go to the hospital."
Yikes. With every mile, I was driving farther away from my passport — the very thing I might need if I had to fly to Bill’s side in a medical emergency. (He's home now — tired, but recovering from a gastrointestinal ailment.)
That night, sore and worried, I slept maybe two hours at best.The next morning, somewhere in the Texas plains, I faced a hard truth:
Sometimes wisdom isn't heroic; it’s quiet.
It’s the whispered voice that says, Not this way. Not now.
I turned the car around. Seven hundred miles later, I cruised into the city of Phoenix — and burst into tears.
I had so loved planning this trip. I had looked forward to nearly a month of quiet solitude, writing, and the healing embrace of forested mountains.
As I waded through rush hour traffic, a sea of cars and weary faces, I asked myself gently, What am I really grieving?
It was the green fragrance of forests. Long hikes under a canopy of deciduous trees and evergreens. The majesty of mountains. The sacred quiet where my soul could listen, write, and dream.
The next morning, still in turmoil, I pulled a card from the Shaman’s Dream oracle deck.
The card was "Closing Door: Completion," and it offered this message:
"Every door that shuts is an invitation to find another way, another path, to your destination. Better to recognize this earlier rather than later. Stop wallowing in pain and lingering on the reasons why things did not work. Bow deeply before that closed door, give thanks for the lessons, and set yourself free."
I breathed deeply.
And then, one by one, I began calling the fourteen lodges I had so carefully reserved, canceling each booking.
Midway through the calls, a thought — light and clear — floated into my mind:
There’s another way.
Within minutes, I had booked a flight to Charleston, West Virginia, and made reservations at two different lodges nestled in the green hills of my beloved former home. I would spend time with my family there, too.
So, I'll be home when Bill arrives, with a week to tend to him — and then, I’m off for Linda Time!
I am excited again.
I don’t know why my original road trip unraveled, but I trust, as Burns said, it is "for promised joy."
Somehow, I sense this new trip will be gentler, more aligned with what my soul truly needs. And I’ll be in "West-by-God-Virginia"... almost heaven.
One thing I love about myself is my "bounce back-ability."
Long ago, another major disappointment revealed to me that I have an uncanny capacity to grieve hard — and then reconnoiter. Reinvent. Rise.
I trust that in myself.
I’m not afraid to have my feelings, to grieve deeply, to honor the goddess of mourning. But I also trust the moment when she whispers, It’s time.
Time to turn toward the magic of transformation, the miracle of reinvention, the breath of rebirth.
I think of that moment as the "turnaround time" — the sacred pivot when consciousness gently invites me to lift my eyes from the past and face the horizon of new possibility.
It is as natural as breathing.
What about you?
What do you know about your own "turnaround time"?
How do you honor your grief, your disappointment — and how do you sense the sacred shift when it’s time to rise again?
We can miss it if we're not listening.
It’s easy to overstay in the land of the underworld.
Creative expression helps me when I'm looking for the "promised joy" hidden in the rubble of setbacks.
And speaking of creative expression...
Life has a way of weaving beauty from broken threads.
In the spirit of new beginnings, I’m thrilled to share some joyful news:
My latest book, Elegies to a Dark Goddess, is complete — and will be released this July!
Here’s how I’ve described it on the back cover:
There comes a moment when a woman stops seeking permission… and begins writing her own myth.
Elegies to a Dark Goddess is a poetic alchemy of grief, power, and rebirth. A spiritual journey through darkness into the luminous knowing that lives at the heart of every woman. With the soul of a mystic and the precision of a spiritual strategist and healer, Dr. Linda Sandel Pettit offers more than poetry — she offers a mirror. A spell. A fierce invitation to reclaim your creative voice, your intuitive knowing, your sacred leadership.
Not just a book; it’s a transmission.
A path home to knowing — you are magic itself.
Some early words of praise:
"…Luminous vulnerability and fierce grace. Not just poems, they are initiations."
— Terri Broughton, Artist and Coach"…Messages of divine love."
— Patsy Kisner, Appalachian Poet and Author of Until the Surface Breaks
I can’t wait to share Elegies to a Dark Goddess with you — a reflection of everything I've learned about trusting grief, reclaiming power, and dancing with magic.
It would mean the world to hear how it touches your own journey
.