1998, a year, or so, after my heart-breaking divorce from Maureen and following some months of counseling from a therapist, it was suggested that I take the opportunity to close my year differently—skip the end-of-year food & wine events, the flow of Champagne with friends-and focus on my inner health, well-being and continued transformation. She held my hands and said, "I think you are ready for something that came to my attention; a five-day, year-end intensive workshop by respected Los Angeles oncologist, Dr. Brugh Joy, called 'Sex, Power and Transformation'. It takes place in several days at Asilomar Conference Center in Pacific Grove, California. People will be traveling from around the country to attend. I happen to know there will be some of your men's group attending."

I replied, "That's some name for a workshop," thinking a change would do me good. To start the new year new. "God knows there's work to be done with this," I said pointing at myself. Later that day, after reviewing information about the workshop and doing some research about Brugh Joy's healing through body-energy movement, I called her and responded to her invitation with, "Yes. I'll do it."

It seems like every five years, or so, I proved available to shed skin and enter a new phase of my physical and spiritual growth. Often, I'd enter such a period through the wisdom of others. New friends and old friends. It seemed to me that all forces were pointing me in this new direction. During the night I had an image of me standing alone in the dark with my bare toes curled over the edge of an abyss—I breathed in deeply and took take a swan dive into the unknown. Another death another birth.

I arrived at Asilomar to register for the conference the day before the workshop began. Registration took place in a large hall with a high ceiling—a famed wood and stone structure built in 1913 dedicated to receiving registrants most of whom were visitors from around the country. I was directed to the registration line for locals—about twenty-five persons ahead of me. While standing in line I let my eyes lift in amazement as the space reminded me of a huge upturned wooden boat—topped with a clearstory of windows about sixty feet high. The room surrounded by glass doors—when opened and closed-introduced a chilly burst with smells and sounds of the surf just outside. There was another long registration line on the other side of the hall, ninety degrees to my left, for out-of-town visitors who needed to sign up for housing. I had with me my briefcase and a warm coat set on the wood floor by my feet as I waited. I looked up again—my attention captured by a brilliant band of sunlight coming from one of the clearstory windows. My eyes followed the light down into the other side of the room landing on a woman standing in the visitor line. She was facing away from me bundled up from the cold. Her suitcase sitting on the floor next to her. I could only see the right side of her face—her blond hair tossed casually atop her head. She seemed to hold the light. I was stunned. I lost my mind.

I turned to the person waiting in line behind me, and said, "Excuse me. Would you please watch my place in line. I'll leave my briefcase here. I'll be right back." Then I turned and walked in a straight line across the hall. By the time I reached her my right arm and welcoming hand were already introduced...before my words, "Hi. My name is Gary Ibsen. Welcome."

"Thank you," she said with an immediate and generous smile. "My name is Dagma Lacey. This is my first time in California." There was never a more perfect sound than the cello music she then became before the words blossomed from her mouth like monarch butterflies. Her gentle face with a slight coloring from the chill was luminous. The way she tilted her head slightly to the right minded me of Botticelli's Venus. I was enraptured. Whatever authority I had crossing the room with fell away after my introduction.

I don't recall what she said for the next few seconds. Every sharing sound and shape in the hall fell away—as did past and future—as did time. Just us making modest gestures—dancing arms and hands that became swallows flying over water. No conversations and foot—noise from others passing. No sounds of doors to the hall opening and closing, or bursts of cool Pacific wind rattling loose windows. And then I heard, "I'm looking forward to taking a walk on the beach in the morning. This will be a first for me." And then she said, "Perhaps we will meet on the beach, or in one of our workshops." "That would be very nice," I said. Now feeling a bit clumsy. I turned to walk back to my place in line. It hadn't moved. But I had-been seriously moved. "Thanks for watching my things."

During the night I reminded myself that the course of this workshop demanded my attention was to be on the further realization of me—not necessarily another. It made no sense to be stimulated into action by this woman I knew nothing about. However, as I drifted off to sleep, I said to myself, 'if God were a woman would she not appear to me this way—and why not today?'

Most often, I awake before first light, before sunrise. However, the next morning I rose with an intention to be the first one walking Asilomar beach—two hours before the welcoming ceremony for the hundred or so attendees. Indeed, when I arrived I was the only one on the beach. Dressed in jeans, my old corduroy jacket and a warm coat I walked alongside the reach of the water—several times. The breeze was still blustery from nighttime. And there she was, first just a dot of blowing hair in the distance lit by a rising sun, half of her hidden behind dunes. She was walking toward me—her focus on the high rolling surf. I stopped and watched thinking—maybe I shouldn't interrupt the privacy of her stroll. I turned around before she noticed me and started walking away...slowly, thinking I would give her the opportunity to discover me and choose whether, or not, to change her course.

"Hi," she called out. I turned and said, "Hey. Good morning Dagma. I was hoping to see you here. Amazing isn't it—the spectacular beauty of this coastline. May I join you on your walk? We have a little time before breakfast and the ceremony begins."
"Sure. I'd like that."
"Nice," I whispered to myself.
"I suspect you may have planned this meeting," she said.
"Only for several hours," I confessed. "I was looking forward to meeting you again before all the activities began. Had to know—did I imagine you or were you real?" I said with a smile.
"Trust me. I'm real," she replied. "Let's walk."

Fortunately, we shared some of the workshops in the same team with David Martin and Donald Mathews, friends I respected for the spiritual work they'd been doing in our community for many years, both of whom had been an integral part of the "Pegasus" eight-member men's group I had recently started.

I think it was the second day of workshops I suggested to Dagma that we skip the afternoon of yoga that was scheduled and permit me to show her the coastline of Carmel and Big Sur. "You must not miss this natural wonder—like no other coastline in the world." She agreed. So, dressed for a sunny December day I opened the sunroof of my old, cream colored, 450 SEL, turned up the heat to keep our feet warm, and after several cliffside stops for breathtaking views of distant surf, rocky shoreline and a clandestine waterfall we ended up at Ventana Inn for a three hour lunch with a 180-degree patio view of rolling hills and golden grasses spilling into the Pacific. We talked of our discoveries, our lives past and present—our children, the thrills and successes of our lives that had framed us, and what was moving us forward.

Dagma warned me early on that she was a mother of five, 'wild-ass' Cherokee Indian, teenage children who would continue to be her priority...above any man who might enter their lives. "I'm not looking for another man, she assured me." After some moments of silence, I replied with, "That's okay, I love children. I have three young sons I adore who do not live with me. And after three marriages I'm not looking for another woman."

She stood facing me, holding both of my hands, looked up at me with eyes and mouth that spoke, "No. You have no idea. You don't understand. These are very special, free-spirited, damaged and challenged children from the first of my two marriages. Also, I live a thousand miles away from you and will not be leaving my children or the home I've made for them until they finish high school, which will be in a few years" With my arms around her, I took in a slow full breath and let it out with, "It's all okay. We just met. We can work this out." I was falling in love with this woman. I was in the presence of LOVE.

During the next several days of 'Sex, Power and Transformation' workshops we shared group exercises in healing through intention and energy movement. My understanding of the world shifted. I learned to respect our ability to alter matter as a way of maintaining balance and good health.

I invited Dagma to the small Carmel-by-the Sea home I rented from famed author/playwright, Mona Williams—a humble yet luxurious 'nest' above a two-car garage—built in the fifties it was slightly separate from the main house that looked down upon HWY-1 south toward Big Sur. The worn, uneven, wooden stairs and porch fronting my studio were constructed of white painted wood that offered a comforting sound of introduction when stepped upon. All this was covered in a forest of pink Cecile Brunner roses I trained over the years to wrap the stairway, the railing, then up and around the shake roof. In season, you could open any number of my windows and pick a rose.

"Welcome to my home—my sanctuary—my office and my kitchen," I said as I opened the door with a sweeping gesture of my hand. The treehouse-like room was surrounded by windows that looked out to pine trees that shadowed the road below and offered a partial view of the ocean a mile away. Upon entering, the room was a quick read. To the right was my king-size bed embraced with bookshelves. Framed paintings and photographs by me and friends hung on the wall. To the left was my kitchenette and a door to the bath. Center was my dining table with enough space to seat four. Beyond that a heavy, cushy, old leather couch that faced an antique coffee table from China. And beyond that, a large stone fireplace. To the left of this a table for an office. And in the corner was a back door to another deck overlooking the water. This comfortable, private room felt like a birdnest hanging in the trees. "Welcome," I said again as she entered.

I poured us a glass of white wine. We sat on the couch and listened to one another. Dagma shared her story: of enduring years of abuse by a controlling alcoholic with fits of rage—her need for divorce—and the punishment by his family for attempting to fulfill her dream of a healthy life as an independent woman. No longer suffering from an overwhelming sense of fear, she was now fully engaged in continuing her spiritual unfolding. This trip was a sacrifice. She was pinching dimes for groceries. There was no money available for a self-indulgent trip for self development. Then, her mother gifted her the money to afford registration and airfare to Monterey. With the news of her trip to Monterey she was subject to considerable criticism from her husband and family members who insisted that she not venture out. However, most courageously, she did.

I shared my story: of abuse suffered as a motherless child placed in foster homes and an orphanage; of the sexual abuse from a trusted uncle. I shared some of my history with women and the success and failure of my marriages. I told her that my integrity was sound and that my word given was gold. I let her know my priority for trust, communication and being a responsible father. I shared my personal and business failures and successes. And I shared with her my passion for feeding people with organic heirloom tomatoes from the lineage of seeds I had been collecting from family farms and gardens around the world.

And then, I cooked for her delicacies to surprise and nurture. Considering her limited food experience as a full-time mom serving five kids on a very limited budget, I served her foods beyond her normal reach—foods created to entertain all her senses—served at the dining table and in bed.

In the remaining days of staying with me, after abandoning her conference housing, we slept next to one another with "no sex"—her directive not mine—since she was going through a divorce and would not permit the pleasures of sex while officially married. I listened some more. She guided me. We grew together: my 'sister,' my new friend, my lover. We framed the substance and texture of our relationship. I was learning the sacredness, the benefit of, surrender.

"Dagma, please close your eyes. I've selected a few tastes that you probably have never experienced. Trust me." Each of the samples of food I had hidden in small bowls on a tray next to the bed and would serve each to her with a teaspoon.
"Okay, I'm ready," she said, dressed only in her white cotton night shirt—flush against a white flock of down pillows set against the headboard.
I directed her with, "Eyes closed—mouth open for one taste at a time:" Sweet lychee; a remoulade prepared for our dinner later; an artichoke heart embellished with my signature Caesar Salad dressing; a ripe peach from a farm in Georgia (said to make the nation's best canned peaches); sliced kumquat cooked in a chocolate Cointreau sauce for desert; lilikoi passion fruit juice from Hawaii. I served her with deliberate, tender, care. I listened to her "oohs" and "ahhs" of amazement, joy and surprise. After each taste I revealed the identity of the gift.

I bathed her to the piano music of Oscar Peterson. She was not shy about her nakedness. I pulled up a chair next to the tub and read to her love poems by Rumi. After I towel dried her like we'd done to our children—she wept. "I've never had this experience," she said in short breaths as her tears continued. "There will be no more fear or bad times for you Dagma," I promised. "I will earn your trust. You, and your children, are safe with me."

In the months that followed, I flew each one of her four sons and her daughter to visit me alone for a week or two of my undivided attention so each would come to know and trust me—and be comfortable with my love for them and their mother.

For the next six years, until the last of her children left home, we courted—commuting back and forth, monthly, between Carmel, California and Spokane, Washington. We learned enough from one another as friends to discover how best to maneuver our lives joined as family. By listening to her coaching our togetherness flourished.