A Continuation of Chasing Nirvana

https://thejoysonajourney.com/2026/05/05/chasing-nirvana/

“No, absolutely not,” Harold said, the words landing with a heavy weight that had some real umph behind it.

“But we are supposed to move to Aberdeen,” I retorted.

“How do you know we are supposed to move to Aberdeen? Of all places in Washington state, why Aberdeen?”

“Because God said so,” I said, with such assurance that I could tell Harold was reluctant to challenge me.

“Oh? Is that so? And just how do you know that God said so?”

I turned to face him head-on, shoulders squared with a smirk on my face. I knew I had him backed into a corner, and I took a deliberate pause so this could land with the necessary authority of divine intervention.

“I know that God has placed this on my heart with as much confidence as I know that I was given that angelic sign to give you another chance when we first got together.”

And with that, the conversation came to a screeching halt.

Harold Davidson: husband number two. Until my “honey” came into my life, I was a thousand percent convinced he was “the one.” Now, a little older and much wiser, I know that there are many “ones” who come into our lives to help us learn the lessons we are meant to learn on our soul contract.

We had many ups and downs, especially in the early years. At one point, I had washed my hands of him completely. He begged me for a second chance, and I told him that if I was supposed to stay, God was going to have to give me a sign so certain it was on the level of a burning bush.

And God did.

---

Picture it: Hesperia, 2001.

I’m in a strip mall in a hot, dusty high desert town. I’ve just dropped my children at school and I’m meeting my mother to exchange some paperwork. We’ve chosen a nondescript parking lot—a place of no consequence—as our meeting spot.

I climb out of my car as my mom steps out of her minivan. My sister, Amy, is inside. It’s a mild morning, but you can feel the heat of the “death orb” in the sky already looming, ready to bake the pavement. We exchange the papers and drift into small talk when, all of a sudden, the world narrows down to a single sound.

Click.

We both stare at each other.

Did the van just lock?

That shouldn’t be possible. I lunge for the driver’s side handle and yank. Locked. I run to the sliding door.

Locked.

I look at my mom; I can see the moment the math changes in her head as it registers that her adult daughter, who has significant disabilities, is trapped inside. As the panic starts to climb into her eyes, I move instinctively to kill the fear before it took root.

“Hey,” I said, my voice dripping with that familiar, protective sarcasm. “Look on the bright side: she’s locked in there with the AC running. We’re the ones out here slow-roasting on the asphalt.”

Mom flipped instantly into fight-or-flight mode. “We have to call AAA!” she cried, her hands diving into her pockets, her movements jerky and panicked.

“Mom,” I said, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting my stomach. “Your phone is in the van. Along with your purse. And your daughter.”

She freezes. Her phone sits on the dashboard—perfectly safe, perfectly cool, and perfectly unreachable.

“Look,” I tell her, “it’s going to be quicker if you just take my car, go home, and get the spare van key. I’ll wait here with Amy. It’ll be fine. We’re good.”

Mom nods and reluctantly agrees to make the run. I watch her pull away, leaving me alone on the shimmering asphalt. The desert heat is making its presence known, but then I notice a gift shop with large, plate-glass windows just a few feet away. The neon “OPEN” sign flickers to life.

The van is parked no more than fifty feet away. Amy is fine, and I realize I can keep a perfect watch on her from inside the shop.

I step inside, and the blast of air conditioning is like a physical relief. The shop is a perfect time capsule—a hybrid of a Hallmark gift shop and one of those Christian supply centers so prevalent at the turn of the millennium. It smells of vanilla-bean candles and soft, instrumental praise music.

My eyes adjust to the dim light. To my left stands a glass display case packed with pale-faced Precious Moments figurines. I walk over, my interest only half-piqued, just looking for a way to kill time. I scan the rows of teardrop-eyed children until my gaze snags on a figure centered in the middle of the shelf, bathed in a tight, intentional spotlight.

It was a small angel boy, his curly porcelain hair topped with a bright gold halo that seemed to catch every bit of the display case’s dim light. He stood with his arms outstretched and palms upturned, a gesture of quiet, helpless invitation. I leaned in, my breath fogging the glass, until I was eye-to-eye with him. There, printed in that signature, soft-brown script right across his chest, was the name: Harold.

The world stops spinning.

And the room starts to.

The blood rushing through my veins makes me lightheaded; my heart is pounding so hard I’m flip-flopping between thinking I’m having a heart attack or a stroke. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. In one sudden, desperate moment, I take in a jagged gasp of air, tilt my head back toward the ceiling tiles, and audibly screech:

“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!“

I didn’t buy the figurine that day. I left it there in the dim light, vibrating with a mix of awe and pure, unadulterated annoyance at a Divine being with a very twisted sense of humor. I had asked for a sign, and I was given one. It wasn’t exactly a burning bush in the middle of the Mojave Desert, but it was a message—clear, distinct, and painted in soft-brown script. I couldn’t ignore it, no matter how hard I tried.

As the story goes, I did give him a second chance, and we did, indeed, move to Grays Harbor County. Although we didn’t reside in Aberdeen itself, I worked the majority of my Washington state career in that gritty city.

Harold’s physical time in Washington lasted only one year and seven months—almost to the day. His soul contract reached its end with an abrupt, shattering finality; he passed at home, alone, as a silent aortic aneurysm took its course. No one—no book, no prayer, no intuition—can ever truly prepare you for a day like that.

My mother, by some divine foresight, had moved to Washington just months earlier in May of 2012. She was the anchor that held me as I began the grueling work of picking up the pieces. Together, we carved out a “new normal,” and I spent the remainder of my 40s navigating the jagged terrain of true healing. It was in that quiet, post-storm space that I finally began to figure out who the hell I was—and more importantly, who I am destined to be.

Twenty-five years later, a cardboard box arrived on my doorstep. I sliced through the tape, pulled back the bubble wrap, and there he was. eBay had delivered my messenger. I set him on the shelf and I didn’t screech this time. I just looked at him and breathed.

After all the ups, the downs, and the lessons only husband number two could teach me, I’ve finally made peace—not just with Harold’s death, but the life I have chosen to live.

Come as you are,

as you were

As I want you to be

As a friend,

as a friend

As an old enemy

Take your time,

hurry up

Choice is yours,

don’t be late

Take a rest,

as a friend

As an old memoria – Kurt Cobain

---

Footnote: This post covers the beginning of a soul contract that eventually reached its abrupt end in October 2012. For the story of the day the world stopped spinning for a second time, and the chaos that followed, read the opening of my work in progress, semi-autobiographical novel, Swimming in the Gray: https://thejoysonajourney.com/2026/04/04/swimming-in-the-gray/