I often sit and ponder in awe at how I’m still alive. I say that with all due grace and respect. I took my first plane ride ever in 1996 to Germany. I stayed there for months. As I was returning back to Houston, I had a layover at JFK airport in NY. There were no cell phones or internet, but what I had is my intuition. I kept feeling something causing anxiety – not fear, but something big I couldn’t explain and I couldn’t find a way to verbalize it or even stop whatever this feeling was. So, I got on the plane heading back to Houston where I landed (after getting slapped in the nose with the pungent smell of mayonnaise and a man engulfing a mayonnaise and white bread sandwich). I walked out of the plane to meet my family (which were not the type to meet me at any coming home). I was like….”why are all of you so white? (I mean whiter than normal) and sobbing?” They said, “Jenny, you made it home. The flight next to you coming from Paris blew up killing all the passengers next your flight. It was TWA flight 800. And I was flight TWA 805. I made it home.” Home has always been my heart, the truest presence. Life is such a fucking gift and how long and how much does it take to believe that you have purpose to be here? This traumatic event led me to find and meet my birth father. And, for that, I am eternally grateful.
Much love, my dear souls. Enjoy your time and love. It’s special. ❤
