Taming, Training and Tenderly Feeding the Beasts Within.

I found a new practice to work with those most stubborn habitual thoughts—the kind that don’t care how much therapy, journaling, or meditation you’ve already done. The ones that show up uninvited, plop down in your mental living room, and start bossing you around. Enter Feeding Your Demons, a Buddhist-based practice adapted by Lama Tsultrim Allione in her book of the same name. It’s one of those deceptively simple “you think you get it, but just wait” teachings—beautifully clear, accessible for beginners, and still packing a serious spiritual punch.

The premise is wild but wise: what you fight, you fuel. Instead of trying to evict your annoying repetitive, fearful, shameful, or anxious thoughts, you invite them for coffee. Once you find the "demon", you personify it—give it a name, a shape, a voice. (Yes, you may feel ridiculous at first. That’s how you know it’s working.) You listen to what it wants, what it needs, and—plot twist—you feed it. Compassion. Breath. Confidence. Maybe a metaphorical slice of chocolate cake. As they ingest this elixir, they shrink and fade, making space for the higher vibration of an ally. All of this unfolds in your vivid imagination as part of a guided meditation. The practice itself has five steps:

1. Find the Demon. Focus on what’s draining, spinning, or disturbing you. Where is it hiding in your body? What does it feel like? 
2. Personify the Demon and Ask What It Needs. What size, color, or shape is it? Does it have eyes, limbs, texture? How do you feel looking at it? Then pose the three key questions—without answering yet: What do you want from me? What do you need from me? How will you feel if you get what you need?
3. Become the Demon. Close your eyes, switch cushions, and vividly imagine you are the demon. See through its eyes. Then answer the three questions as the demon itself: What I want from you is… What I need from you is… When my need is met, I will feel…
4. Feed the Demon and Meet the Ally. Return to your own seat and imagine your body melting into nectar—whatever essence the demon said it would feel when satisfied. Feed that to it until it’s completely content. Then, from the open space that remains, allow an ally to appear. It might be an animal, a person, a mythical creature, a light form—whatever arises. Ask it: How will you help me? How will you protect me? What commitment do you make to me? How can I access you? Then switch seats again, embody the ally, answer, and finally integrate it.
5. Rest in Awareness. Once the demon is fed and the ally integrated, let both dissolve into spacious awareness. Rest there. Breathe. (Read the book!)

​I’ll admit it—I was both fascinated and a little freaked out by the idea of “feeding my demons.” Curiosity won, but intimidation was riding shotgun. I wandered through Lama Tsultrim’s website looking for a step-by-step, maybe a “Feeding Demons for Dummies” version. And then—bam!—serendipity strikes: a brilliant podcaster, Diana Hill, had interviewed Lama Tsultrim and uploaded the full guided meditation on Insight Timer. Easy peasy. Plug, play, feed your demons. I was in.

The first time I tried it, the “demon” that showed up wasn’t some manageable little gremlin. It was a massive rattlesnake, slithering angrily right out of my chest cavity like it owned the place (it did). Cold, green, and sneaky. Hissing, pissed, eyes huge and spinning like Kaa from The Jungle Book. I was mesmerized—and terrified. I remembered the instruction: go with whatever shows up, even if it’s big and scary. So I stayed. This thing had been living the life of Riley inside me, defending me for years—reacting, engaging, constantly coiled and ready to strike, protecting me with a vigilance so fierce it hurt. It hurt even more now that I could see it wasn’t working anymore.

When my "demon" rattler answered those three questions, it was crystal clear: it wanted control—of everything. It wanted to look good, to be right, to never be vulnerable. Underneath it all, it just wanted to feel confident, safe, and powerful. So that’s what I fed it. My body melted sweetly into a stream of confidence, power, and safety—the nectar golden and sticky-sweet, flowing without condition or end. The snake closed its eyes, gulped, sighed, and actually smiled (eventually).

And then the most unexpected part unfolded. The snake’s eyes opened—lazy and satiated—and my vision blurred. Its form shimmered, shifted, and in its place appeared a puma. My ally. Same hypnotic eyes, but steady now. Unblinking. Calm confidence made flesh—or fur. The puma wasn’t asking for anything. It didn’t hiss, posture, or warn. It simply was—pure presence, relaxed strength, the embodiment of confidence and safety.

I was so moved that I Googled images of puma eyes later, found a photo that captured that gaze, and set it as my phone wallpaper. Those eyes became my reminder of what confidence feels like: grounded, alert, unbothered. When I sense the faint rattle of defensiveness rising, or hear my voice take on a hissing quality, I don’t rush to silence it anymore. I recall those eyes. I pause. The cougar’s wisdom watches the snake with quiet compassion: We’re good, it seems to say. No need to bite.

So there you have it: there’s a zoo inside me. Holy shit. And apparently, someone forgot to feed the animals. Oh—me? My bad. I didn’t know they were starving. But I do now. So thank you, and happy feeding. Better to hand out snacks than wrestle with a pack of hangry inner beasts. Besides, it’s oddly comforting to realize all those snarling, snapping parts of me just needed a little intentional abundance, love, a little nectar, a little acknowledgment. I can work with that.

Ultimately, this practice gave me something I didn’t know I was missing—another powerful practice to undo the overthinking, unlearn the defending, and return to that sweet beginner’s mind that keeps me happy, curious, and gloriously free.
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Field Guide Rule #43: When the world feels loud, go quiet inside. That’s your cue to pause, listen, and feed what’s really hungry instead of wrestling it. Because the monsters under your bed—or in your chest cavity—usually just want a story, a snack, and your attention.

P.S. Happy Halloween! ’Tis the season for masks and monsters, and let’s be honest—the scariest ones usually live rent-free in your own head. But on Halloween, when the veil thins between worlds (and between me and my inner zoo), I like to invite them all out for snacks. Snakes, pumas, gremlins—everyone’s welcome. Costumes optional, compassion required.

OR How to Survive an Energy Pile-Up Without Losing Your Mind (or Your Manners)

I went to a lecture expecting a curated, objective knowledge exchange, not an adrenaline bomb. The Political Economy of U.S. Immigration Policy sounded respectable enough—the local college's 55+ Fall Lecture Series, a mid-morning crowd of polite retirees, plenty of silver heads with tweed and tote bags. My friend Sue came along for the intellectual adventure, notebooks in hand and curiosity matching mine. Yes,  notebooks, because I’m that kind of nerd: ready to learn, sip my water, and nod thoughtfully.

Instead, the speaker opened like a snarky late-night host. Before the slides even warmed up, he fired off passive-aggressive one-liners that drew whoops and applause from the crowd. When he smirked and said, “BUT, I won’t be talking about that,” the BOOOs started and the energy in the room hit DEFCON 2. My chest clenched, my gut twisted, and my inner alarm system—the Divine Magical Guidance System herself—started flashing red. It was the kind of shift you can almost taste—metallic, charged, like the air before lightning.

Fight-or-flight isn’t a metaphor when your body’s staging a full-scale evacuation drill. My hands were shaking. My pulse had its own drumline. I wasn’t angry; I was observing. Watching this human experiment in bias unfold while my nervous system screamed, GET OUT! It felt surreal—like standing outside myself, watching two parallel realities: the smug smile of the presenter and my body, quietly revolting.

Sue and I locked eyes. We’d both been scribbling notes, and when we glanced down, we’d written the same thing almost simultaneously: “I’m ready to walk.” “Let’s bail.” No dramatic sighs or eye rolls—just a shared, silent recognition that the space had tipped from intellectual exploration into witch-burning mob energy - righteous and ready to lay waste. We left quietly, grateful for our own dignity and each other’s company. As we walked back to the car, Sue named her feelings—angry and sad—while I tried to stay with the sensations roaring through me. My hands still trembled; my breath was shallow; my body was one big alarm bell. Even the sunshine felt distorted—too bright, too sharp—as if my senses were still vibrating at the frequency of that room. We talked it through on the walk, and every few minutes I could feel myself cycle through my OHR practice—Observe, Honor, Release offered momentary relief, then more waves. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The rest of the day became an emotional debrief in slow motion. Sue and I unpacked the experience over coffee—her heartbreak at how close minded and condescending people can be, my own fascination with how energetic and physical my own reaction was. It wasn’t about politics at all. It was about energy—how fast hostility can fill a room and how long it lingers in the body. It reminded me how contagious energy really is—one sarcastic remark can set off a chain reaction that hijacks an entire room of grown adults. Later, I called another close friend for feedback. “I’m tired of being so vulnerable, sensitive and porous,” I told her. “I can feel other people’s self-righteousness like static electricity.” And we both laughed, because naming it somehow disarms it. That’s when I realized the crowd bothered me more than the speaker—the mob vibe, the clapping and booing like a middle-school pep rally. 

I doubled down on my own emotional cleanup. I dialed another friend, specializing in freeing trapped emotions. She helped me trace the original trigger—no past-life bonfires required, though the “burned-at-the-stake” vibe was real. I don’t believe in energy armor or bubble-wrapped boundaries, but I do believe in letting emotion move. My goal isn’t to avoid energy but to metabolize it—to handle what flows through me without attaching and internalizing the poison. It’s a messy business, this emotional alchemy—equal parts science, surrender, and self-trust. Some days it feels like plumbing the depths with a teaspoon, but it works. This experience was a massive test, and honestly, I aced it.

The next day, the feedback survey landed in my inbox—oh boy. Here’s where the rubber meets the road, right? Time to turn all that emotional processing into actual words. I really put my practice into action—calm fingers on the keyboard, deep breaths between sentences, and a few well-timed eye rolls at my own rewrites. (How many drafts? Don’t ask.) It was the perfect test of being tactful, honest, and respectful all at once. In the end, my review simply said what needed saying: that the presentation felt dismissive toward differing perspectives, that the crowd’s cheers and boos deepened the divide, and that an objective, balanced conversation would have served everyone better. I closed by thanking the program and hoping my feedback would be taken in the spirit intended—as encouragement toward greater openness and inclusivity in future lectures.

No drama. No vitriol. Just truth on paper—a written act of OHR with a side of polish. The words became both mirror and medicine, reflecting the discomfort without feeding it. It wasn’t about being right; it was about being real. Writing it down turned a raw, reactive moment into something clear and useful—closure and contribution all at once. It felt strangely empowering to speak from the clean place beyond adrenaline, to honor the experience, and to trust that clarity—delivered calmly—can shift a current faster than anger ever will.

Here’s a few things I learned: careful what you wish for when you’re practicing healthy emotional processing—it’s not all lavender oil and enlightenment. Sometimes it’s a full-body roller coaster that demands every ounce of skill you swore you had. Powerful, visceral reactions are the pop quizzes of growth, and yesterday I got the midterm. Standing up and leaving isn’t weakness; it’s wisdom in motion. When the energy turns toxic, staying to prove I can “handle it” isn’t strength—it’s self-betrayal. My body knew first, and this time I listened. There’s no spiritual merit badge for sitting quietly in a room that makes your soul flinch. Talking about boundaries is one thing; walking out the door with your heartbeat in your ears, your dignity intact, and your intuition leading the way—that’s the real-world practicum.

By evening, gratitude had replaced the adrenaline. Gratitude for all of it—the presenter, the topic, the crowd’s reaction, for Sue, for our clean exit, for the ability to process instead of implode. Gratitude for the clarity that my sensitivity isn’t a flaw—it’s radar. Yesterday’s chaos became an invitation to trust my system, honor my body, and practice discernment in real time and on big, unapologetic waves of powerful shit (energy). And maybe, just maybe, that’s what all this inner work is really for—not to float above the mess, but to walk through it eyes open, heart pounding, with both flat feet on the bloody pavement if that’s what it takes.

Field Guide Rule #43: Bolt when you must. Walk when you can—awake, unarmored, compassionate and gloriously human.

Listening, Loss and the Art of Showing Up Softly

I’ve never been one to seek out pets—they’ve always found me. Growing up, we had the same German Shepherd, Smokey Bear, from my age ten through college. He was loyal, noble, and smelled faintly of wet leaves and cozy safety. After a few years in college, a friend convinced me that a kitten would “complete my life.” Spoiler: it didn’t. That situation unraveled faster than yarn at a cat café, but soon after I met a stray adult cat—simply named Kitty—who became my steady sidekick for years.

Decades later, when I took my cross-country RV adventure, I brought along another feline friend, Mew Mew. She had the patience of a saint and the judgmental stare of a TSA agent. When Chris and I met, he already had two kitties—Smookie and Poose Poose—distinguished elder states-cats who ruled the household with equal parts affection and disdain. They lived long, good lives, and when they passed, our home became a guinea-pig-only establishment. (Yes, really. And yes, they squeak for lettuce like it’s crack.)

I’ll admit, during my New York City era with Mew Mew, I leaned a little cat-lady-adjacent. Picture this: me strolling through Manhattan with one of those see-through bubble backpacks, feline face pressed against the dome like a tiny astronaut. I was that woman. And you know what? No regrets.

Fast-forward a few more years. Chris and I recently inherited a new cat, Zsa Zsa, after his mom, Aleda, passed on September 14, 2025. The grief was tender and deep—but out of that loss came this bright, living reminder of love in motion. Zsa Zsa has been the softest balm imaginable: affectionate, inquisitive, considerate, and playfully mischievous. She is, quite literally, the gift that purrs on arrival. I’m over the moon to give her a safe, loving home. (And yes, the guinea pigs are fine—everyone’s first question. Coexistence has been achieved. There’s mutual respect, if not actual friendship.)

What’s surprised me most are the lessons she brings. Every day, Zsa Zsa enters a room as if it’s her first time there. Even if she left an hour ago, she pauses at the threshold, tail flicking like a metronome. Her eyes sweep the perimeter. She takes in everything: new scents, moved objects, subtle shifts in light. It’s not fear—it’s attention. Reverence, even. When I open a cupboard or drawer for her inspection, she explores like a miniature archaeologist, grateful for the discovery.

Watching her has changed how I move through my own spaces. Instead of rushing into the next moment like it owes me something, I pause. I take stock. When we come down the stairs together each morning, she stops on the landing to assess the main floor—ears forward, whiskers alert. I do the same now. Her pause has become our shared ritual, a quiet check-in with reality. I don’t sense anxiety in her—just curiosity, patience, and presence. Three traits that, frankly, I could use more of.

Zsa Zsa’s stealth mode isn’t about hiding—it’s about respect & noticing. It’s the art of mindful reconnaissance. She embodies what every meditation app tries (and fails) to teach: awareness without commentary. She doesn’t name things good or bad; she just observes, absorbs, and occasionally bats at the unknown to see what happens.

The longer she’s been here, the more I realize she’s not just a pet—she’s a furry Zen master. She naps with total surrender. She stretches like she’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. She listens with her whole body. And she’s wildly generous with her affection—when she feels like it, of course. There’s a lesson in that too: offer love from fullness, not obligation.

As I continue my journey through this wild ride of chaos and calm, loss and laughter, I keep coming back to what she teaches simply by being herself: slow down. Breathe. Observe before you leap. Check the perimeter before you proclaim the sky is falling. And above all, listen. She’s always listening—ears swiveling like tiny satellite dishes, attuned to the slightest rustle or whisper. It’s not paranoia; it’s presence. She reminds me that listening isn’t just hearing sounds—it’s sensing the energy of a room, catching the unspoken, and responding from stillness instead of noise.

Naturally, I’ve given this wisdom an acronym (because of course I did). LFTG: Look For The Gift. In every moment, every emotion, every new “room” life drops you into—pause long enough to look for the gift. Then use curiosity, creativity and patience to actually find the gift and live it.
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Some gifts arrive wrapped in fur and grief. Some come disguised as detours, delays, or hairballs in your favorite sweater. But every single one invites us to slow down, to live with the kind of gentle curiosity that turns ordinary moments into sacred ones. Zsa Zsa reminds me daily: the world is full of wonder if you enter it softly, tail high, eyes open.

No Other Love
​All there is to do – is listen
to your own heart
Follow your own song
to the beat of the drum within.
Do not despair or grow impatient
Like the tides ebb and flow –
as the seasons go
So turn the circles of your time.
Within each breath be grateful
Talk to me – Listen – Breathe
Gracefully your life unfolds
in time’s time with wisdom and magic.
There is no other time but now.
There is no other love but ours.
Laurie McCauley, 01–2019

I just happen to enjoy journaling, and I also appreciate and enjoy stickers. Always have. Like the yellow smiley face I got on my early writing papers or the proud little star on my second-grade spelling test. Stickers are tiny bursts of sunshine, affixed to whatever lovely thing I choose. They are silly, small, and—at least to me—nearly pure pleasure. These days, I have stickers in spades. I belong to a couple of sticker clubs, so fresh treasures arrive in my snail-mail box monthly. I love getting mail, and I love stickers, so that’s a double whammy of happy.
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My favorites? Trees and flowers in a certain style, or creatures with cute, sassy expressions. The glittery ones? Hard pass. I give those to my neighbor for her granddaughters. The misty woods, the fairy-dust shimmer, the crow with an attitude—those stay with me. I even keep an entire expanding folder (labeled carefully, of course) for my loose sticker sheets. The sticker books themselves are lined up on a sagging shelf that groans under the weight of all this so-called “pure pleasure.”

And yet—despite this bounty—I don’t always use the stickers I like best. I save them. I hoard them. The sassiest crow? Still tucked inside a little envelope. The prettiest tree? Waiting for the “perfect” page that never quite arrives. There’s never a spot special enough.

Which is ridiculous, even by my own estimates. What am I saving this little crow sticker for, anyway? A presidential address? My memoir release party? What possible hopes and dreams am I hanging on a one-inch piece of sticky paper? Really, Laurie? The little voice whispers: If you use it now, you may never see it again. It’ll sit on this journal page, and what are the odds you’ll ever flip back to it? You’ll miss seeing it. You’ll have to buy more. Suddenly, my sticker joy comes with a side of scarcity neurosis.

I’ve worked with clients in my Senior Move Management business who had similar attachments. Useless, silly things—at least by most standards. Paper clips, post-it notes, china, linens, spoons, you name it. One person’s trash is another’s treasure, and I learned fast that judging was not my job. My job was to gently, diplomatically help them see that not everything could—or should—make the cut. The china set, for example: everyone wanted to believe their kids would love it. Spoiler alert: they don't.

My very first referral never even knew I existed. He’d already skipped off through the veil, leaving me his earthly junk pile. My attorney, who was helping me set up paperwork for Onward & Upward, Inc., handed me the job. The client was gone, his son lived out of state, and I was hired to dispense with the belongings. It was an old, dark ranch near downtown Saratoga Springs, never renovated, packed with over a century’s worth of stuff. No debates, no bartering—everything had to go.

That’s where I found a whole basement wall of pegboard—eight feet tall, sixteen feet wide—every inch sprouting bent and twisted paper clips, each one valiantly holding something: a wrench, a pen, a baggie of screws, rubber bands, hinges, nails, cordage. The wrench itself had a hole in the handle. It didn’t need a paper clip to hang. And yet, there it was, tethered by a fragile loop or two or three of bent wire. As if that weren’t enough, unopened boxes of brand-new paper clips sat nearby, waiting in reserve. The scarcity gremlin had clearly set up permanent residence.

The Great Depression left its mark on more than one generation. Hoarders in training, all. Saving wasn’t optional; it was survival. Every bag, every jar, every rubber band might be needed later. I get it. But me? I have no such excuse. I’m not starving. Sticker clubs send me reinforcements every month. And still, I hesitate. Still, I tuck my favorites away like the world’s supply might suddenly dry up.

So, what are stickers to me, really? A way to mark my territory? A way to decorate my favorite things? A tiny test of my artistic intuition? Sure. But mostly, they are pure, uncomplicated pleasure. They’re also a form of self-expression—tiny declarations of who I am, what I like, what makes me smile. And maybe that’s the real rub: by saving the best, I’m holding back my own expression. And still, I hold some back. Why? Because some sneaky fear tells me that once it’s stuck, it’s gone forever. No take backs. No do-overs. The scarcity gremlin whispers: What if this is the best one you’ll ever get?

Most kids don’t seem to think like this. They slap stickers on lunchboxes, sneakers, foreheads—zero hesitation. Me? I curate them like crown jewels. Somewhere along the way, play turned into preservation. When did stinginess creep in? I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t need to know. The “why” is unknowable and unneccesary. What matters is the feeling. Once I FEEL the ickiness of it, I can pause, notice, and let its unsavory nature register. That pause cracks open a choice.

And here’s the heart of it: fear vs. trust, scarcity vs. abundance. The fear says: hold back, or you’ll miss out. The trust says: use it now, and watch what happens. Abundance is cheeky like that—it only proves itself once you dare to test it. And it’s not just stickers. It’s the good dishes, the nice clothes, the candles we’re “saving for later.” Newsflash: today counts. Life is the special occasion. I want to use the china. Wear the scarf. Light the candle. Stick the sticker.

When I finally do use one of my prized stickers, I get a double hit of joy. First, the zing of seeing it in its new home. Second, the smug satisfaction of proving my scarcity story wrong. The drawer isn’t empty. The mailman will bring more. The universe has a sneaky way of restocking joy, usually when you least expect it.

So yes, I still hesitate sometimes. I still notice the clench. But now I see it for what it is: just fear in drag. Not truth. Not reality. The truth is that joy multiplies when it’s spent. A sticker is only doing its job when it’s stuck to something. Better a sticker stuck than sulking in a drawer. Better the crow strutting across my journal than caged in a plastic sleeve. And when the scarcity gremlin hisses, save it, I just smile, peel, and press. Use it up. Stick it down. Trust the flow. More is coming. Always.

Field Guide Rule #20: Better spent than stashed—spend now, trust and save space for the unexpected gift.

​Lake George. Stunning, pristine, an Adirondack jewel, strutting its stuff like a blue-green supermodel. Chris grew up here, spending childhood summers on or around the lake. Me? I grew up in the high desert they call Denver. No lakes, no boating summers, no boating DNA. Translation: I don’t drive the boat. My role on Lake George is simple: passenger princess with snacks extraordinaire.

We arrived and said hello to his mom then began the ritual of removing the covers and getting the Cobalt dream boat voyage ready. Launching without a hitch, soaking up the rays and the post card worthy scene unfolding. Glorious! About ten minutes into our voyage toward the Narrows--BEEP BEEP BEEP—loud warning alarms shattered the serenity. We limped to Boats by George, where his loyal techs plugged in and tried decoding the electronic tantrum. Not so easy. More time would be needed. So Mr. George himself chauffeured us—in his brand-new Jeep Wagoneer (NICE, leather still smelling like money)—back to mom’s. Nothing like a chauffeur named George to complete your day of busted best ever boat day expectations.

As if that weren’t enough, we reloaded the cooler into the car, only to find--click, nothing. Dead battery. After a few frantic calls, we secured a ride for the fifty minute trip home with a very nice and chatty Uber driver. After calls to the dealer and online research, the vehicle verdict: faulty tender. This particular car hadn’t been driven in months, and apparently the fancy “battery tender” was more like a “battery quitter.”  Solution: good old fashioned jumpstart, tomorrow. In the meantime, how's Chris? Frazzled, pissed, muttering like a man personally betrayed by machinery. Me? Calm as a cucumber spa retreat, sipping my imaginary mocktail. Because here’s the truth: when it isn’t your responsibility—when the mechanical failure isn’t yours to fix—it’s a helluva lot easier to stay chill.

Field Guide Rule #42: If you don’t use it, you lose it—or pay the price for re-entry. Applies equally to boats, cars, concerts, vacations, weddings and sometimes expectations.

Mechanical failures I could shrug off. Emotional expectations? Not so easy. A few days later, my mother broke the news: she wasn’t well enough for the big road trip I’d been planning for her 80th and my 60th birthdays. A once-in-a-lifetime adventure: driving from Colorado to Wyoming, re-connecting with her longtime friend Nancy at the family's ranch outside Cody—ranch house chic hospitality at its finest. A few private special nites at a bed and breakfast in town to facilitate... wait for it, the big one: attending the annual Wild West Arts Fest and Buffalo Bill Art Show, the centerpiece of Cody’s art scene. For Mom, art is her passion, her oxygen, her daily joy (I dig seeing her face as she takes in all the over the top western art!) And on the drive back, we’d stay two nights at the original Old Faithful Inn, revisiting Yellowstone—a place I hadn’t seen since I was twelve, when we made a similar trip and Mom was behind the wheel. This was supposed to be the big adventure stamped in our memory book. Instead, it became another field guide lesson in expectations—plotted, packed, and promised in my head, and that’s exactly where it stayed.

I dreamed it up right after Chris’s dad died suddenly—a wake-up call about family time and intimacy, about not waiting too long with the people we love most. I thought I was being gallant, maybe a little late, but ready to pour my love and attention into making memories. And then—denied. Reality check on aging. Reality check on timing. Reality check on expectations that had been polished until they gleamed like a glass ornament, pretty but breakable.

Ready the crash. Unacknowledged expectations, stacked and simmering all week, finally exploded. The little disappointments—the rose-killer virus, the bashed boat day, the flower-knoshing ravenous deer, the small nagging partner disagreements, the missed magical moments, the frayed nerves—detonated into something bigger. And then the trip cancellation yanked the rug out from under me. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Remember that game from the 70s? The one where you load little straws in each side of the camel’s basket until it collapses? Yeah, that was me. A small argument that morning was the straw. Mom’s cancellation was the basket.

Enter: full-scale meltdown, stage left. A private emotional greatest-hits reel on fast repeat: anger, fury, blame, resentment → disappointment, grief → rinse and repeat. The flow was brutal and fast: “How could they? How dare they? Why me?” I screamed louder, longer, and more guttural than I can ever remember. I grieved all the tender intimate moments I missed, all the caring and support I didn’t experience. Crying, raging, wailing at the world. Beating my chest (okay, maybe just metaphorically, but close). I was the Greek chorus, the banshee, the toddler in Target, and the boat alarm all rolled into one. For a woman who didn’t express emotions for decades, I was having a helluva banner day. Cathartic chaos. Emotional fireworks. Not my proudest moment—but, damn, it was honest and I was alone in the house.

Here’s the twist: I’m proud of myself. It took courage to stare those delusional expectations in the face and let them rip, messy and unfiltered—even if no one else was there to witness it. Yes, the tree falling in the woods makes a sound. And yes, a woman screaming in her living room does too. It took a couple of days to recuperate—emotional hangovers are real, and this one was Olympic-level. It was physically exhausting, like I’d been training for some bizarre CrossFit event called “Expectations Recovery Triathlon.” But in the end, I came out lighter. I didn’t trap those feelings like squatters in my chest. I let them roar, and then I let them go. Practice makes better!
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I’m clearer now: there’s a cycle of emotions that rises whenever expectations are missed. First the anger, then the blame, then the grief. On repeat.

And here’s the bonus: I noticed the pattern. The build-up, the straws, the basket. I can see it now, spot it sooner, and meet it with kindness, openness, and even gratitude. Not by pretending I don’t have expectations, but by noticing them—and my reactions—when they do or don’t come to fruition. The emotional release is astounding. I can loosen their grip, let them flow, and dissolve before they morph into banshee-level meltdowns. That’s progress. Maybe not Instagram-pretty, but deeply human.
Live. Love. Laugh. And let the fuck go.

“You didn’t come here to fix things that are broken, or to know things you don’t know. You came because life on the path of least resistance is a delicious state of being. And you are in love with life, and you are in love with you, and you are in love with being in love with life.” – Abraham & Esther Hicks.

Mic drop. Seriously. And yet there I was, stricken—each time I strolled or rode around our property—thinking OMG, this place is headed straight for forest claustrophobia! The manicured-ish field that once offered an open sweep of space was staging its own coup, and baby white pines were the enemy troops. One per inch practically, marching shoulder-to-shoulder in a full-blown hostile takeover. Goodbye open field, hello woods. And of course my first instinct? I had to get out there and yank, fix, manage, manipulate. After all, wasn’t it my job to be a “good steward”? Cue the Catholic-school voice in my head, wagging its finger at me for neglecting my sacred duty.

I’ve been practicing my intention to live on "Turtle Time", and that gave me enough breathing room to notice the upset and PAUSE to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I was hallucinating what my responsibilities actually were. A 200+ acre hallucination is no small feat, by the way. Years of Master Gardener training hadn’t helped; if anything, it made me fidgety. Cornell Cooperative Extension updates had practically become my bedtime horror stories: invasives spreading like wildfire, insects barge hopping or jet-setting in from overseas, strange new diseases hell-bent on annihilating our native species. Their tone? Pure fear and trepidation, like Mother Nature herself had joined the mafia and was coming to collect. And honestly, they’re not entirely wrong—these folks do have cause for concern (if not alarm). I just had to dig up every last one of my beloved roses thanks to Rose Rosette disease, a virus carried in the saliva of a microscopic mite that floats on the breeze like some invisible terrorist. It turns roses into grotesque mutants, unfixable and untreatable, and it lives on in the soil for three-plus years after the plant is gone. Nothing I could have done would have protected my ladies. Heartbreaking? Absolutely. (RIP: Eustatia Vie, The Poet's Wife, Gabriella, Lady of Shallot) But the truth is, those roses were a lot of work anyway. I refuse to live in fear. They’ve been removed, and now I’m free to explore other lovely plants. When a door closes windows open and all that... 

Still, the white pines weren’t my only source of angst. Each stroll past the maple with its curling, spotted leaves or the apple tree with tasty but scary looking apples had me convinced the invasion wasn’t just visual—it was systemic. My brain spun like a siren: the forest is under siege, the orchard is infected, and if I don’t act now, everything will collapse. The weight of stewardship pressed in from all sides. It wasn’t just the out of control saplings anymore—it was a whole woodland conspiracy. And the more I thought about it, the worse it got.

Enter: Fred Breglia. Arborist. Pruner extraordinaire. Keeper of Landis Arboretum. I’d seen him teach pruning at the Spring Garden Expo in Troy and thought, “That guy actually knows his trees.” So I called. But first—the even harder step—explaining myself to Chris. This, my friends, was the twitchy angst portion of the program. My inability to translate my insecurities, restlessness, and vague sense of “responsibility” into language that didn’t sound like I was losing it was almost comical. I had to practice and edit until my panic was converted into something resembling a palatable request. A friend who babysits her grandkids always says, “Use your words,” when the girls get pissy and upset. Apparently, I needed the same reminder. Try saying, “Honey, I think the forest is plotting a coup and we might be doomed” versus “We do want to be good stewards of this precious property, right? I’d like reliable, clear information from an expert about what’s happening out there.” One gets you side-eye, the other gets you nods. Eventually, after much pacing and wordsmithing, I landed on the latter. Cue the mantra: NEVER give up—even if your opening line makes you sound like the Lorax on crack.

The day came. Chris had a scheduling conflict, but I went with Fred anyway, trailing him like an arborist paparazzi, recording his every word. He calmly assessed the towering white pines—150 to 175 feet tall, glorious old beings that are not obstacles but absolute features of our delicious view. He had concrete recommendations for stewarding those giants to keep them healthy, practical advice for addressing the maple fungus, and a clear plan for the apple scale. This was exactly what I needed: identify the problem, offer the solution, outline what’s mine to do—and what I can just leave the fuck alone. Later, Chris joined in, asked his questions, and by the end was just as grateful and impressed as I was. That’s the beauty of professionals—they bring knowledge and a plan. (only one single invasive tree on the whole journey with Fred, BTW.... an olive of some sort which we can easily remove.)

And here’s the kicker: my dreaded “white pine invasion” wasn’t a nightmare, a supreme lapse in judgment, or proof I’d failed as a land steward. It was simply what forests do. Whether or not Fred used the exact word, the concept is real: succession. After clearing—whether by fire, storm, or humans—the pines rush in first. Later, other trees squeeze them out. The forest has its own management plan already written into its DNA. Trail marker spotted: I DON’T HAVE TO FIX A DAMN THING. If I want to keep spaces open for wild blackberries or blueberries, that’s my option, not my obligation. The land isn’t begging for rescue; it’s inviting me to trust it. A map I didn’t even know I had suddenly unfolded in my lap: trust the process, trust the forest, trust that the journey comes with more than one trail.

Moral of the story? When all else fails to relieve your angst, do a little fact-checking. Turns out the cure for panic can be as simple as one steady voice saying, “This is normal.” Knowledge, not spiraling. A fact, not a fantasy. And when you can’t fact-check? You can always trust. Trust the pause, trust the process, trust that nothing’s broken and you don’t have to fix a damn thing. There are always multiple solutions for feeling irritable, restless, discontent, or plain annoyed—meditation, humor, compassion, or, in this case, calling Fred. Knowledge is an option. Trust is the compass. Silly girl. Field Guide Rule #48: Sometimes the cure for crazy is a fact. Notice. Pause. Ask. And whatever you do—never, ever give up.​

Ode To Trees
An extra-ordinary day
Of manifestation
And self-expression
Culminates
Into an evening walk
Around the campground.
Fields surround
And yet the fairy-like
Path between wind breakers
Of trees
With soft twilight
Light and crunchy leaves
Draws me.
Majestic – really
Like monarchs paced
Between them ages past
Beckoning – deciding
Drawing on past power
And present glory
Life suspended
Between a row of
Wise, bending-to-breeze
Being in life
In the middle of North Dakota
Trees.
They filtered the
Sunset so perfectly
They stood so tall
Proud and majestic
I was at once
Walking an ancient
Forest at dusk.
Complete with every
Scent and sound
And feel of breeze
And energies.
I honored and
Acknowledged the
Spirits of each
-older- younger
-spindly – bushy
-bark or no bark
Equally
What a magic
Place trees create
By their being
Where-ever
How-ever
When-ever
9-24-03

I was more than a little hot and bothered. I found myself slamming doors and fist-fighting with the air like an enraged extra in an action movie. Thoughts of my incredible bravery and persistence, my amazing willpower and fortitude—spinning and spiraling right alongside a healthy dose of why me, why now, and why has everyone let me down and ruined my day. My intentions were squashed—visibly, publicly, forcibly. There was no denying that now was not the time to tackle this project, and yet, there I was: very determined and extremely grumpified.

What on earth happened, you might query…? What disaster could possibly send my calm packing for a long weekend in the woods of my brain, hiding in a dark cave away from the storm? Oh, Laurie, you so poised, detached and reasonable… Ha! Allow me to laugh out loud for a moment there. Seriously!?

Ok, so here’s the calamity that trashed my happy–joyous–and-free space yesterday. I am a gardener. I have a stunning property with numerous raised beds (read: controlling gardener). My design, my irrigation system, my choice of flowers and plants—and aside from the insects, diseases, and deer—very successful, beautiful, and healthy. I fancy myself a relaxed, easygoing gardener, handling all challenges with ease and grace. Ha! Let me laugh again—louder this time.

There’s a section of my garden reserved for experimenting, it is most vulnerable and not "raised." It hovers between the driveway retaining wall and the woods—a three to six foot wide strip of dirt I have deemed perfect for elderberry, raspberry, verbenas, and other plants I’m testing for survivability. I’ve stopped looking up as I walk by one particular section of this patch because spotting the masses of interloping weeds is a massive trigger. In addition to the dreaded ragweed, a dead maple tree that fell over the winter is now sprawled across the space, blocking easy access to weed whack. Yes, it’s good wood for firewood—and it crushed a rose of sharon I planted. Chris promised to remove the maple and weed whack. We’re now in August—the dead fall and weeds - still there. Before I started averting my gaze, I had the pleasure (not) of watching "the weeds" grow taller and thicker, choking out and covering the dead maple like some kind of botanical crime scene.

Yesterday, for reasons unknowable, I decided it was finally time—indeed the time—to take the whacking of the ragweed into my own hands. The clock is ticking, hear it? The weed flowers turn to weed seeds, these seeds ensure next year’s weed apocalypse. The weather had been serving up excuses for weeks—too hot, too humid, too sticky—until yesterday’s cloud cover rolled in. Suddenly I was on a don’t-turn-back-no-matter-what mission to whack those green invaders into oblivion. I suited up: long pants, bug socks, Bogs, insect-proof long sleeved hoodie, gloves, wide hat. Basically the hazmat version of a garden party outfit.

Chris, trying to help, prepped the bushwhacker-on-wheels for me. I, knowing better (ha), insisted on the “more manageable” wand whacker. Spoiler: I was wrong. Two minutes in, the cords were tangled, mangled, and too short to do anything. Poor Chris tried to fix it; I promptly re-mangled it.  I was raging! 

Blame – Anger – Spin… Repeat.
That cycle continued for a bit… full-force suffering on steroids.

I finally gave up and came inside, sweaty and pissed. I stripped down and headed for a shower—no, I decided, I’d take an Epsom salt bath. Been meaning to. That didn’t work out either. No hot water. WTF?! And there is a HUGE and maybe-for-another-day realization about how this suffering state of mind just attracts more suffering… negative attracting more negative. It’s a spiral, and this was a bright-ass example. 

Somehow, sanity managed to break through the surface. I took a fucking DEEP breath and let the emotions flow—Focus, Acknowledge, Release (FAR—a recent acronym I came up with.) I SAW MY PART. (Emphasis on the MY, chicky. Take responsibility, Hello!?) Multiple doors in the hallway of my brain creaked open—yes, that hallway, the one lined with doors, each leading to a different, hopefully less sufferable perspective and action choice. I love the notion that anger can open alternate doors in that hallway—and maybe that’s its whole purpose. Just sayin’. Avoid, stuff, preload… then anger blows it all open and clears the way back to calm.

And here’s the plot twist. This morning, I marched down to the crime scene with my plant ID app*, ready to bag and tag this ragweed menace in its full Latin glory so I could roast it here with scientific precision. Guess what? Not ragweed. Nope. My mortal enemy was primarily Canada goldenrod. And here’s the kicker — I somehow don’t mind goldenrod. Why? Apparently I’ve decided it’s “pretty” enough to live. Ragweed gets the death sentence, goldenrod gets a vase. Turns out I’ve been running a full-on botanical beauty pageant out there without even knowing it. The rest of the “contestants” were a wild and wonderful collection of evening-primrose, mugwort, wild bergamot, pink-frosting Beebalm, and everlasting pea — basically a totally wild floral flash mob. The clouds lifted, the air cleared, and I swear angels started singing Hallelujah somewhere.

Why did I take goldenrod for ragweed? Oh… right. Because I didn’t look carefully. Because I’d already cast the villain in this drama months ago. Apparently I’m blind—especially when I’ve pre-written the script in my head and handed out the costumes. And yes, even covered in weed shrapnel and dripping sweat in my garden hazmat suit, I still worry about looking good — or at least looking like I know what I’m doing. Apparently, the beauty pageant isn’t just for the plants.

​So maybe the real lesson here isn’t about weeds, or anger, or even the whacker. Maybe it’s about how powerless I am when I barrel in with my mind already made up. How fast a perfectly lovely patch of nature can start looking like an enemy camp if I’m wearing my “hostile takeover” glasses — and how my so-called logic is basically me playing judge, jury, and executioner in a backyard beauty pageant.

​If you’re “pretty” like goldenrod, you get a vase. If you’re “ugly” like ragweed, you get the axe. And how sometimes — if I stop swinging long enough to actually see — the thing I’ve been battling turns out to be a peace-loving, totally harmless, maybe-even-worthy-of-a-vase group of wildflowers. Which, by the way, are still standing out there… probably plotting their next runway walk.

And now that I think about it… maybe this wasn’t my meltdown at all. Maybe the wildflowers — or the Universe acting on their behalf — engineered the entire incident. The busted whacker, the no-hot-water bath, the whole spiraling drama… all just to keep me from mowing them down. If that’s the case, well played, goldenrod. Well played.

* My all time favorite plant ID app... and gardeners plant tracking bestie... PictureThis. Check it out if you care to.

This came to me during a quiet moment—one of those glimpses behind the curtain. Not quite a dream, not quite a memory, but something in between. All I know is, it felt true, touching, moving, and inspiring, so I’ll share.

With a swooshy, clanking sound, the cars screeched to a jolting stop at the platform. My hair was wind-whipped, my heart still thumping, and my senses somewhere between “whee!” and “WTF just happened?” The platform was teeming with faces—wide-eyed, weary-eyed, childlike, ancient, amused, stunned. Expressions of every sort, every shade, every story. And just as I was climbing up and out of my very front row seat (because of course I insisted on the front), there she was. Grandma. Beaming. Blushing. Electric with delight. Making her way toward me through the happy throng.

“Well?” she called out, eyes twinkling like galaxies. “How was your ride? How’d you make out this trip?”

I could barely speak. Dazed in the best possible way. A little wobbly on my legs, still tingling with adrenaline, face flushed with wonder and thrill. “That was amazing,” I finally gasped. “Truly! I can’t believe it went so fast! I blinked and it was over!” I was already grinning like a lunatic. “Let’s go again. Please. Can we go again? This time together?”

“Of course, of course, dear,” she said, taking my arm like we were old partners in a dance. “You may want to sit out a couple rounds first. You know… process and review, plan and discern? Or maybe not?” She tilted her head, reading me like only a cosmic grandmother can. “You always did like to leap before you looked.” I laughed. She wasn’t wrong.

“There are other planets to choose from, you know,” she added, almost casually, like she was pointing out cafés on a travel brochure. “Maybe next time you’ll pick something a bit more gentle? A smidge more enlightened? Or kind? Or slow and syrupy sweet? The menu’s pretty mind-blowing, really. Infinite flavors. Infinite loops.”

I stood still there on the platform, anchoring to her presence like it was gravity itself. Hazel, that’s what she’s called here, I think. Hazel, so young and radiant, with the green velvet eyes and the patience of saints. I reached for her hand and squeezed. “Where am I, exactly?” I asked. “Dead? Limbo? Processing Bay C on Level 3?” She just chuckled. “Does it matter?” And, of course, it didn’t.

What took six-plus decades in Earth time—every excruciating detour, every heartbreak, every absurd plot twist—took only minutes here. Just a quick lap around the track. One wild ride in a timeless theme park where laughter echoes forever and regret dissolves faster than cotton candy in your mouth. This—this—must be the space between. The Great Pause. The Zone of Knowing. Or maybe just The Safe Place, where the seatbelt’s off and the ride photos are developing and you finally get to breathe.

The car I’d just occupied was already refilled, new riders buckled in, pulling down the bars with anticipation or anxiety or both. It was about to depart, and I just stared—awestruck, grateful, humbled to my cosmic core. And right then and there, I made a vow.

Next time I will request, a touch more awareness going in. Not a full spoiler-alert briefing. Not a safety video or pre-trip PowerPoint. Just a flicker. A flash. A teeny whisper in my soul’s ear: “Hey, this is a JOY ride. Remember?” I’m pretty sure I asked for that last time too. And no, I’m not looking to be the next Einstein or Gandhi or Dalai Lama. Just maybe a smidge more core-level bliss and trust. A little more arms-up, a little less white-knuckle grip.

I have no idea where or why this entire scene came into my wee little brain. It isn’t a “lesson” per se, it’s just an idea. A thought. A moment to step back or up or out and to consider a possible alternate reality, one where maybe—just maybe—I get to enjoy the ride a little more and take myself a bit less seriously. You are welcome to join me, if you want to, of course, only if you choose. For myself, no regrets, no shame spirals, no “oops, did it wrong.” Just a gentle whisper, “Humm. That went fast. Maybe I’ll remember to look around more next time. Maybe I’ll yell WHEEEE even if I’m not totally feeling it. Maybe I’ll laugh at the loops instead of bracing for them.”

Because here’s something I am pretty sure of: I’m OK. I’ve always been OK. I always will be OK, no matter what. Even on the ride when it doesn’t feel that way. Even when it’s upside down, backwards, squealing and smells like fear and burnt popcorn. Because this whole Earth trip? Just a side-show roller coaster—not even close to the main attraction in THE MULTIVERSE. And the only slightly cruel twist is the forgetting of that other bit… What was it again? Oh, right: I’m safe and loved. Cherished. And perfectly OK - NO MATTER WHAT!

So next time? I’ll try to remember. I’ll try to laugh earlier, breathe deeper, and scream with joy even when the bar locks down a little too tight. I’ll try to notice the sky more and maybe trust that even the rattle-trap cars are heading somewhere good. And if not? Well, I’ll catch Grandma at the end of the line and we’ll just ride again. Maybe with more one-on-one time together next round.

So here’s to the JOY ride. And here’s to us, brave and bumbling and brilliant as ever.
​Eyes open. Heart soft. Hands high.

Yesterday, I went to the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center concert at Spa Theater in Saratoga Spa Park—Beethoven’s Quintet for Piano and Winds. Once upon a time, I couldn’t sit through a classical concert without fidgeting, clock-watching, or plotting my escape. Meditation practice has changed that. These days, I can enjoy 90 to 120 minutes of stillness, grace, and music, surrounded by a sea of white-haired regulars. Chris and I used to go together, but now it’s just me—with a rotating cast of friends, or sometimes solo, which I secretly love. Quiet Sunday, easy parking, music, maybe dinner after. A treat.
​
This time, the friend I brought along for a show and dinner considers herself a Yelper extraordinaire—official restaurant critic. Who it was doesn’t matter—it’s the archetype that matters. Picture someone with a critic on full alert: never, ever put down the entrée plate before the appetizer plate is cleared; God help the server who dares to up-charge for a “simple” sauce swap! I noticed, about halfway through the evening, that her critiques were hijacking my joy—not because she was doing anything to me, but because I was handing over my peace on a silver platter. DMGS check-in: “Sweetheart, whose mood are you in charge of again?”

Here’s the truth: I used to stew and steam and fume and fester. Judge, rant, seethe about how such negative people suck, how they should act, what they should say. I’d vent, rehash the misery, and spin in mental loops for days. Now? I notice. I pause. I get curious: What might I do differently next time? I’m in limbo between old habits and new practices, but the shift is happening. Less victim, more witness and scientist-in-training.

I think it’s time for a Field Guide-worthy name for this old pattern. How about the JWO—the Judgment Warrant Officer? Or BNC-P—Bitter Negative Closeminded Protection Police? Maybe even Cassidy from the “Shut Down and Bitch Along Posse.” (I’m open to your votes.) Naming the inner cast adds levity and helps me remember: these characters aren’t villains. They’re just parts of me, running outdated scripts, trying to protect me from disappointment.

Journaling this morning, I wrote down the big questions: What’s my intention? What’s my commitment to that intention? What tools can I use to express it? What am I willing to do about it NO MATTER WHAT the scenario. My intention, I realized, is positive—not negative. I’m not here to shut people out or fix them. I’m here to stay present, to be curious, and to explore creative ways to shift my experience. I’m willing to pause. I’m willing to play. I’m willing to get it hilariously wrong and keep trying.

So, what works? Definitely not wisecracks or “what’s your solution” retorts—those only work if you’re the boss, and they’re paid to listen. Here’s what I’m experimenting with instead:

• Consider the source. Is this person even capable of what I’m expecting? What script are they running? What story are they stuck in? How's that mirror looking, missy?
• Practice micro-pauses. Breathe. Look around. Feel the chair under me. Notice the energy, where is it in my nose or toes or tummy? Is the flow upbeat or downtrodden?
• Shift position, not people. Literally. Sit differently, change the view, excuse myself to the restroom, or refocus my attention. Create physical space then focus on possible different doors of opportunity for conversation or intimacy.
• Silently play: “What’s hilarious about this?” Bonus points if I can collect absurd details like a field reporter gathering material. I can play with those later... write them down in my handy wee field guide notebook.

​Because here’s the upside: I get to use every one of these moments as practice. These people? They’re my training partners. Instead of dodging them, I get to practice my DMGS moves—curiosity, non-reactivity, and maybe even compassion (on a good day). When I remember that, I become what I call a free operator. Not because I control them, but because I refuse to hand them my remote control.

Which brings me to Field Guide Rule #41: Fodder, Not Frustration. Translation? Use everything for practice. The concert, the meal, the Yelp recitations, the snippy mood—fodder. Not frustration. That’s how I keep my seat at the table and inside my own skin.

So here’s where I land today: I’m not here to avoid tricky people or curate my companions like a social media feed. I’m here to practice living free—right in the middle of Beethoven’s woodwind swells, the clatter of appetizer plates, and yes, even the rants about the sauce. And if I play this right, maybe I leave the evening with more than just a lovely meal—I leave with another round of freedom under my belt. And that, my friends, gets my five-star review.

The idea landed like magic—one of a million possible perspectives, only this one slapped me upside the head in a way that was such a relief, it’s gonna take me a minute (or a lifetime) to get used to it.

It showed up this morning as I was chatting with my friend Patti, recounting the story of my very first-ever solo meditation session. Picture it: 2002, midtown Manhattan, tiny corporate one-bedroom, dark but chic. I had a worm composting bin crammed into the galley kitchen, wheatgrass shots delivered from the local juice place, and an aura of “overachieving wellness” thick enough to choke a crystal.

Fresh off a “vacation” (ha!) to the Optimum Health Institute in San Diego—a detox mecca of raw foods, wheatgrass, colon cleansing, and mind-body-spirit lectures—I was ready to take my stressed-out, pilot-program-running self next-level enlightened. So, I bought a Louise Hay cassette at Barnes & Noble (yes, cassette), popped it in my little tape player, and tried to meditate. What stuck? Not the precise words, but the vibe: All that scary stuff swirling in your head? Just thoughts. Just thoughts. Now let it go. Be grateful for your pillow, your toaster, your ears… You get the idea.

Fast-forward 20+ years and here’s the punchline: They’re just thoughts. They can’t hurt you. They may or may not be true. Half the time, they’re not even interesting. Lately, I’ve been spinning again—intentions, responsibilities, commitments (oh my!). And I’m back in one of my infamous Groundhog Day loops around food. Morning me makes all kinds of inspiring plans. Afternoon me? Not so much. Evening me? Girl, please.

But today, mid-meditation, it clicked: “Ohhh. The promises, the plans, the disappointment, the flogging? Just thoughts.” That’s a very interesting angle. What if the goal isn’t to obsess, resist, control, or fix? What if I just set an intention (say, seeing the scale at 155 over my pink-painted toes) and then—not plot, scheme, or browbeat—just let it be? Because here’s the deal: the strategy, the delusional internal playlist about what to eat or not eat, the running commentary of “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts”—it’s all just static. Just little electrical blips firing across my synapses. And here I am, acting like every single thought is a blood-oath handshake or one of those cowboy spit-palm deals—solemn, binding, and about as useful as a soggy trail map in a downpour.

Spoiler: not so much.

And this isn’t my first rodeo. Same thing with alcohol. Same with cigarettes. A million promises, broken daily. And yet, when the real change came? It took just one decision—with energy behind it—that somehow stuck. Where did that energy come from? Hell if I know. But I can tell you where it didn’t come from: half-assed, over-engineered, morning-after planning sessions.

So here I am, thanks to Louise Hay and the magic of revisiting an old idea with new eyes. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do with it, but I know this: I’m done believing every random plan that pops into my head. I’m watching the intention itself work its quiet magic. So far? Not bad—35 pounds down, 15-ish to go, and zero need to reroute the hike or consult the emergency flare.

Here’s the kicker: I also realized that most of what I say out loud? Pure static. Just me, thinking out loud—no real intention, no deep motive, and very little awareness of whether what flies out of my mouth is madness or meaningful, nasty, nice, or just Captain Obvious reporting live from the trail. Poor Chris. He’s gotten pretty good at ignoring me. Frankly, he’s a seasoned field guide at this point—knows when to tune in, when to nod politely, and when to let me wander off talking to myself.

Maybe silence is the golden rule for me right now. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to remember:

✨ Field Guide Rule #54: Not every thought deserves a mic—or to be laminated and tucked into your backpack for safekeeping. ✨

​No promises! But here’s the fun part: maybe that’s the whole practice—learning when to lean in, when to let go, and when to just sit back, smile, and watch the cowboy spit dry.

Subtitle: Drafted at Birth Babe. Now Live Like You Mean It.

I am in the process of—perhaps for the first time (scary, I know; I’m old, for god’s sake)—actually, authentically, with integrity and all that shit, cobbling together some serious, life-altering intentions. And yeah, I guess it’s natural that the GO TO belief systems, the ones I know best—Capitalism, Catholicism, and AA—show up to the party, holding court like old friends who don’t know when to leave. And like clockwork, here comes the chatter: What about service? What about selflessness? What about being a good girl, a good human, a good whatever? Oh boy.

It’s like my overthinking, people-pleasing, recovering-codependent brain just can’t help itself: How can I be of service? How can I help? What should I be doing for others? Oops. Did I say recovering codependent? Cute.

Today, in meditation, something snuck in. A little what if. What if… you’re already in service? Now, when these downloads come in, they usually don’t arrive as tidy sentences. They show up bundled—words, concepts, sometimes an entire worldview plopped onto the coffee table of my brain. And this one was a doozy.

Let me try to explain the brilliance of this particular observation. What if I chose—willingly, joyfully, maybe even a little mischievously—to leave heaven and come here? To volunteer myself, my soul, my innocent heart to the missiles and miracles, the beauty and the beasts of Planet Earth? To get dropped smack-dab in the middle of the mayhem and just be here as part of the universal experience?

What if just showing up here—getting born into this messy, magnificent experiment—counts as service? Cosmic service. Universal service. We’re talking heaven’s own draft pick, baby! One optional explanation, according to Michael Singer (and a few other theologians and mystics, etc.), the universe is experiencing itself through me. Through you. Through the cranky guy at Trader Joe’s blocking the frozen food aisle. We’re all the holes in the flute, remember? The instrument through which life sings.

So, if I’ve already enlisted (or been drafted) and reported for duty just by arriving here, what does that mean for my intentions? What would my intentions look like if “service” is already a done deal? If “selflessness” is baked into the cake, marked complete on the divine to-do list, and no longer mine to agonize over? What if I’m not here to earn my way, but to experience it? To soak up the full mystery of being a soul in sneakers, dodging pain where I can, and savoring the rest?

This flips everything. If service is handled, then what? What’s left for me to want, create, imagine, or intend—not out of duty, but out of joy? Not because it checks a box, but because it lights me up? It’s just a thought. A little rebellious, a little delicious. It gives me a new lens, a wilder, freer, more playful angle to approach this intentional journey. Instead of “what should I be doing to prove myself?” it’s “what am I drawn to explore, create, enjoy, or discover just because I can?”

And honestly? That’s it. Nothing heavy or overwrought today (wink wink). Just a cosmic nudge, a little “what if” to slip into your pocket for when the self-improvement gremlins start gnawing. And here’s the kicker, the mic drop ego trapdoor: maybe this whole realization is my ego getting me off the biggest hook ever. Maybe it’s the ultimate hack, the cosmic loophole, the spiritual cheat code to skip the guilt and waltz straight to the heavenly map room, where X marks already here. 

Either way, it’s delicious. It’s liberating. It’s just a whole new, out-of-this-world perspective shift, and baby, I am RUNNING WITH IT — compass swinging on my hip, map flapping in the breeze, laughing my way down the trail, singing “recalculating!” at every wrong turn and loving the view anyway.

Possible... Field Guide Rule #81: You’re already in service — drafted at birth, babe. Now quit over-pleasing and go live like you mean it.

​Inner Voices, Glitter Bombs and Baby Steps Toward Wholeness

After writing “Fork in the Road, Anyone?” I was all set for a sitting meditation, but the opportunity evaporated into laundry, dishes, watering plants, and making dinner. Proof that my inside voice doesn’t actually need a meditation cushion to bust through with its commentary!

As the evening news blathered in the background, I re-remembered something big: I have never had a proper plan or vision for my life. I have, for the love of it, always gone with the flow. My almost-bachelor’s degree in marketing? The cost forced me to get a “real job” before finishing school. I ended up as a business rep at a local Radio Shack Computer Center — that’s right, kids, there was a time before Apple, HP, Dell, and Best Buy. A time I remember well, before cell phones. (Blasphemy, I know.) Anyway, I accidentally landed a career, a husband, and a ticket to suburbia before I even had a diploma. No plan, no problem. I’ve enjoyed my life so far, no complaints! My early motto? No expectations, no disappointments. Everything in its season.

And now? The season is: let’s get fucking intentional. Like, what do you want, Laurie? Or like? Or wish for? Like, really? And the truth? I have no fucking clue. Like really-for-sure NO clue. Geeze…

So anyway, the message has been circling for a while — Ev (short for Evollla, my pet name for my inner truth voice — “All Love” spelled backwards) has been whispering it on repeat. I’ve been pulling the card Imagine for months now. It showed up again in the Buck Moon spread, reversed: “Illusions and wishful thinking rooted in a sense of lack have entered your life. Now may be the time to see things as they truly are, not as you hoped or imagined. Release any fear. Then envision anew.” Ya think?! I was cruisin’ for a bruisin’, so to speak. I was due.

As I buzzed around folding laundry and scrubbing dishes, the following thoughts broke through loud and clear…

All the wonderful things about Chris that I love and treasure: his loyalty, his honesty, his thoughtful and caring attention to details (and piggy matters!). The freedom he gives me around how I spend my time, attention, and money — no questions asked, no judgment, only support and mild curiosity. Freedom to do as I like: friends, travel, meetings, writing, woo-woo stuff. And oh, what a refreshing mental hamster wheel for once — all positive and grateful.

The next message landed softly but firmly: “NO RUSH.” The cards said yes, intentions need to be set, visions clarified, decisions made — but not this minute or else. Nice! Ev kindly pointed out that right now, I’m in baby steps mode, just getting to know the real me, not the me-I-thought-people-wanted. Case in point? I just realized I’m IN-DOORsey — not outdoorsy. Hello?! That’s massive! I can finally stop pretending I need to hike, camp, or trailblaze through bug-infested nature. My nature, my woods, my timing — thank you very much. (Maybe when mosquitoes, deer flies, and ticks go out of fashion. I know ticks aren’t insects — get over it.)

And here’s the real kicker… I noticed that my thoughts — my brain, once annoyed and annoying, once spinning and spiraling — are now actually fun. I can hand over this whole topic of decisions and intentions to my brain and let it gnaw on it like the world’s best rawhide chew toy! OMG. Isn’t this what I’ve been craving? Something fabulous and fun and curious and productive, creative, inspiring — to fill the mind-space where fear and insecurity used to camp out. The whack from the cards, the nudge from Ev, the glitter from my mischievous fairy godmother… and here we are. This is how it works. I started with an idea, a question, and the answer I got was so different from what I expected — and so much more perfect. Non-linear, surprising, and suddenly, a completely new vista opens up, with more freedom and love than I thought possible. This is the process: notice, write, shut up, and listen. And then? Follow through. Which, let’s be honest, is just grand — practice is my middle name. I get to create my future with whimsy and light, not by bitching about humans, bugs, or whatever else.

Intentions, Decisions, Adulting and the Art of Not Bolting!
​
The scary truth is the cards called me out today. Hard. I am circling more than one life-altering decision — the kind I’ve been dodging like a teenager dodges doing dishes — until today.

It’s the Full Buck Moon, July 2025, and as usual, I pulled seven oracle cards, like I do every full and new moon. Seven’s a nice number — Past, Present, Hidden, Obstacle, Helper, Action, Outcome — simple, not too woo-woo, just enough mystery to keep me entertained. Today? The deck wasn’t playing.

Three of the seven were cards I’d never drawn before, and they came in swinging. Orphaned — oh, cool, thanks, Universe, let’s talk abandonment! How I’ve felt about family lately, not all, but enough to make me consider moving to a yurt. Cue the soundtrack to the Fantasy Family Funeral Tour, rolling into town again Monday with another “celebration of life” social event to smile through.  Then came Chaos and Conflict — my two least favorite hobbies, thank you very much. And the cherry on top? Fork in the Road — basically a giant cosmic finger pointing at me going, “Decide, missy. We’re not doing this maybe/maybe-not dance forever.” And here’s the kicker: no wrong decision. Just make one.

Later, reading The Seat of the Soul with Maia, the chapter on intention smacked me right in the third eye. Gary Zukav writes: “Every experience, and every change in your experience, reflects an intention. An intention is not only a desire. It is the use of your will. If you do not like the relationship you have with your husband or with your wife, for example, and you would like it to be different, that desire alone will not change your relationship. If you truly desire to change your relationship, that change begins with the intention to change it. How it will change depends upon the intention that you set. If you intend that your relationship become harmonious and loving, that intention will open you to new perceptions. It will reorient you toward harmony and love so that you can see clearly from that perspective what is necessary to change your relationship, and if that is achievable. If you intend to end your relationship, that ending begins with the intention to end it. If you have conflicting intentions, you will be torn, because both dynamics will be set in motion and oppose each other.”

Insanity. Chaos. Conflict. Crossed intentions. Sound familiar?

So here I am, 18 years, 6 months, 10 days, 15 hours, 54 minutes, and 25 seconds — roughly — into a relationship that’s a record for both of us. We agreed early on that marriage wasn’t necessary or desirable. Then, in September 2022, I proposed. He said yes. We announced it. No date, no plans, no ceremony. I thought maybe January 1, 2027, for our 20th anniversary, but let’s be honest: the enthusiasm has dwindled to almost nothing.

We’re both introverts. Okay, fine — anti-social weirdos. The idea of planning a wedding makes us both want to fake our own deaths. His dad, who I wanted to marry us, is gone. His mom, who would have thrown herself into the party planning, is now deep in Alzheimer’s. And me? I’m here, holding a proposal with no plan, and a heart full of huh? Meanwhile, his nephew just got engaged, which shoves my stalled-out situation back into the spotlight like an unwanted karaoke solo. The cards weren’t wrong: it’s time to get clear.

Here’s the part that makes me squirm: there’s a tiny (but loud and independent) voice in me — always an itch for a Plan B. The Peace Corps, a mountain retreat, or a lifelong subscription to wild places and spiritual breakthroughs — preferably without a single grumpy human in sight. Ha! Good luck with that. Live with him, or live without him? Go all in, or slip out the side door to a life of my own? I feel the pull of both. No picket fences, no babies. Just the rest of my life, every day, starting now.

As I write this, I realize the cards didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. They just put it in black and white, in tiny illustrated rectangles, laid out across my table. They called out my lack of commitment — not just to my relationship, but to my writing, my self-care, my own mental and physical well-being. And here’s the truth: I have the tools. I have the meditation practice. I have the damn Ben Franklin list (yes, listed in Section 8 of the Field Guide, in case I need to reread my own book). I have the ability to pause, reflect, get curious, and — shocker — make a decision.

I don’t have the answer tonight. But I know this: I want to choose love — not just as a default, but as an intention. I want to choose life — not as a duty, but as a blessing. And I want to choose myself, first, always, so I have something whole to bring to the table. So, yeah — I’ll meditate. I’ll make my lists. I’ll write it out, even when it’s messy. And then I’ll choose some clear, perfectly imperfect intentions. Maybe not once and for all, but at least for this month. Stay tuned. 

An image of the actual Full Buck Moon. Thanks Chris!

Traveling around the country was part and parcel of my job description for a good portion of my career. I’m so grateful—and frankly amazed—to have experienced a little bit of nearly every state in this wide, wild country. Sometimes it was a quick turnaround: a week, a few nights, a school district tucked into a main city… or just as often, the middle of absolutely nowhere. I enjoyed both equally. Turns out, I was either born to be curious or just naturally more curious than afraid. The people I met were always interesting and wonderfully unique—southern sayings and slow pace, northern confidence and steel. Our world is busting at the seams with every possible combination of experience, temperament, and disposition. And yet, what tickled me to no end was how many townsfolk seemed to have a favorite saying. I used to think we were special in Denver where I grew up, but nope. We had one of those sayings too. “If you don’t like the weather, just wait ten minutes.”

I’ve now heard that same exact line in more zip codes than I can count—coast to coast, sea to shining sea. The timing may vary (two minutes in Juneau, fifteen in Austin or Portland, pick your coast), but the vibe is the same. People are convinced their weather is uniquely unpredictable. What I find most entertaining is the pride people seem to have in their weather’s mood swings, as if the clouds are performing just for them. And it’s not about climate change, by the way. This little nugget of humor has been around way before that topic blew in. Weather’s always been chaotic. Nothing new there. Look, humans are responsible for a lot of shit, but I’m pretty sure the weather isn’t one of them. My opinion. Grandiosity is rampant—especially in the media—and I think we overestimate our reach. The Earth’s evolution? She’s got it handled. We are not steering this spaceship, friends. The nature of nature is change. If you’re dissatisfied with the current condition, chances are 100% that it will be different shortly. It may not tickle your fancy, but I can guarantee it’ll change.

Change, like gravity and sun and death and taxes, is one of those constants you can count on. That’s why this whole ramble belongs in the Getting Your Bearings section of the book. You can bitch about it, resist it, pretend you’re immune to it—or you can work with it. Either way, it’s coming. Personally, I’ve started using the inevitability of change as a powerful ally. A kind of spiritual Swiss Army knife. In fact, it’s proven to be one of the most beneficial tools in my kit: the awareness that this too shall pass.

There’s an old story, often traced back to Persian Sufi poets, about a wealthy king who was deeply depressed and desperate for peace of mind. He searched high and low across his kingdom, asking wise men and mystics for a wisdom he could carry with him through both triumph and despair. Finally, one monk—or in some tellings, a court advisor—offered him a simple ring inscribed with four words: This too shall pass. That ring became the king’s most prized possession—not because it sparkled, but because it grounded him. The phrase gained wider fame through a 19th-century retelling by Edward FitzGerald, who echoed its message as both humbling and comforting. The most expensive, treasured, soul-saving reminder wasn’t a jewel or a castle—it was the truth that whatever you’re feeling, facing, or fumbling through... will pass. Good or bad, elated or ashamed, righteous or totally humiliated. Hang on, because another gust of life is blowing in soon enough.

When I’m swirling in emotional fog or feeling personally attacked by the cosmos, it helps to get that divine nudge—whether it’s a synchronicity, a God wink, or my internal guidance system blinking like a dashboard light—reminding me to pause. To breathe. To wait. If I burn my finger, it’ll heal. If I stub my toe, breathe, it’ll be fine. If someone offends me or I say something awful and stew in shame, this too shall pass. It’s the ultimate one-two punch—a combo so common it’s become cliché, but when delivered with just a touch of precision and regular practice, it’s still surprisingly effective. The jab? A pause. The cross? That quiet whisper (or growl, or mutter): “This too shall pass.” Doesn’t matter if you’re a rookie in the ring or a seasoned soul boxer—practice is the difference between flailing and flow. The power to shift your entire emotional weather pattern is right there, tucked in your back pocket... or blinking helpfully on your DMGS dashboard.
​
If you’re new to this, “this too shall pass” can be a solid cry for help—take it. That’s what it’s there for. Desperate or not, the phrase still works. But with time, with repetition, with some solid reps under your spiritual belt, it can transform into something else entirely: a friendly reminder. A wink. A breadcrumb on the trail. I like to imagine those words etched onto a small compass I carry inside. It doesn’t shout or demand. It just gently points me toward the next right moment. The next breath. The next shift. So while everyday people in everyday American towns are saying it about the weather—from Anchorage to Amarillo—here’s what I say now, inside and out: Just wait a minute, sweetheart. The weather (inside your soul and outside your window) is about to change. 

Greetings and salutations, fellow travelers. I appear to be in the throes of a patchy, rough spot. The terrain is craggy with discontent and a few emotional sinkholes. Lately—well, at least at this particular moment—my thoughts have been spinning in what some might label the “wrong” or negative direction. It's like my mind woke up, strapped on combat boots, and decided to stomp through every single inconvenient truth and perceived irritation it could find..

This morning, I considered removing all friends, weeds, trees, newsfeeds, and minor deities that seem to drive me mad with the urge to fix, correct, avoid, or cancel them. I fantasized about a massive mute button. A cosmic unsubscribe. But alas, I'm not the editor of the universe.'
​
I’m seriously pissed at the weeds in my garden and the damage the deer have done—again. And don't even get me started on the eye doctor, who just smiled with a suspicious sparkle the entire time I ranted about having to finally cave and wear physical glasses full-time. His silent grin seemed to say, “Welcome to the inevitable, sweetheart.” Life sucks compared to my seriously perfectionistic perspective. And then, of course, I’ll die. Rant, rant, rant… let it flow and go, right?

Except it doesn’t just go. It lingers, festers, pokes. I’ve been clinging to the exhausting belief that if I could just remove all the negative things out there, I could finally have peace. But removing what I perceive as negative out in the world? Yeah, no. Certifiably impossible. Deer will continue to munch, doctors will continue to sparkle smugly, and weeds—those relentless bastards—will always find their way back.

And so, with a massive sigh and irritation still bristling on my skin, I move onward and upward. Or sideways. Or somewhere. Because the only terrain I have even a smidge of influence over is the landscape inside my own head. And let me tell you, even that smidge feels pretty dull and lazy today. Still, here I am. Letting the negative vibes flow, trusting (or at least hoping) they will go eventually.

Just yesterday, I was fully immersed in the concept of responsibility. Not the heavy, guilt-ridden kind—but the internal kind. The kind that asks me to set aside any and all thoughts that feel unkind, blaming, avoiding, victimy, performative, right-fighty, or just plain mean. I was even trying not to say them out loud, which is a spiritual bootcamp in and of itself.

And the weird thing is—I can tell the difference now. I can feel it. I can sniff out a negative vibe before it fully takes hold. Not always, but more often than I could before. Which makes it even more annoying when the shitty thoughts land anyway. It’s like my brain goes, “Oh look! We know this is useless and unkind… let’s dive in anyway!”

Honestly, just the idea that it’s even possible to experience a space with zero negative vibes is kind of sensational. Like, whoa! I wonder what that would feel like? Is it quiet? Buoyant? Purple and floaty? (Insert blissy daydream sequence here…)

I’m now wondering if this barrage of inner grump and outer judgment is a kind of backlash. A cosmic boomerang slamming back in response to yesterday’s noble attempts at peace. Maybe this is part of the process—maybe as I learn to deal with the backlash, the intensity will fade? Kind of like emotional detox. Like peeling off a scab only to find another layer of healing underneath, still pink and tender, but somehow a bit less inflamed.

There are a couple of people who show up in my thoughts regularly, without invitation or clear reason. No trigger, no recent contact—just an ongoing presence, like emotional wallpaper I never picked out. They’re clueless, as far as I know. I’ve never brought it up, and I don’t need to. I know it’s all in my head. I’m the one choosing to rehearse resentments, recycle vapor-like judgments, and quietly wish they’d behave differently. Lately, I’ve been experimenting with a new internal reply—just one line: “I send you love.” That’s it. No drama, no fixing. And weirdly, it seems to work. The loop softens, the replay fades. Small, boring, barely-noticeable progress. But real.

For now, I’m letting it all be here. Every bristly, bitchy, triggered piece of it. I’m making a mental list of everything that still annoys me—things I have yet to "manage," meaning things that still challenge my expectations, poke my perspectives, or expose my most cherished illusions and delusions. The weeds. The deer. The inner critic. The sacred cows and old beliefs that refuse to die quietly.

I imagine reading this little slice of honesty five years from now and thinking, Wowsers. Look how far I’ve come. That alone makes me want to keep writing it all down. Not just the polished moments, but the unfiltered ones too. The not-so-spiritual rants. The tantrums disguised as insights. The humanity of it all.
​
So I return to the practice. Again. Letting go—whatever it is. Dropping the story. Loosening the grip. Observing the tension instead of feeding it. Asking, as Dr. Hawkins put it, “How long do I want to go on suffering? When am I willing to give it up? When is enough enough?”
Very, very good question, Dr. Hawkins. I’ll get back to you on that.

“I have been a seeker and I still am, but I stopped asking the books and the stars. I started listening to the teachings of my soul.” – Rumi

For most of my life, I’ve been the classic overpacked wanderer. A seeker dragging a bulging backpack full of tools, tips, truths, and tangled directions. I chased constellations and cracked open retreat workbooks like they held the way to the Holy Grail. If a practice promised results, I tried it. But somewhere along the trail, I internalized the wisdom of Rumi and began tuning "in" instead. Not to the gurus, stars or the books—but to something quieter. Something native. Something already inside.

It was during a recent morning meditation themed around trust and love that something deep began to shift. Not a big bang or a sudden insight—just a steady, soft unraveling. I’ve had emotional releases before while sitting in stillness, but this was different. Not dramatic or chaotic—just exquisitely tender. Quiet sobbing. Tears whispering trails on my cheeks, heart pulled wide open. No story, no reason. Just waves. I didn’t try to analyze it or chase the “why.” For once, I simply let it come. Let it wash me. Blow my nose. Move on. Except this time, I didn’t move on. Not right away. I lingered with the afterglow, the imagery, the warmth. The emotional weight had opened something I didn’t want to close back up.

What I wanted wasn’t to understand it with my mind but to honor it with presence. I picked up a pen. What emerged wasn’t a journal entry or an explanation. It was a poem. And shortly after, a conversation—more like a dictation. From a voice I’ve come to call Ev (rhymes with "rev"). Short for Evollla, my mashed-up, reversed spelling of “All Love.” My name for the quiet voice of inner truth I’ve started to trust more than all the external shouting.

The essence of that experience was unmistakably affectionate. The imagery was physical—hugs, cuddles, warmth. I wasn’t alone in this vision; I was held. Cradled. Cherished. The weeping wasn’t grief exactly. It was the ache of remembering something so real it makes this world feel a little less so. I noticed how incredibly vulnerable I felt in that state—so raw, so open, and also so beautiful. No armor. No performing. Just tenderness. And then something even deeper surfaced: homesickness. A bone-deep longing, not for a person or place on Earth, but for some realm just behind the veil—something I’ve always known but can’t quite name.

I didn’t resist it. I didn’t try to fix it. I let the energy move through me like wind. The emotion didn’t need an explanation. It just needed space. And in that space, I realized something subtle and enormous: I can go back. Not just during meditation, but anytime. This inner refuge—what I now call my foxhole—isn’t a metaphorical escape hatch. It’s essential gear. A kind of built-in shelter I forgot I had—camouflaged in the thicket of daily noise, but always there when I pause long enough to look. It’s mine. Always accessible, always welcoming. I don’t need a key or a code. Just willingness.

That’s the practice now. To return. To visit the foxhole not just when I’m raw or unraveling, but whenever I want to reconnect with that part of me that already knows. That remembers. That loves. I wrote the poem below not as a conclusion but as a compass—a map back to that moment, that place.

My Foxhole
My inner sanctum
has hugs.
deep and warm
cushy and soft.
Safe, loving embraces.

My foxhole
has freedom
security
tears of joy
and cozy snugness.

Words fall short
expressing the
cherishment I feel
in there.

There is nothing
missing except
Judgement – Fixing
Fear and Worry.
(Past - Present - Future)

Going in I get to notice
these and leave them
in umbrella stand or
on the mudroom hooks.

“Aww – There YOU are!”
a kindly voice
vibrates (it's Ev!).

In my innocent
vulnerable sweetness.
I am all beauty and fragrance,
no thorns or flaws .

I am held, leaning back
gently sobbing
tears flow warm
tickling my cheeks.

Beloved I am.
Treasured,
caressed – stroked
with gentle kindness.

Soothing coos
Immortal grace
brilliant arms
fold solid, firm.

Delicate attention
Listening – knowing
My deepest soul weeps.
No words.

Wave upon wave
I am loved,
treasured, cherished
accepted, understood.

Unconditional
tenderness lives
breathes – waits
in the shelter of
my foxhole.

My refuge echoes
reflections
and shadows
of my home.

My true home
is not here
Not in this plane,
time or form.
And I am very, very
homesick.
​
6/14/2025

So I’ve added this to my inner field kit—not as a shiny new tool I’ve mastered, but as a well-worn map to a place I now know exists. A secret passage to an inner safe house. My foxhole isn’t just a last resort anymore, or some mysterious floodgate that opens during meditation. It’s a real-time option. A practice in progress. My intention—loose but loving—is to visit more often. To duck in moment by moment as I travel this trail and stumble across rough terrain, tangled emotions, or, you know… mean, shitty people. (Or perfectly lovely people having spectacularly shitty days.) Remember I am safe and loving. With a little repetition and a lot of curiosity, maybe this sacred shelter will stop feeling like an escape—and start feeling like home base. So, stay tuned - I'm learning to use this essential gear without accidentally crushing the daylights out of it.

I was chatting with my friend Sally, who had just landed what could be her dream job. She’s trying to stay open-minded, bless her, but so far it’s been more nightmare than dream. The onboarding is chaotic—scattered training, unclear expectations, too many projects, not enough time or money. Add in a clientele that behaves more like middle schoolers in detention than adults—gossip, drama, ego explosions—and it’s no wonder she’s feeling frayed.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Cry. I could feel both in my own body as she spoke. I managed to sneak in a whisper: “Remember, you can’t control anyone's behavior. But you do get to choose how you respond.” In that moment, I remembered something I’ve leaned on a lot: the way other people act is totally outside my control. REALLY! Let that sink in and notice how even when you think you know this, you keep trying to fix and control people or harbor unrealistic and uncommunicated expectations for which you totally hold them accountable.  That’s been one of the most surprising discoveries of the last few years: even in chaos, there are still choices OTHER than expecting, controlling, fixing and blaming. Not comfortable, not easy ones, and not always obvious, but they’re there—often hidden inside the pause. It's easy to forget that in the gut punch of a powerful trigger. Step one: ride the trigger's adrenaline surge without biting anyone’s head off. Step two: do your best poker face and maybe keep your mouth shut for a beat. Or five.

Every new job—every new anything, really—comes with a grab bag of grace and grit. There are boundaries to test and people to decipher. Friend or foe? Fickle or solid? Kind or kind of terrifying? The hard part is remembering that it’s not your job to fix anyone or earn your worth by changing them. If someone’s behavior lights up your nervous system like a pinball machine, great! You just found a button you’d lost track of. Time to uninstall.

Yippee, another chance to practice OHR (Observe Honor Release) - Observe the reaction (especially the physical bits; the heat, the heart racing, the flushed face), Honor the emotion, then Release - let it go. Not because it’s “spiritually correct,” but because it's liberating. Then, I get to ask the fun question: what else is possible here? More interesting choices, guaranteed. Especially if I remember: You are safe. You are not in danger. All is well, even if it’s loud, clunky, or weird.

Still, it’s wild how often I forget that. Especially in the moment. My first reaction, more often than I’d like to admit, is still to blame, defend, escape, or shut down. Sometimes I argue—in my head, out loud, with the person or with a completely imaginary version of them. Occasionally all at once. But every now and then, I catch it before it spills out. A half-second of space. Just enough to breathe. Why is it so hard to see our choices in the moment? Because our first instinct isn’t usually wisdom. Mine sure isn’t. It’s some cocktail of defensiveness, blame, argument, or avoidance. Flight or fight or... snarky internal monologue. But if I can hold my tongue long enough not to lash out or run away, that’s already a win.

I have a tattoo on my right wrist to help me remember. It says WONDER—woven with tiny animal paw prints running through it. The message? Paws to Wonder. Pause to wonder. And yes, that pun was absolutely worth etching into my skin. Because there’s no access to choice without the pause. If I’m barreling down the trail of panic or projection, the path narrows to one: react. But if I pause? Oh, the wild freedom that lives in that moment.

The truth is, the "essential gear": I have a choice in every situation. Always. I can curse or bless. Sit still or phone a friend. Storm out or stay silent. There are always at least five options, even if one of them is “wait and see.” And as fun as it might feel to act like a toddler (“I don’t wanna and YOU can’t make me!”) or a teenager (“You’re wrong and I’m leaving!”), those knee-jerk reactions don’t get me where I actually want to go.

These days, I experiment with pretending I’m an actual grown-up. It’s strangely effective. Especially when paired with another discovery: I’m allowed to take my time. No rush! Even when everything in me screams for quick resolution or escape, I’ve learned—often the hard way—that time and space are choice’s best friends. My presence to choice and my ability to choose are not the same. I may have every tool in the toolbox, but if I’m too spun out to reach for them, they don’t help much. The pause is the reach.

I’m not talking about life-or-death situations here. Our brilliant nervous systems will always kick in if a tiger shows up. But let’s be honest: for most of us, “life-threatening” is almost never the case. Ego-threatening? All the time. Which is why we need to train ourselves to pause—to notice the difference. You’re not being hunted. You’re just being triggered. These days, I’m trying to notice that too—just notice it—without making it wrong. It’s just one more data point in this strange and beautiful dashboard called being human.

When I think about Sally and her new job, I can feel that edge—the tipping point between curiosity and collapse. I’ve walked it so many times. The story she chooses to tell about what’s happening makes a huge difference in how she may move through it. Her DMGS may start asking different questions: What if this is the dream job, just not the dream I expected? What would it feel like to let it unfold slowly, without demanding instant clarity?

OMG, this is the "adult" thing to do, right?! I get to ask myself: "So what do I want this experience to feel like? How do I want to walk through this opportunity, this challenge, this invitation to grow? Journaling helps. So does meditation. And, yes, so does tattooing reminders on my wrist if that’s what it takes to remember: I can pause. I can wonder. I can choose. I recently made a personally tough decision... a John Kabat-Zinn inspired decision making guided meditation found it's way to my play now list! Yeah! Thank you!

The pause isn’t passive. It's a portal to power and the most underrated tool in my essential gear. The one that turns chaos into curiosity, and reactivity into reflection. Even if nothing around me changes, something inside always does. And from there, I see more: five quiet doors creaking open, each one a possibility I couldn’t access while pounding on the old, familiar one. So when I forget (because I will), I’ve got this tattoo, this practice, this reminder: Paws to wonder. It changes everything.

I was only trying to sit still—just a few quiet minutes of meditation, maybe catch a breath before the to-do list came barging back in. But instead of peace, I got a full-blown inner flash mob: the Chaperone showed up, clipboard in hand, barking orders. The Rebel stomped in next, all attitude and eye-rolls. And then came the strangest revelation of all: I am not either of them. I’m not the one with the rules, and I’m not the one breaking them. I’m the one watching the whole scene unfold. The one sitting in the space between. And suddenly, that space—the one I usually rush to fill—became the most important place I could possibly be.

I know the Chaperone intimately. She’s a mashup of the stereotypical Catholic school nun—tight-lipped, ruler-wielding, impossible to please—and my workaholic father, who believed that play was for the lazy and vacation was for the weak. Joy, unless it had a measurable ROI, was suspect. The Chaperone inherited their legacy and took it further. She doesn’t just set high standards—she weaponizes them. She whispers that rest is failure, fun is foolish, and that every gold star must be earned with blood, sweat, and overthinking. She is the no-nonsense taskmaster who insists she’s just trying to help, all while suffocating my spirit one “should” at a time.

Enter the Rebel. The Skeptic. The hell-no voice. She doesn’t carry a clipboard—she carries a megaphone and a lighter. If the Chaperone says, “You should,” the Rebel retorts, “You can’t make me.” A therapist once told me that many people are stuck in their terrible twos—the emotional version—forever. Living life in a full-body tantrum of “I don’t want to and you can’t make me!” with angry tears and pouty lips for dramatic flair. That pretty much nails the Rebel’s vibe. Big feelings, big drama. But Margaret (same wise therapist) also gave me a lifeline when she said, “There is no black and white. There are always at least five options.” That one line cracked open my rigid thinking. And although the Rebel doesn’t always know what those five options are, she sure as hell knows she won’t be choosing Option A: Obey without question.

The magic happened the moment I realized that I am neither one. I am not the voice of the Chaperone, listing demands in the name of safety. I am not the Rebel either, hellbent on autonomy at any cost. I am the space between them. The awareness that watches them both. The still point in the storm. That sliver of silence between “I should” and “You can’t make me” is not just a pause—it’s presence. It’s where freedom lives. When I identify with one voice or the other, I’m locked into their tug-of-war. But when I sit in the middle, unattached, I start to breathe. I start to see clearly.

I used to hate the Judge because I thought she was trying to ruin me—force me into a tight little box labeled Acceptable Human. She was trying to make me conform, crush my creativity, completely fuck up my fun. NO FUN HERE! she’d shout, stomping out joy like it was a fire hazard. WTF are you thinking? Harsh, to say the least. She was the inner critic incarnate, the original architect of my internal surveillance system—so old, so embedded, it became practically invisible. Always on, always scanning, always reporting. She didn’t just whisper shame; she manufactured urgency. The breathless pace, the “go faster, do more, never stop moving” soundtrack? That’s her too. Reinforced by the outside world every second of every day. The speed of it all makes it nearly impossible to notice anything subtler—especially the quiet, sacred in-between space.

And the Rebel? Oh, please. Mostly imaginary. A Thelma-and-Louise wannabe in my head, not real life. Loud mouth, big talk, no follow-through. She’d yell, I don’t care what people think! before stomping off—exit stage left. The truth? I cared deeply. I cared so much about what people thought that the Rebel had to exist just to give me the illusion of independence. She was the inner escape hatch. A fantasy freedom fighter, shouting from the fire escape of my subconscious, while I stayed safely seated in my perfectly acceptable cubicle. But still—she had a role. She reminded me that there was an escape. That maybe, just maybe, there was a way to live without being constantly policed by my inner nun with a ruler.

And here’s where it gets even more interesting. In my brief-but-beautiful brush with Native American teachings, I learned something from Sun Bear that flipped my understanding of consciousness. He described the mind not as a single narrator, but as a council—a circle of voices, each with its own viewpoint. Picture a long table in a dimly lit boardroom, chairs filled with curious characters: the Chaperone in her pressed suit, the Rebel with her combat boots on the table, and a few others I haven’t fully identified yet (the Strategist? the Dreamer? the Skeptic in round glasses?). They all get to speak, but none of them are me. I am the one at the head of the table—the one listening. That image changed everything. I stopped trying to shut anyone up. I just pulled up a chair and said, “Thanks for sharing. I’ll take it from here.”

So what happens when I stop identifying with either of them? I begin to breathe. I notice the quiet underneath the commotion—the soft hum of something wiser. The field between their ropes becomes a sanctuary, not a battleground. And in that space, I find something else entirely. A deeper voice. A truer self. Not the one who reacts, defends, performs, or rebels—but the one who simply knows. She doesn’t carry a clipboard or a lighter. She doesn’t even talk loud. She just shows up. She watches. She listens. She waits. And when she speaks, the whole damn room goes quiet—not because she demands it, but because her presence alone is enough to shift the air.

The space between isn’t empty—it’s sacred. It’s the breath before the story, the beat before the choice. It’s where clarity gathers and wisdom seeps in. And no, the voices haven’t gone anywhere. The Chaperone still shows up with her rules. The Rebel still wants to light things on fire. But now, I greet them like old coworkers in a shared breakroom. I nod. I listen. I take what’s useful. But I don’t hand them the keys. I’m the one at the head of the council table now—centered, curious, and completely uninterested in running on autopilot.

​So here’s the deal: I am not my rules, and I am not my rebellion. I am the one who gets to decide. And that space--where freedom lives—isn’t a timeout or a loophole. It’s the whole damn point. It’s where life actually happens. It’s where I reclaim my voice, not as a reaction, but as an original. So next time one of those voices tries to hijack the show, I’ll do what any good field guide traveler would: step back, breathe, and remember I’ve got options. At least five. Maybe more.

This morning, I was cruising down the meditation highway—top down, wind in my hair, metaphorical of course—when Lucy Love dropped a 20-minute guided track called Love Wash. Within seconds, I was swept into that space where love lives. The kind that glows and buzzes and vibrates around you like a force field. My brain tried to label it—unconditional, palpable, effervescent—but honestly, it felt more like easing back into a cosmic rocking chair. One that reclines not just into comfort, but into space.

Not just outer space. Inner space. That expansive detachment I’ve tasted before. It reminded me of the kind of space I notice when I drop into the rhythm of this: I set aside everything I think I know. Everything I believe to be true. All my expectations and judgments. I set aside proving, defending, looking good, and being right. All this in exchange for an open mind and a new experience of life. That morning, I didn’t say the prayer, but the feeling matched. I was off the launchpad. No gravity. That rocking chair wasn’t just comfortable—it was a cosmic recliner, easing me into orbit. Spacious, weightless, no agenda. Just curiosity and the hush of something holy.

So I’m gathering visual cues to get me there on demand. The flick of a light switch—click, glow. The feeling of rose-colored glasses settling on my nose—weightless but definite—and realizing how the same scene softens through the tint of rose detachment. It’s not denial. It’s grace. Then there’s the hidden room behind the wall of my everyday life. I stumble backward—accidentally, naturally—and land in a quiet hallway that feels like it’s always been waiting. At the end? A two-way mirror. Or is it one-way? Either way, it lets me watch the whole scene unfold without having to leap into the fray. Just me, the moment, and the miracle of not reacting.

Michael Singer likes to remind us we’re specks on a spinning planet, careening through space. Which, yes, is helpful when you're stuck in a traffic jam or fighting with a microwave. But I wanted something more immediate. Something I could feel, not just know. A mental zoom-out is nice, but sometimes you need a full-body portal. Like, “Beam me up outta this reaction before I do something dumb.” That’s where the fly came in.

How about being a fly on the ceiling? Or sitting next to one? That’s a fun visual. Because while my body is on the floor—flinching, vibrating, overpacked with emotion—my spirit floats up and joins that fly. And from there, I can breathe. From there, I see my life from the edge instead of the center. Not to escape, but to observe. That fly’s-eye view? Weirdly freeing. It's the same detachment Singer points to, just closer. Smaller. With wings.

That perspective would have been helpful recently when I had a full-body freakout over a car insurance email. (Spoiler alert: it was not about love, peace, or higher vibrations.) See, I recently fulfilled a bucket list dream and bought myself a cherry red BMW convertible. Midlife fantasy, meet your match. I ordered it online, configured every detail like I was building a spaceship, and when it arrived—oh honey, it PURRED. It hugs the curves, it grumbles at stoplights, it turns heads like a damn runway model.

But apparently, if you buy a brand new 2026 vehicle, insurance companies lose their minds. Rates shot through the roof. I called my agent, Robert, and asked him to shop it around. He found me a better rate with Hartford, scheduled the switch, and I figured—done. Handled. Enter peace. Except… the next morning I get an email from my old insurer demanding $700+. Cue the claws. In that moment, I lost it. Snapped a pic of the email. Sent an all-caps text to Robert. Then opened a new tab to write a carefully crafted email to his boss, complete with customer service training recommendations and a few polite-but-pointed zingers.

That’s when the inside voice—the intuitive warning, that hint of “you’re about to make a fool of yourself”—whispered: Wait. So I did. Barely. I sat on my email, still fully convinced I was right, helpful, and maybe even noble in my outrage. Then Robert called. Calm as ever. Turns out the invoice had gone out before he canceled the policy, and I’d actually be getting a refund. The drama? All mine.

What saved me wasn’t logic or virtue—it was the pause. It was that tiny gap where I remembered to listen instead of launch. Had I floated up to sit with the fly or ducked behind that mirror, I would’ve seen the story I was writing—and realized I had the pen. The power’s not just in the pause. It’s in the space I create when I stop trying to be right and remember to be free.
​
So I’m collecting imagery now. A rocking chair that leans into the cosmos—equal parts therapy and space travel. A spirit-fly with front-row seats to my unraveling. A switch that flips the scene from chaos to clarity. Rose-tinted glasses that turn judgments into curiosities. A secret passageway, tucked just behind the drywall of my daily panic. A mirror that says, “You don’t have to fix this—you can just see it.” And a convertible that reminds me: joy is not something to earn—it’s something to choose. Preferably with the top down and the volume up. Whatever visual helps me wake up and shift, I’ll take it. Because this life is for freedom. And freedom starts in the space I remember to create.

I am the oldest of my siblings and cousins. First-born grandchild. All eyes were on me—until they weren’t. Around age seven, my mother remarried and decided to start a second family. Enter Mark and David, born when I was nine-and-three-quarters and eleven-and-some-change. They were night and day—Mark, a bold and boisterous firecracker; David, a quiet and cautious shadow. Together? My personal pint-sized chaos committee. They tattled, pried, cried, and raided my room like it was their full-time job.

I was fourteen and “in charge” of a three- and four-year-old. At sixteen, I had a five- and six-year-old under my weary wing. I was more resentful older sister than willing stand-in parent, and by the time college loomed, I was fantasizing daily about my exit strategy. But here’s what stuck: those two, in all their boundary-pushing glory, taught me how to hide. If I wanted privacy, peace, or a moment alone for any reason, it had to be covert. Mark was obvious in his mischief. David was invisible. And me? I perfected the art of getting away with things quietly, undetected. Honestly, I should’ve earned a merit badge.

I got so good at it, I once scaled the olive tree next to our pergola just to sneak a smoke. I’d tightrope the beams, haul myself onto the flat gravel roof of our mid-century modern house, and hide out with my cigarettes, a journal, and my Vivitar camera. It was my personal rebel retreat: above it all, alone, and free—at least until I had to quietly shimmy down again like nothing ever happened. I did this regularly, mind you. Not exactly “occasional contraband.” This was a daily creativity exercise in stealth, privacy and pleasure. Honestly, part of me still loves how ingenious it was... but also, wow. That’s a lot of effort just to find five quiet minutes, have a puff, snap a cloud photo, and avoid being observed by a duo of toddlers with loose lips.

Let’s talk sneaky. Like dirty talk, but less sexy and more... strategic dysfunction. I recently had a meditation session where my inner guidance—my DMGS—lovingly called me out. It showed me how sneaky has survived into my current life as a subtle, habitual form of self-sabotage. Not bold or dramatic, just slippery. A muttered internal “just this once” or “don’t mention it and maybe it won’t count.” And I’m noticing: it’s not just a behavior. It’s a vibration.

Take the chocolate almond incident. A few nights ago, I was rummaging for a cooking tool and stumbled across a container of Trader Joe’s dark chocolate covered almonds. I'm pretty damn good at hiding shit from myself, mostly! Instant trigger, Sneaky activated: Don’t tell Chris. He’s on a diet. I'll ration them, make them last. Uh huh. Night one: too many almonds, bad sugar hangover. Night two: I made a show of putting some in a bowl, out in the open... but said nothing. Chris said nothing. We both knew. The energy was weird and weirdly familiar. That’s what got my attention.

This wasn’t about almonds. It was about access, control, and the ancient belief that if I don’t hide what I want, I won’t get it—or worse, I’ll be judged for it. Sneaky is how I learned to survive when I didn’t feel articulate enough to explain, confident enough to claim, or worthy enough to ask. It’s not just about avoiding consequences. It’s about preemptively disqualifying myself from authenticity.

But here’s the thing: I’m turning 60 next month. I’ve got tools now. I’ve got pause, breath, awareness, and a very sassy inner guidance system. I know that when I feel that slippery sneakiness arise, I can wait. I can raincheck my reaction. I can trust that clarity will come. I can speak from integrity without bracing for attack. I don’t need to squirrel away what I want like I’m still under surveillance. I can be honest. I can be seen. I can be free.

And while we’re at it, can we talk about the invisible audience in my head? The peanut gallery of imaginary critics who seem deeply invested in how I load the dishwasher or whether I’m using enough elbow grease in the shower? Who are these people? Ghosts of judgment past? An inner panel of exasperated relatives? The worst part is, they never leave—it’s more of a vague disapproval cloud, like I’m being watched by someone who’s perpetually unimpressed. Even when I’m alone. Even when I’m doing something incredibly helpful, like shoveling snow so no one breaks an ankle. Apparently, my inner surveillance team isn’t big on gratitude. But now that I see them clearly, I’m tempted to wave and say, “We’re good here. You can go.” Or better yet—hand them a clipboard and put them to work for a change.

Here’s the connection I didn’t see before: sneakiness is a response to imagined judgment. If I didn’t feel like I was being watched, evaluated, or silently disapproved of—why would I need to be sneaky at all? Sneakiness only exists when there’s someone to hide from, even if that someone is a dusty inner voice from the 1970's. The surveillance feeds the sneak. The sneak confirms the need for surveillance. It’s a self-sustaining loop of unworthiness, and every time I act from it, I reinforce the idea that I can’t be real and be safe at the same time.

But I see it now. The pattern. The payoff. The cost. I can shift it. I can pause, take a breath, and check in with my actual self—not the jury. I can move from this weird little jail of judgment and manipulation into something that feels a hell of a lot better: freedom, creativity, transparency. A kind of badass clarity that says, I want this. I don’t need permission. I trust myself. Sneaky had its time. But this next chapter? This one’s wide open. No secrets. No surveillance. Just me, free and clear.

Here's a few fun affirmations to help me remember in the moment. I'll print them and put them around for a few days! (or longer)

Eventually, I guess it finally happened. The dark grey, cloudy, chilly, cold, and damp outside weather navigated its way inside my head. Damn. It took a lot of meditation—and a healthy dose of sunshine—to finally snap me out of my doll drums. (Yes, doll drums. You read that right. Melancholy with a few pink sparkles and a pouty lip.)

I’ve been experimenting with a new morning meditation. One word. Love. That’s it. Just a daily exploration of what love means for me. What does it feel like? How does it show up? What happens when I stop demanding that it look a certain way?

Like the word God, the word Love has been firmly parked on my internal “Use With Extreme Caution” list for a while now. Whether it was my original interaction with those words, or the way they’ve been hijacked, inflated, and twisted into cringe-inducing memes and overly idealistic frameworks—I had long since tossed them into the metaphorical baggage car of my personal history train. Still unpacked. Still heavy. Ready for an adventure I wasn’t quite willing to take. And yet, apparently, both words are central—core even—if I want to fully live from and communicate with my DMGS. So, fine. I’ll unpack Love first. Then maybe I’ll peek at the other one. (Maybe.)

This new practice started about a week ago. I’ve been wandering Insight Timer like a curious mystic, searching for guided meditations that might offer a doorway—or even a doggie door—into a felt sense of love. Not the concept. The experience. To begin, I needed to narrow the field. I’d rather start with adjectives than synonyms. I mean, should I be looking at Love the noun? Love the verb? Geeze.

Here are a few obvious definitions that I’ve eliminated so far: A strong feeling of emotional attachment. An intense attraction or profound likeability. A person you love, respect, or lust after. A favorable inclination or enthusiasm for something. Reverence for someone or something. The act of engaging in coitus (sex). An intimate relationship between two people. Obsessional enthusiasm or extreme liking. Polite greetings or good wishes.

It was easy to eliminate all definitions that related to another person or that had attachment, obsession, or coitus included. However, staring at definitions and dissecting usage just sent me into a tailspin. So instead, I dropped the dictionary and dropped in. I used the meditations to feel what was already there, beyond the noise and associations. And here’s what I found so far: I am not deficient in love. Not lacking, not empty. (I originally thought I had to "heal" something for love to flow.) This thing I’m calling Love—it’s not scarce. It’s not transactional. It’s not earned or withheld or measured out like medicine. It is literally everywhere, all the time, without exception or doubt.

When I try to visualize love, the only impression I receive is: BIG. POWERFUL. Unconditionally flowing. Always moving, always available. Love isn’t a feeling—it’s a living field. It moves through everything, responds to nothing, and welcomes it all.

One meditation was especially fun—it guided me through hallways and doors inside the mind, leading to my personal library which comes fully stocked with every drop of wisdom the universe has ever offered—no late fees, no gatekeepers, just me and the infinite. I imagined mine nestled inside a great ancient tree, glowing and translucent like a greenhouse. I actually noticed a book titled LOVE and cracked it open, half-expecting something preachy or profound. Instead, it read like a permission slip: It radiated acceptance. No rules. No punishments. No criticisms. Just welcome mats in every direction. I had no idea what to do with that, so I sat there blinking—delighted and confused. To even imagine a space without the slightest hint of judgment was disorienting… and delicious. And it’s unconditionally indifferent to my choices.

That last bit startled me. Love isn’t a mom coming to kiss a scraped knee. It’s not reward or punishment, not approval or disapproval. It’s not optimism or pessimism, not good or bad. It is not rooted in judgment, in any form. And yet, it’s not apathetic either. It’s not a shrug or a void. It’s more like a presence that says: “I’m here. I’ve always been here. You can tap in whenever you want—but I’m not chasing you down.” It nourishes when asked. Period. No preconditions. No history check. No future requirements. It doesn't care what I’ve done, am doing, or plan to do.

In the library of my mind, Love is the space itself. It’s the hall and the shelves, the ceiling and the floor. It’s the trapdoors and secret passageways behind the walls. Like the sky holds all clouds and all winds—rage storms and soft breezes alike—Love holds all I am, all I’ve been, and all I’m becoming. It’s the container. The backdrop. The deep pulse of safety and trust that says: You’re allowed. All of it. Always.

That’s all for now, folks. If God is Love and I’m supposed to love my neighbor as myself, then learning to love me isn’t extra credit—it’s the whole enchilada. The adventure’s off to a promising start as I finally get around to unpacking that dusty old trunk marked LOVE, tucked away in the back of my train—and apparently filed somewhere in my Multiverse Personal Library all along.  Stay tuned - this one’s finally getting unpacked. How's your luggage compartment?

I'm practicing paying attention to my emotions and feelings. Well, neighbor, let me tell you — I went on quite a ride today! They grabbed me by the heels, held me upside down, and shook HARD. Damn!

The physical adrenaline rush alone was enough to keep me zooming for days. My instinctual, habitual, fear-and-people-pleasing-fixing brain pathways were LIT UP. I mentioned a few days ago how I’d serendipitously reconnected with some old friends and acquaintances, and I was looking forward to blossoming renewed connections and sharing and — holy shit — so much for those delusional expectations! I can say more clearly now: I have opportunities galore to practice my new skills... with some old fart friends.

This morning, I received a text message informing me that being friends with me would "compromise their values." Strange doesn’t even begin to cover it. I started tracking the feelings as they arrived: first up, adrenaline — with no particular direction to the energy, just ZING. Next came defensiveness and explaining — a flashing impulse to set the record straight. I was obviously and egregiously misunderstood, right? OF COURSE the best, most normal thing would be to correct the error! Immediately! Vigorously! Off I'd go, building an argument, constructing examples, spinning up explanations like a maniacal cotton candy machine. Surely, surely I was the victim here. Surely!

Along with defensiveness came a big fat serving of "being right" and "looking good." How could she think that of me? She didn't even talk to me about it! Cue the old familiar soundtrack: wronged, misunderstood, mistreated, unfair, blah blah blah. SPINNING.

I took more than a few deep breaths. I managed — miracle of miracles — to stay standing as the observer, not the participant. I allowed. I accepted. I talked calm and peace to myself. I let the justifiable rage and righteous upset float on by. There I sat — on the riverbank, smiling gently — when grief came roaring in next.

Tears. Sadness. Ached-out heart. Sadness for the state of affairs: that people can be so attached to their own beliefs. That connections can close so fast. That intimacy and friendship can turn to dust with no conversation. But I didn't let the "Why? Why? Why?" machine fire up too hard. Deep breath. Tears. Another deep breath. Another wave passed.

And then — finally — gratitude. Gratitude that the would-be friend at least recognized their discomfort and acted with integrity. (Or, you know, acted in some way.) I'm guessing it wasn’t an easy message to send. At least I hope not. Gratitude for the clarity. Gratitude for the closure. Gratitude for the truth that hurt but freed.

Then, forgiveness. For her. For me. For the pain-bodies and trapped emotions that collide all day long in all of us, just trying to do our best.

I'm noticing echoes now — echoes of the first flood of feelings: defending, people-pleasing, fixing, justifying, explaining, spinning wild reasons and scenarios in my head to prove (to whom?) that I am right, wise, good, fair, better, smarter...

STOP. Practice. Practice. Practice. Out of the floodwaters. Back to the shore.

What an amazing experience. Thank you, old friend for a smashing, parting gift. Out of the water, onto the shore — over and over — until the message finally tattoos itself into my neurons: No need to dive down that dark alley. No need for the spinning. No need for external validation to know my own worth.

I am also exceedingly grateful — and here, I one thousand percent concur with David Sedaris — WHAT DO PEOPLE DO WHO CAN'T WRITE ABOUT THIS SHIT??? Thank you, Spirit, for giving me the glorious outlet of writing.

No need for more wondering, questioning, analyzing, or proving. Just standing here, letting the waves break... and roll on down the river. Grateful. Forgiving. Free.

The image of the body as a living book (The Body of Stories 11/2024) has stayed with me. Not just a book to be read, but one to be rewritten, revisited, and reimagined over time. This body, this mechanism, remains a constant storyteller — shifting, flowing, revising. The stories haven’t stopped unfolding; they have only deepened.

Since that first vision months ago, I find myself in a new phase of listening. Some chapters feel familiar — pages I’ve skimmed before but now have the patience to read more carefully. Other chapters seem to have appeared from nowhere, surprising me with their complexity, tenderness, and weight.

My mantras still hold true — There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong. There is nothing missing. But now they feel less like something I’m reciting and more like a natural hum beneath my days, shaping the way I meet myself. I don’t have to work so hard to remember them. They are starting to remember me.

Meditation is no longer a morning chore, no longer a battle to overcome habitual grumpiness. Something has shifted — perhaps the release of so many trapped emotions has finally cleared a wider channel. Whatever the cause, the background noise in my mind has softened into a kind of calm grace. Where there was once defending, resisting, and protecting, there is now a steady, quiet openness.

And seriously, this is huge. I notice it in all kinds of small moments: standing in line, sitting across from a friend, driving alone. I can pull back what feels like a thin veil — a veil of watchfulness, anxiousness — and simply listen, open-hearted and unguarded.

It reminds me of standing inside a greenhouse in winter. At first, everything seems cold, brittle, and silent. But if you stand still long enough, you realize it’s full of life: the small creak of growing branches, the almost inaudible hum of energy rising. That’s how this new listening feels — like stepping into a living space that doesn’t need my defense, my opinions, or my point of view to survive. I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to prove anything. I can just be there, breathing.

Life, of course, hasn’t stayed still either. In recent weeks, I’ve discovered the Landis Arboretum, a beautiful place for walking, wandering, and scheduling Artist’s Dates with myself. The idea of solo adventures, once so tentative, now feels natural and nourishing. My calendar has also filled up, gently and serendipitously, with new dates: old acquaintances who have appeared seemingly out of nowhere, offering renewed friendship, conversation, and laughter at just the right time. And then there’s California. A trip I decided on with almost no overthinking — an instinctive yes. Jo, a friend from Australia, is leading a seminar there, and it felt easier, lighter, more fun to fly across the country than to wonder endlessly whether or not I should go. Will I simply observe? Will I jump in and participate? I don’t know yet. But it doesn't matter. Any adventure is a lovely adventure. The spirit of exploration itself feels like the right answer.

I came across a Rumi poem this morning that I hadn't heard before. His words have been shadowing me too — especially a few stanzas from "The Community of Spirit" that seem to capture everything I’m learning, everything I’m living right now:

Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.

Open your hands,
if you want to be held.

Sit down in this circle.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!

Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?

Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.

Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.

I’m beginning to enjoy the mystery again. Not because I solved it, but because I finally stopped trying to manage it. This is what space creation was always about — not a performance, not a purge, but an invitation. And now, with so much static cleared, I can feel the payoff: a naturally calm background where the goodness just flows, no longer blocked, no longer tangled. I didn’t force it. I just made room. And something wise and kind rushed in to fill the space.

There is nothing to fear. here is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong.
There is nothing missing. Honestly, it feels like switching from dial-up internet to fiber optic soul-speed. Static quieter. Drama more distant. Subscription to chaos: unsubscribed. Thank you, Spirit. Thank you, nervous system. Thank you, stubborn human heart. May it stay quiet and glorious for a good long while. (And let’s not get crazy, but maybe let Spirit hide the map where I can’t lose it.) ​Over and out — and tuned in.

“Please just fill in your first name and stick the name tag on your left upper chest. Thanks so much—then I can see it easily when you’re seated.” I probably repeated that sentence thousands of times. I was the seminar leader. I even developed the course myself: PRIDE (People Respecting Individual Diversity Extravaganza). Decades ago—before diversity was a thing—I had insights and practices for being just a bit kinder and gentler to yourself and others. Extravaganza? Why yes, of course. It was NOT a "work" shop.

Part of the daylong experience included a closer look at what your values are. What can’t you live without? Family. That was the answer. Frequently. Repeatedly. Honesty, God, and Love came up a lot too. I’d nod thoughtfully when people said “family,” as if it were obvious. But it never felt obvious to me. I thought maybe I just didn’t “get it.” Or maybe it was something broken in me. Still, I led the exercise with conviction. That’s the funny thing about teaching—you don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to create space for the truth to emerge.
 
Now, all these years later, I think I finally understand: I never actually rejected “family” as a value—I just confused it with a Disney fantasy. The truth that emerged recently had everything to do with my actual, local, right-in-front-of-me family experience. My father-in-law passed not long ago, and I had a front-row seat to what real, present-day family looks like—his wife, daughters, grandchildren, and friends all orbiting around him with care and presence. No drama. No resentment. Just wine, blankets, connection, love. All that attention and acknowledgment—it was a blessing to witness. And, if I’m being honest, a bit of a gut punch. Because while I watched all that connection unfold around him, part of me was thinking: That’s what people mean when they say “family.”
 
And just like that, I realized something: I hadn’t rejected the value—I’d just been grieving the version of it I thought I was supposed to have. The fantasy family. The someday sisters. The effortless intimacy that never quite showed up. In the past, I would’ve spun out. Played the victim like it was my part-time job. Blamed everyone and their dog. I could’ve milked it for days—weeks—years, even. But I’ve since learned that blaming “the family” doesn’t actually work. It doesn’t get me anywhere new. In plain old business-speak: it’s ineffective. The ROI on that kind of drama is abysmal. So, when that old inclination pops up, I treat it like a spam call: decline, delete, and move on. And truthfully, I didn’t have a lot of tools back then. Emotional intelligence wasn’t modeled. There was no communication—just silence. “No talk, no touch, no eye contact please!” could’ve been our family crest.
 
It reminded me of the often-hesitant women in my PRIDE seminars—sitting in small circles, nervously sharing truths they’d never considered before. Some proudly claimed family as their core value. Others whispered about Friendship, Joy, and other aspirational values they weren’t quite sure they were allowed to want. And I always said: there’s no right answer—only the one that’s real for you. Turns out, that’s the lesson I needed too. Not the value that sounds noble or looks good on paper. Not the one you inherited by default. And definitely not the one you stitched together in your head with a Norman Rockwell background mural and a backup theme song. Just the value that’s real—for you.
 
So, I’ll ditch the fantasy. Let go of the memo on how to act ‘properly’—you know, the one no one ever actually got. Book the ticket. Go see my mom in September. This time, though, I’m doing it differently—not out of duty or guilt or some weird inherited script, but because I finally understand: I get to create what family means for me now. I get to shape the value of “family” with my one primary remaining blood relative—my mom. I don’t have to follow anyone’s definition. I can be intentional, tender, even bold about it. I can show up with care, with curiosity, and with an eye toward the future. I can build something that makes me feel more present, more connected, more free.
 
I had this strange old belief that I needed to include her new husband, like it would be rude not to. But… hello?! Permission granted. I get to have time with just her. I can whisk her away like a Thelma & Louise movie heroine with a convertible and a rockin' playlist.
 
Is it perfect? No. But it’s personal, it’s present, it’s for real—and it’s mine. Turns out, you don’t need a fantasy family. Just a plane ticket, a mom who still answers your calls, the guts to be real, a playlist that doesn’t include childhood trauma, and a well-earned, awake-and-aware gold star in Living My Actual Life—PRIDE-style. Glitter optional.

This one floated in like a wink from the universe—equal parts ancient knowing and playful reminder. I didn’t sit down to write a poem, I sat down to remember something I'd almost forgotten. Life isn’t a punishment or a puzzle to solve. It’s a game. A treasure hunt. A deeply personal, often hilarious, sometimes maddening adventure in trust and love and letting go.

And once you stop trying to win or finish or get it right—once you let the heart speak—you start to hear it whisper: "Love the game." Enjoy.

Love the Game
I feel it rising--
a spark, a pull,
a plan not of the mind
but of the heart.
A wish.
A dream.
A soul-deep signal
I can almost remember.

My soul has a hunch.
A scent on the wind,
a shimmer on the path.
This is not new.
It’s a treasure hunt--
Hide & seek
across lifetimes...

A game I've played
for centuries.
And centuries more
will unfold before it's done.
Enjoy THIS journey.

Stop asking why.
Just play the game,
Be bliss, now.
All is well--
so says my heart to me.

Beyond what eyes can see,
trust is alive.
Each moment brims--
no waiting, no holding back.
Just dive in.
No worries.

The bonds I form,
the skills I gather--
they’ll travel with me
into the next round.
So Love, scoop them up--
both the pain and the pleasure,
the agony, the awe.
No harm, no foul.

You’re collecting treasures.
Each one,
a different face
of the same sacred coin.
Perhaps or not.
No matter.

So trust the game.
Play full out.
And when in doubt—laugh.
A lot.

Because really--
there’s no prize for suffering,
no points for perfection,
no villain,
no flaw,
no missing piece.

And I am certain, truly—  
there’s nothing to fear,  
nothing to fix,  
nothing to prove,  
nothing wrong,  
and absolutely nothing missing.

​Tag, you’re it.
Game on.