Transcription
Around the Cosmic Campfire by Tony Wright
Chapter 32: Jack Canefield
I spent much of a decade as a caregiver to my grown daughter, who was chronically ill. On late nights of despair, it occurred to me how much I needed and wanted to get this book done. Just thinking about it was nourishing and exciting; it kept my spirit alive. It gave me something to look forward to in the treacherous times while waiting for a kidney donor to show up for my girl, who was suffering every day through dialysis. It also felt like the book was something important to do for others. I felt that I had a message to convey, but how would I organize the three-ring binder full of over 40 years' worth of type sheets? Besides that, what would I really do with the book, anyways? I was not a marketer. That was the question I kept tossing around. The thoughts that millions of people out there are writing books and sending them out to the public in such a glut of authors—how does an author actually get to be read? How did they get seen or heard? I had no idea. I also had no financial resources to really help myself toward marketing and promotion. We had been in the poor health, poverty segment for many years.
I began to ponder. I remembered a personal curiosity from years gone by about a lovely author of our time, Jack Kingfield. He wrote a book, *Chicken Soup for the Soul*. There was a collection akin to it that followed. As one curious story went, he needed a turn toward positive finances at one critical point before his book career found its fullest frame. He decided to take action to help manifest what he needed. He wrote a large check for the money he needed and posted it above his bed so he could see it, invite it in, and draw to him the things that he desired and the financial relief he eventually got. His desired check—and not surprisingly—was for just short of one hundred thousand dollars. That was the story I heard, and I loved it and never forgot it. I always hoped it was close to being true, as I leaned on it in trying times. It seemed to me he had affirmed that we could do anything if we put our mind to it. It was my reminder: we can draw anything to us.
There was a time after that when I realized he was involved in the same health company that I was. It was a great product, and I remember hearing him offer a motivational speech, and I thought it would be so great to meet him, as he was very inspiring. As I got back into my *Around the Cosmic Campfire* writings, it took me three years to pull the pages together towards this last story. In one of the years, I thought of Jack Kingfield again and announced to myself that if he can do it, I can do it. Several times in the following year, he wafted through again, and I smiled at being quietly energized that someone could find success with serving the masses—something as simple as philosophical chicken soup for their souls. Perhaps I could do it too, inviting my audience to just sit comfortably around a cosmic campfire under the night sky. Would it be as tasty as soup for the soul? I did not know.
In the summer of 2016, thoughts of Jack Canfield—the man I did not know personally—got stronger and came out of nowhere, and I wondered if I should write to him, either snail mail or email. What would I say? “Hey Jack, I’ve been mentally stalking you for years, and would you be my book writer mentor?” I laughed. Of course, I withheld that letter. In November of 2016, he popped in again, and I thought if I believed contacting him would be helpful, I should write his name on a piece of paper and put it above my bed, like he had done with his check. Perhaps his personal address would come to me. Plus, as I reasoned, I could be reminded every day to keep the faith and devotion to my book—that he himself did about his own book, although that felt just a little creepy. Posting his name above my bed, I was willing to do it. It was at that time my daughter was well enough to leave home and move away after healing from her kidney transplant. I moved back up to my own bedroom, which I had gifted her with for three years, but the vaulted ceiling was too high for me to tape Jack Canefield up there. What to do next? Ah, I got one of the emails blasted from Jack’s company about a coaching opportunity, and so I answered it with a personal reply, but it went to a dead mailbox. I assumed I never heard back from anybody, but that was okay, as it was then that I got the message to rest—just rest in this. If he was important to me in some professional way, maybe he would come to me. So I did. I rested in my faith and how things work and continued battling out the rest of my *Cosmic Campfire* before Christmas in that same year.
My friend Susan, who had at one time hosted the Edgar Cayce meetings up the road for me, called to get together for the holidays. I had not spent time with her for almost a year. Somehow, I invited her and our mutual friend Katie to come for dinner, although I was a bit out of practice with making company food, but I felt ready to let the world back in again from a long strand of caregiving. I was ready to open myself up again from a bit of depression and sworn reclusiveness in the woods I had manufactured after my daughter left. Clue: This is a very necessary step for receiving things you want—you have to open the door and let them in. In the middle of dinner, Susan shared her own story of synchronicity with us, and she was quite excited to tell it. She was a member of the garden club in her very sparse spare time, since she was an active real estate agent in the area. She had been in the middle of a garden club meeting where it was announced that a woman had called and was hoping to join as a new member—someone who was moving here from California. They were talking about if she could join, as there really weren’t any openings at that time for new members. They mentioned her name, and as Susan left the meeting, she went to the parking lot to check her phone messages. She discovered there was a message from a woman looking to buy a house out in our rural area. She was from California. It was the same one—it was the same woman who wanted to join the garden club. Wow. These amazing synchronicities are so amazing. Susan ultimately helped the woman, Janet, buy a house just up the road from here and also closer to me out here in the boondocks. Her house was within walking distance to me, in fact, if I wanted to. Susan was excited to tell me about her and thought she and I would get along so great, and she would get us together soon. Susan had no knowledge of what I had been putting so much attention on for years—not one single iota of a clue. She continued to tell us that the woman was the book marketing manager for Jack Canfield. With her help, his book soared right to the top in amazing record time. I was at risk for spitting my mouth full of food out all over the place, but I held myself together. I could not believe what I was hearing. I was in awe then and continue to be in awe today of the strands we get on and how things work to draw people, places, and things to us that we desire or deem important. And for Janet, the acquisition of her house, her new friends, her new life came to her as well through various strands of beautiful synchronicity—from Los Angeles to the wilderness of Tennessee. What a dance.
I was so happy to make a new friend out here in our rural neighborhood. I had no idea what any of this transaction meant to me regarding Jack, but it was an exciting thought that one day down the road, perhaps he might show up in my neighborhood. Maybe he would consider a cup of tea with a fellow author for a moment or two. It made me smile as I explored the idea of being able to personally thank him for inspiring me to be bold and brave and to completely, without any censoring, put myself onto the page. Since that night with Susan at dinner, I have spent precious time with Janet and feel very grateful to have her presence in my neighborhood and in my home. My angels seem continually clever and surprise me all the time if I just have faith. It seems like they are saying to me all the time, “See, we are listening—just tell us what you need, little lady.” Into Jack, if you’re out there listening, I thank you for your inspiration. Here, I thank you for reminding me our souls need a little warm, nourishing soup of encouragement from time to time as we move through this life. And maybe, just maybe, I will share this story with you over a cup of tea in the outreaches of one incredibly beautiful county in Tennessee. No matter what, I send you, by all means, my admiration and gratitude for being infinitely inspirational.