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One pretty fall day a few years ago, Paul and I were taking a walk. It was a couple of days before I was scheduled to travel by plane, something I'd grown rusty at and fearful about since 9/11 and several years staying in or close to the nest. I had been sharing my nervousness with different friends: one offered reassurance via a statistical outlook (more dangerous to drive to work, that sort of thing); another commiserated and shared the bracing philosophy that while unpleasant flying, and nerves about it, are just the price of doing business in the world. Paul said, "Oh! I have an app on my phone -- a fun game that lets me fly planes. So I'll use it to keep your plane safe in the air until it's time for it to land." I felt immediately calm and safe. Even though I knew at the same time that Paul wouldn't actually ask, know, or remember my flight information. He spoke directly and helpfully to my unconscious. It was like magic. For several flights post that one, I asked him to fly the plane and he agreed readily. Last time I flew, it was to New Orleans, this past April. I wasn't scared. I called Paul from the French Quarter, thanked him for a good flight, and asked how he was feeling. He shared that, I said a bit about the conference. Then I told him that I had a dilemma: go to a session or stroll through the music festival underway in the neighborhood. His voice smiled as he said he'd recommend the music. He also recommended I try a Hurricane. So I did.