Homer, Alaska, is at the end of the road, virtually the dead end of the continent. On a clear day in Homer you can see age-old glaciers dipping in to the yawning gulf of Kachemak Bay. Eagles gracefully connect the worlds of earth and sky. On a day like this it is easy to believe that this is where earth and sky were formed, where primeval chaos must have scrambled enthusiastically, eager to create one of nature's most magnificent landscapes.

My husband Bill and I were there on such a sunny Sunday in January, working on our unfinished cabin, our own version of the Alaskan dream. At this place, as in most places in Alaska, there is a sense of being on the raw edge of creation/destruction. We saw no clue, however, that the metaphor of the abyss would touch us so personally that afternoon.

While friends Pam and Jon and I stabilized the ladder on the icy ground, Bill was two stories up, replacing the cabin's siding torn by recent winds. Uncharacteristically, Bill complained that he didn't feel well. Thoughts of the flu, which had been snaking its way through our community, crossed my mind. Ignoring our suggestion to stop working, Bill finished the job. Ten minutes later, down from the ladder, his complaints intensified as we broke camp. Though not alarmed, I was paying close attention.

Pam and Jon transported the ladder up the embankment and across the road, where our vehicles were parked. Our plan was to meet in town for lunch. But another plan still unknown to us--a drastically different plan--was unfolding. The angels were gathering.

My attention sharpened when Bill said that he thought he had strained his arm while hammering, and that he would be okay if he could just lie down in the snow for a few minutes. Ordering him not to lie down in the snow, I left him momentarily and ran up the embankment to tell Pam and Jon to wait, that I was concerned about Bill's heart. Before I could finish the sentence, the first pair of angels arrived on the scene. Tammy and Jim, whom we had met the previous evening, were friends of Pam and Jon's. "Just wanted to see your place," Tammy said as they stopped their car beside the road.

God must have known that we needed an angel -- and that one with credentials would expedite the journey. Tammy was an Emergency Medical Technician, with twelve years experience. She quickly assessed Bill's condition and knew that an emergency was in process, that indeed Bill's heart was in crisis. Calmly but firmly, knowing that every minute counts, she insisted that we head for the hospital NOW. Jon and Jim, experienced crab boat captains, masters at staying calm in a storm, assisted Bill up the embankment.

Tammy and Jim sped on ahead to alert the emergency room staff that a possible heart attack patient was en route to the hospital. We drove the nine miles to the hospital pushing the speed limit, but Bill's symptoms were accelerating even faster: chest pain; difficulty breathing; cold, clammy skin. He was heading toward myocardial infarction -- a full-blown heart attack. The ER team was waiting for us, wheelchair at the door, the designated IVs and EKG ready. Good team work, angels!

Other teams worked with precision. During the long night, the doctor and nurses at Homer's South Peninsula Hospital worked to stabilize Bill's heart. The next morning the upbeat and respectful air ambulance team transported Bill (his IVs and EKG undisturbed) to Providence Hospital in Anchorage. I sent a special tribute to the weather gods for clear skies!

Later, during the days at the Cardiac Critical Care Unit, we viewed the "before" photos showing a 90 to 95% blockage of the left coronary artery, the main lifeline into the heart. When you are hanging over the abyss, a five to ten percent opening is a pretty tenuous tether! A stent (a small metal coil or mesh tube used to improve blood flow to the heart) placed in the obstructed artery made for much safer "after" pictures. We left this experience with a keener appreciation of the place where modern medicine resides on the medicine wheel.

Since I started writing this article, my father, in his 97th year, has died. My husband is recovering well. I now know that all of us--even at the peak of health--are dancing at the edge of the abyss, a heart beat away from the end of the road. There is no guarantee for the next moment. As Carlos Casteneda wrote in A Journey to Ixtlan, "Death is the irreplaceable partner that sits next to you on the mat. Awareness of death provides the necessary potency, the necessary concentration that transforms one's ordinary time on earth into magical power."

Here at this edge, at this fine line between life and death, between yin and yang, light and dark, between stillness and motion, we have the power to live fully and magically. At the edge, on this side of the Cosmic Gate, vision sharpens. We can see that friends, with ordinary grace, are angels, messengers from God. We can catch a glimpse of that invisible web which connects all things.

In the rarefied air at the edge, we can breathe more easily. We know that we are all taking the same breath, from trees to humans to stars. We can walk more lightly on the Earth. We can discard the heavy trunks and carry a knapsack.

At this Gate, looking back over our shoulders to life on Earth, we can see that energy is the irreducible residue of everything. Distilled down to the basics, we can see the potential of transforming all energy into love. Acceptance of death makes us lighter.

My father, a few days before he died, told a friend that he knew his health was failing. Still, he told her, he wasn't really ready to die yet, for he was enjoying life so much. Reaching out to shake death's hand and looking it in the eye, we find the dense energy of fear dissipates. Love and joy move in. We can live fully to the end.

At the edge, at the end of the road, we love better. We choose words that heal. Our actions become impeccable. Every moment counts.

To quote Albert Einstein: "There are only two ways to live life. One is though nothing is a miracle. The other is though everything is a miracle."

At the edge, at the end of the road, with death only a heart beat away, we can see the miracles. Rosemary Cody is a licensed acupuncturist in Anchorage. She can be reached at 563-0071.