I’m blushing with joy that the poems are flowing again. This is the way of it. I’ve learned that anxious desire or wistful wishing doesn’t bring the words. The flow of wisdom is always present—I’m just not always tuned in. And that, too, is perfectly perfect.

But when I do tune in—when I hear the words, see the images, feel the cadence of something waiting to be spoken—I recognize it instantly. It’s a gift, a pulse, a whisper, a flood.

And so, if you don’t quite understand poetry or haven’t historically enjoyed it, well… so sorry for you. But just for now, let go of any old ideas about what poetry is or isn’t. Read it aloud, softly or boldly. Shout it. Sing it. Let it move through you. Notice if your own wise self is drawn to something revealed.

A poem is just a pointer to something grand and lovely.
What it points to for you is yours alone. Enjoy.

Held & Free
In and out, round and round--
expanding, contracting,
tight—loose—tie it off.
Open wide, breathe it in.
Shut down, spit it out.
The sphere
of my experience
pulsates, glitters,
skims chaos,
tightens down--
lovely, cozy,
healing, quiet.

It is a sphere, isn’t it?
Not a circle.
The energy ebbs and flows
in at least three dimensions,
probably seven--
in front, behind,
above, below,
left, right,
past, future,
now.

Some say, “Create a bubble”
to protect yourself--
against… what?
What you don’t want?
I say, shift your perception,
pop the bubble.
Notice—your sphere was always there,
“protecting” you--
if you need protecting at all.

I’m not a fan of protection--
let nature take its course,
trust your knowing.
My sphere tightens,
taking stock, energy
ricocheting through the corridors
of memory, dream, and desire,
brushing past fear,
weaving through expectation.

I’ll take my time inside.
No rush.
Enjoy your chaos, your drama--
I am here, drawn to my light,
curious about its paradox--
shutting down to open up,
withdrawing to advance,
pausing—listening--
to surrender, to love,
whatever comes next.

The soundest truth,
the one I choose to believe,
rises, spills--
pouring from the inside out.
Hello, my Love.
What’s next?

Alternate Title: Beyond the Bubble

A vacation is a lovely opportunity to rediscover how much you love being home. At least, that’s what I felt after returning from Treasure Cay, Bahamas. There’s something about stepping away that makes you see everything more clearly—the familiar spaces, the routines, the quiet comforts that hold you in ways you don’t always notice. I came back not just grateful for my physical home, but for the deeper home I’ve created within myself—the one built through reflection, trust, and the slow layering of becoming.
This morning, I sifted through old posts, journals, and notes, feeling the threads of something coming together—perhaps a book, perhaps something else. I could see, in my own words, the shape of how I’ve arrived here—not all at once, but piece by piece, returning and refining. Like home, like becoming, it’s never just one moment—it’s a continuous unfolding. And as I sat with this awareness, this poem came through.
Enjoy.


​Becoming: Shake Well Before Use
​
"Wouldn’t it be nice?" she sighs--
Then I could ________!
Then I would _______!
Then I'd feel _______!
Then I'd show ______!
Then I'd look ______!
Then I'd finally know ________!
Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Read & re-read
that first stanza--
over & over & over.
Fill in the blanks.
OBSERVE—NOTICE—STAND.
DWELL—BROOD—SIT
in your words,
the images conjured,
the feelings & energy
flowing and weaving.

Step in—step out.
Walk ‘round "it."
Take your time.
Rushing is resistance!
Fly over, float through,
turn it upside-down.
Swing back & forth,
forth & back--
again & again.

Just when you imagine
you’ve “got it”--
DIVE UNDER!
Root around,
SHOVEL—SIFT—SORT.
MUSE—MULL—REVOLVE.
Whisper wise words
& continue to wonder
at the ease & grace of “it.”

Return again to stanza one.
LATHER—RINSE—REPEAT.
No hurry—not racing,
only living as witness.
Hold it gently—the texture
pressing against your thumb.
Turning it in your hand,
examining the colors,
the reflections—the spice.
Isn’t “it” nice?!

Pore over “it” like water,
flowing into each nook & cranny.
And when you know it by heart--
start again at stanza one.
CELEBRATE—CONTEMPLATE—CONSIDER.
RETURN—REWIND—ENTWINE!
Until at last,
it’s not just “nice”--
it’s necessary.
It’s already real.
And so I create & become.

Alternate Title:
Step In – Step Out – Spin Around… Become!

I have learned so many stellar lessons recently, and one of the biggest is this: there is no rush. Taking my time, moving at my own personal pace, is not just important—it’s critical for the most graceful unfolding of my life. When I slow down, everything becomes clearer. I picture myself following a trail through the woods, much like the one in the image below. Sometimes, the path is obvious and well-marked. Other times, it vanishes altogether. That’s my cue to pause, to be still, to hang out and take in the breathtaking beauty around me. The trail will reveal itself again when it’s ready. The pause is never a failure —it’s a required part of the journey. And patience is not just advisable; it’s essential.

When I drill down into specific lessons, they don’t present themselves in a neat, linear fashion. In fact, nothing in nature is truly linear. I learned this firsthand on a 10-day vision quest near Moab, Utah in the 1990s. The experience was guided by a group trained by the Native American teacher Sun Bear, and it completely altered how I experience nature, time, progress, and movement through life.

One of the biggest revelations came after the quest. Returning to “civilization,” I struggled to do something as simple as "phone home" which required dialing a long-distance access code + the home number. Before the trip, I could have done it without hesitation. But after days "questing", of deep immersion in nature, my brain resisted that mechanical, structured task. The mental gymnastics it took to recall that number shocked me. I was also awestruck by the physical feelings and sensation of moving in a car at 40MPH after spending so long on foot in the desert.

That experience cemented something I still believe today—our paths, our learning, our growth, are not linear. Not mine. Not yours. Not anyone’s. So how do I select which topics or antidotes or epiphanies to share? Pure intuition. A gut reaction (in case you were wondering). I am endlessly amazed by the feedback I receive on my writing. What moves people, what inspires them, what resonates—it’s never predictable. I don’t pretend to know what is universal wisdom and what is just my own experience, but I do know that sharing my journey is valuable. Even if only one person finds something useful, that’s enough.

Writing helps me assess my own clarity, motives, and next steps. But journalling isn’t for everyone. Neither is meditation, music, or sports. What works for me may not work for everyone, and that’s okay. The goal isn’t to find a universal path—it’s to honor our own unique one.

I recently read something in David Hawkins’ book Letting Go that completely flipped my understanding of emotions and thoughts. I had always assumed thoughts created emotions. But Hawkins suggests it’s the other way around—that our feelings generate thought patterns. That means if I can release a trapped emotion, I’m also letting go of the hundreds of thoughts that orbit around it—an idea that feels both liberating and wildly appealing

As a meditator and witness to the insane number of hamster-wheel thought loops in my head, I am willing to do just about anything to shift from a chaotic mind to something more intentional, more peaceful. So, I created a simple acronym—because the world clearly doesn’t have enough of them—OHR: Observe, Honor, Release.
​
Instead of getting lost in my thoughts, I practice this:

1. Observe – Identify what I am feeling. Not the thoughts about it, but the actual emotion behind the thoughts.
2. Honor – Acknowledge the emotion without judgment. No pushing it away. No trying to fix it. Just let it be felt.
3. Release – Let go of the need to hold onto it. Let it dissolve, let it shift, let it move through me instead of getting stuck.

When I created the OHR (Observe, Honor, Release) acronym, I thought I had everything I needed—a simple, intuitive way to work through emotions. But I quickly realized I was missing something essential: I had no real language for what I was experiencing. Noticing a feeling was one thing, but without labels, definitions, and distinctions, the process was too vague. It was like trying to navigate with a blurry map. How could I release something I couldn’t even properly identify?
​
Since my emotional intelligence was a bit thwarted at a young age, this is all fresh, curious, heart-pumping, and adventurous for me. I have been working with The Emotion Code flashcards and recently discovered Brené Brown’s Atlas of the Heart. Both have been unexpectedly helpful tools, giving me language and structure for emotions I may have felt but never quite defined.

That’s where both the flash cards and Brown’s work became fascinating. She differentiates between things like envy and jealousy, stealthy expectations vs. mindful expectations—distinctions I had never considered before. I haven’t finished reading the book yet, but I’m especially looking forward to the section on positive emotions. What does she say about awe, amusement, love, trust, wonder, curiosity, and surprise?

I’m approaching all of this in a judgment-free way—not trying to force myself to feel differently, but letting myself explore and understand without urgency. And in that process, sometimes just naming what I’m feeling—even if the label shifts later—makes all the difference.

Maybe these are the real keys: I’m not in a hurry. I’m not expecting this journey to be linear. I trust that labels are just stepping stones—not limitations. I trust that this work unfolds exactly as it’s meant to. And best of all? I’m actually having a blast. Stay tuned!

"Your body is a temple." "You should treat your body like a temple." These are familiar old sayings I remember hearing occasionally when I was young. I understand the idea—to treat your body as sacred and holy. No one in my immediate family was a living example of this, so I can't remember ever taking this platitude very seriously. Come to fine out it was thoroughly ingrained, however, who knew!

In fact, I distanced myself from all things religious pretty much as soon as I was emancipated. This distance applied to anything and everything related to Catholicism or any religion in general and extended to places of worship too, now that I think of it. I was in a church for the very first time in decades on my trip to Iceland and Ireland. (The building in my images is the Evangelical-Lutheran church Hallgrimskirkja in the center of Reykjavík.)

During a recent BYOB (Be Your Own Bestie) meditation, the image of a temple—very similar to the one I saw in Reykjavik—appeared with a big X over it, clear as a bell. Funny how resistance, guilt, and who knows how many other tangled associations with religion and religious spaces had somehow bled over into my own caring concern for my body. The message landed instantly: my body is not a temple. Another shortsighted, misunderstood, and overused dictum bites the dust! And honestly, it feels a little blasphemous to say that out loud—maybe even to think it.
After all, doesn't rejecting the temple analogy sound like rejecting reverence, rejecting care, rejecting something sacred? Aren’t we supposed to treat our bodies with the same devotion, the same meticulous attention that a temple commands? But that’s exactly where the disconnect is. The problem isn’t reverence—it’s the rigid, artificial holiness imposed on something that is anything but rigid or artificial. My body is not a stone monument built for worship. It is not a pristine sanctuary meant to be tiptoed around in hushed voices and dim lighting. It is flesh and breath, hunger and movement, sweat and sensation. It is messy and alive and human.

Saying it—my body is not a temple—feels like shaking off a weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying. It feels like unlearning years of silent programming, the quiet undercurrent of shame and expectation woven into every platitude about purity, restraint, and self-denial. It feels like heresy, and yet, at the same time, it feels like freedom.

For the record, I have zero issues with God, the Universe, or whatever name fits. My fundamental mistrust is reserved for the copious, controlling, proselytizing humans who are convinced I need saving—on their terms. And right now, the only salvation I’m interested in is from their small, suffocating definitions of what me and my body is supposed to be.

It struck me how deeply this resistance had embedded itself. Had I, without realizing it, absorbed the belief that caring for my body carried an invisible weight of guilt? That if I wasn’t treating it a certain way, I was somehow sinful? The guilt of religious obligation had shape-shifted into a quiet, nagging, "should-spouting" voice about my health, my choices, my physical self. No wonder the image of the temple with an X appeared—my subconscious had been waiting for permission to reject the comparison outright.

I felt like shouting it at the top of my lungs—"My body is not a temple, damnit!" And when I let go of that idea, something unexpected happened. A space opened—something bigger, truer, and far more alive than the cold stone of a temple could ever hold. If my body is not a temple, then what is it?

It is my home, a cozy place I have never left, never been abandoned by. It is a garden, constantly growing, adapting, renewing itself. It is a playground, meant for movement, sensation, and joy.
It is an ocean, vast, powerful, untamed. My body is a mountain, mysterious, magical, raw and unpredictable. A story, unfolding moment by moment, telling the truth of my life in scars, laughter lines, aches, and exhilaration. I had never considered my body this way before. I had spent so much time unknowingly resisting an idea that never fit me that I had never fully stepped into what was possible instead. Letting go of the temple created a massive opening, a shift so profound it brought tears to my eyes. For the first time, I saw my body not as something fragile to tiptoe around, not as something to fix, measure up, or maintain—but as something to live in, to love, to be with. 

I have come to know my own body as nothing short of miraculous in all its workings and abilities and functions. And I don’t have to go anywhere or construct anything or consult anyone to witness this miracle. My body is a mystery beyond explanation, even if you gathered every doctor, yogi, and mystic from the beginning of time until now.
So no, my body is not a temple. It is not built just for worship, for quiet reverence, for rules and rituals.

My body is my home, my playground, my garden, my instrument, my ocean, my mountain, my story. Stand by for articles exploring with enthusiasm and curiosity each of these metaphors.

I do know now that my body does not need holiness—it needs love, attention, movement, and trust. And that is more sacred than any temple ever built.

I've been doing energy work—releasing trapped emotions that Dr. Hawkins, Dr. Nelson, and so many others have identified as the root of both physical and spiritual illness. I am profoundly grateful to have found this reliable, transformative link—the space where the obstacles to alignment with my inner truth become malleable, available for release. This morning, something shifted. Something old, something familiar yet distant. 

Release (2025)
In the still, silent, calm.
Deep in the layers.
As I sift and dive,
Fly and float.
In the currents
Between the skins
And masks,
Facades and fantasies.
I sense a never-ending sorrow.
As it shifts then fades—evasive.
Below the trauma,
Before the bruises,
Ahead of birth—my birth,
Since before my beginning.
Here,
I am missing a friend.
A dream I wrote of
As a child then forgot.

Decades later, I recall.
My soul aches.
It hurts and cries,
Whimpers and wanes,
Still yearning for love
From the outside in.
A twin? A friend? A soul mate?
That someone
Who completes me,
Who allows this life
To be joyful and fulfilling.

I have been looking, searching.
Lost for so long,
At some level needy, alone,
And frightened.
Powering through,
Adapting—coping.
Waiting—hoping.
Watching—grieving.
All this time.
All these decades.
The fog is cleared.
Now I can let her go.

This reminded me of a poem I wrote when I was young. Back then, I'm certain I was writing about romantic love—the ideal of a perfect partner. But now, I see the truth: it was never just about a person. It was about every relationship ideal I’ve ever held, including the one with myself. The longing, the ache of incompleteness—it wasn’t about another soul stepping in to complete me. It was my own reflection, distorted by time and longing, whispering to be found.

In doing this energy work, I’ve uncovered something even more important than the release of ensnared emotions: I’ve found the emerald thread of my soul, the part of me that has always been there, waiting to be seen. This work is not about "fixing" or "finding" something outside myself—it’s about clearing away what isn’t mine. The stories, the fears, the illusions that kept me searching instead of being. Now I see—what I longed for wasn’t another person. It was alignment, clarity, freedom. The love I was searching for was always my own.

This journey—of healing, of release, of uncovering what was buried—has not been about gaining something new, but about reclaiming something old. The dream was never lost, only hidden beneath the weight of unspoken grief and unanswered longing. As I reread my poem from 1985, I see the echoes of my younger self in these words. I see the part of me that longed for a love that would rescue, complete, or define me. But I also see something deeper—a part of me that already knew the truth I am just now embracing. The dream is not another person. The dream is me.
​
To Be A Dream (1985)
If only we could see beyond today.
Seek each other out, knowing the way.
What to come accepting
With no prejudice or decepting
Knowing the legends sleeping
Deep within each other’s dreaming
Seeing with eyes, not regretting
Casting through mist and netting
Seeking out what is worth remembering.

To aid the other in conquering
What hinders happiness o’re taking
Sensing the one they wish to be
Actions departed, forgiving
Praying always to be “we”
And not just “he” or “she”
Working, striving, undertaking
To be a dream and help a dream to be.

Can this imagined and once realized
Break away the thin disguise
That echoes through your soul, not true
And changes once green eyes to blue
Will you help me? Can you see
The soul I truly hope to be?
Searching now through gauze
Through fog and misty trees
And be a dream and help a dream to be?

And so I let go—not of the dream, but of the illusion that it was ever separate from me. I trust that I am whole. I trust that I am enough. I trust that the dream is not something to be found, but something to be lived. Trust is the bridge between longing and fulfillment, between fear and freedom. It is what allows me to release the past and walk forward without hesitation, without doubt—only with openness and grace. I trust the emerald thread will always guide me home.

Is it true that "what goes around, comes around"? Maybe—if you believe it.

Is karma for real? I’m curious—if it is, how does it really work?

Are there hidden laws of nature at play beneath the surface? Absolutely! These invisible forces—the ebb and flow of life, the tides of energy, and the subtle threads that connect us—remind me that there’s always more than meets the eye.

What I do know is this: seasons happen. People, thoughts, and emotions appear and disappear in waves. The ebb and flow of motivation and inspiration is undeniable in my personal experience.

In the past, whenever I encountered an ebb, my knee-jerk reaction was always to resist, push through, and never give up. But isn’t that the opposite of “going with the flow”? Living one block from the ocean on Venice Beach, California, taught me a lot about the rhythm of the tides. I’d watch waves advance and retreat, each one flowing farther up the shore or pulling back, depending on the tide. I witnessed ferocious storms and times of total calm.

I remember a specific ebb during my career when I tried to push through a project that simply wasn’t ready. I poured my energy into every detail, ignoring the growing resistance I felt inside. The result? Burnout and frustration. Later, when I paused and gave myself space, the clarity I’d been searching for arrived effortlessly. The lesson was clear: sometimes, flow comes only when we stop forcing it.

Patience—and awareness—are the only salves for this particular force of nature. I’ve witnessed my own ebbs and flows of emotion and inspiration. In these moments, I sometimes sense the faint pull of a thread beneath it all, connecting the waves of life and guiding me forward. Sometimes pushing through yields fruit; other times, it doesn’t. Learning when to push and when to stand still feels like a hallmark of an ever-expanding maturity.

There are milestones, landmarks, and defining moments along the way, certainly. But the fall back and regroup often feels like an automatic, wild response to moving forward. “Two steps forward, one step back...” The pause—whether caution, contemplation, or simply waiting—is what allows me to be unattached. Given my intention and my actions, I can watch the outcome unfold and reflect: Was it even close to what I intended? The “step back” becomes a space to learn and grow with ease, little by slowly.

Though I don’t have children, I often imagine what a curriculum in Life Skills might look like. What lessons would I teach my younger self? Lessons that allow the confident spirit to shine, creativity to flow, and life to be free of suffering (if not pain). After a 30-year corporate career training adults, I wonder how I could package my experiences to be touching, moving, and inspiring for peers—or for anyone seeking a little more ease in navigating life’s ebbs and flows.

One of the first lessons I’d teach would be patience. It’s a skill that doesn’t come easily, especially in a culture of “hustle” and “never give up.” But patience is what allows me to ride the waves of life with grace. Another would be awareness—the ability to set aside beliefs, expectations, and defensiveness, to stop blaming or criticizing, and instead to fully experience the moment as it is. Awareness invites me to notice life’s tides as they shift and pivot gracefully, rather than reactively. Both skills have carried me through countless moments of uncertainty, showing me how to trust the process rather than fight it.

And at the heart of it all, I’d include a lesson about connection—about learning to recognize and follow the subtle threads that guide me. There’s an emerald thread of the soul that runs through my life, quiet but persistent, and noticing it is what allows me to navigate even the stormiest tides. This awareness creates space for trust, curiosity, and growth.

​For some time now, I’ve shared my journey and reflections here, inspired by images and ideas from my daily meditation practice. Recently, though, that hasn’t felt adequate—or entirely authentic. But in writing this, I’ve noticed a thread running through my tapestry, one that might just resonate with others.

This thread—the emerald thread of the soul—has always been there, even if I wasn’t looking for it. It’s a thread that’s shown up in moments of inspiration, in quiet pauses, and even in the middle of life’s storms. Following it has taught me to see the beauty in small, subtle moments and to trust that even the “setbacks” are a critical and necessary part of a larger picture.

Each individual experience may or may not resonate or inspire you, but the bright emerald thread of the soul is beginning to emerge. This is what I’ll pay attention to—watching for it out of the corner of my eye. It might not be visible immediately, but like the rising tide, it will eventually and inevitably raise all vessels.

The tide doesn’t rush or resist—it simply rises, carrying everything with it. This is the kind of trust I aim to embody in my own life: a quiet, steady faith that even when I can’t see the full picture, the tide is lifting me toward clarity, growth, and alignment.

Every year, I choose a word—a compass for growth and intention. This year, my journey led me to Trust.

As I considered my five finalist words for 2025--Accept, Accountable, Commitment, Responsible, and Trust—it became clear that Trust was the foundation. Accept and Accountable felt too similar to Trust and Commitment, leaving me with a trio: Trust, Responsible, and Commitment. Without Trust, responsibility feels heavy, and commitment feels hollow.  Trust had to come first.

And isn’t that fitting? When I created the image above for this article, I noticed that definitions from multiple sources included responsibility and commitment. Trust doesn’t stand alone; it naturally gives rise to these other principles. Choosing Trust feels like choosing a trio, with Trust as the guiding star.

Trust what? Trust my DMGS (Divine Magical Guidance System)—that quiet, intuitive voice that guides me toward alignment. Trust my soul, my highest truth, my natural, relaxed knowingness. It’s about trusting that even when I don’t fully understand the “how,” my inner guidance will lead me to what’s right, in its own time. Trust is the foundation for listening, aligning, and acting with confidence, clarity and kindness.

While I was trolling about town a week or so ago, I wandered into a Barnes & Noble. I had done a quick Amazon search for a book that would assist with identifying trapped emotions. David Hawkins, in his book Letting Go, has a method for releasing emotions, and I wanted more options or ideas. (He uses muscle testing—there are plenty of videos on YouTube.) I was, as always, curious and open to additional techniques that could release this pent-up negative energy. I discovered a book called The Emotion Code by Dr. Bradley Nelson. Miracle of miracles, the physical bookstore had the book in stock, and I was able to satisfy my lust for information immediately. God wink? Synchronicity? Of course, why not! A foreword by Tony Robbins didn't hurt either!

​The book builds on Hawkins’ work, more details on muscle testing a chart of 60 emotions, yes/no flowcharts for subconscious communication, and actionable techniques to release the pent up emotions. It’s designed to help identify whatever emotions are ready to be released and send them packing. (Where do they go, I wonder?) I devoured the book in an afternoon and immediately began reviewing the website (discoverhealing.com). I could see that there are classes and certifications and I decided to search for certified practitioners online. This way I could ask questions directly and get a better feel for how the techniques worked in real life. 

My first session was with a novice practitioner, and while her energy and enthusiasm were wonderful, the timing wasn’t ideal. Tango, our beloved patriarch guinea pig, passed away in my arms shortly afterward, and I was too immersed in real-time grief to fully process the release. It was a deeply emotional moment—such a beautiful, innocent little life. OUCH!

Several days later, once my emotions had settled, I reached out to a different practitioner from the Emotion Code website. This woman had years of experience, and it showed in her confidence, speed, and methodical approach. The session felt transformative. She guided me through releasing multiple trapped emotions from early in my life—emotions I always knew were there but had no idea how to let go of.
I left feeling lighter and freer, and she even assigned me homework to help me practice identifying and releasing emotions on my own. This work, grounded in trust, felt like a massive success. I’m looking forward to continuing sessions and deepening my ability to clear out the “clouds” that block the light of Spirit.

With Trust, I am able to move forward intuitively to remove those clouds. Trust allows me to release old emotions, align with my DMGS, and act from a place of confidence and love. This year, I’m stepping out of survival mode. I’m choosing to thrive—in awareness, in alignment, and in the freedom to fully participate in life.

I’m not sure exactly when I began the practice of choosing one word as a focus point for the year. Above is a page from my journal of possible candidates for 2025. I use an app called Word Hippo to suss out the definitions and synonyms that add depth and dimension to the words and what they may render throughout a year of focused intention for growth. I thought I had selected one—a scary one for me—but now, as I review the page again, I’m uncertain. I suppose I’ll have to put my Ask, Don’t Analyze mantra into practice.

Scary or inspiring, I know that a consistent focus and intention is helpful for me, Miss easily distracted by just about anything. I know from experience that this practice can be fruitful. Last year, I chose Freedom as my word, and it turned out to be incredibly rich. I found freedom in unexpected places—in my relationships, in my schedule, and even in my thoughts. I became more aware of what I have freedom around and what I don’t. It wasn’t just a concept; it became a way of seeing the world. I was tempted to continue with Freedom into 2025. There’s still so much to explore in that space. But Freedom feels safe now, and for my 60th year on the planet, I want to choose something a little more edgy and terrifying, quite frankly.

On my list of words for 2025, Trust feels like a challenge to lean into that inner knowing without the need to fix or control and still feel safe in the knowledge that things will unfold perfectly no matter what I my analytical fearful inclinations may point out.  Trust invites me to release my white knuckle grip on certainty, embrace faith, and honor the unfolding unknown with ease and grace.  Responsibility calls for clarity in owning my physical body, each word I speak, all my actions reactions and choices, asking me to step up with accountability instead of avoidance. Responsibility isn't a burden; it's a form of love, authentic empowerment and self-respect. Acceptance nudges me toward peace with what is, asking me to release looking good, being right, defending and resistance instead to surrender to the present moment. Acceptance whispers that beauty lies in letting life be—messy, raw, and untouched by my need to fix or control.  Accountable brings up a kind of stern self-discipline I’ve been avoiding for years. It feels like a mirror, reflecting back what I need to own and inviting me to hold myself to a higher standard with compassion rather than judgment. Accountable invites me to align and make friends with my natural rhythms and choose curiosity and creativity to guide me forward. And finally, Commitment dares me to focus with consistent purpose, to follow through on what I set out to do without distraction. It feels like a promise to myself—a chance to show up fully and prove that I can sustain my efforts over time. 

​Many of the synonyms are overlapping and similar once I see them together on one page. Each of them challenges me to face deep-seated fears and long-ingrained behaviors of avoidance and resistance. Each one stirs discomfort, yet that discomfort feels like a key to transformation.

Each word feels meaningful, and yet none of them feel easy. I’m drawn to the discomfort they stir in me, even as I want to turn away. I know I’ve spent a lot of my life avoiding certain truths—about myself, my choices, and the ways I show up in the world. Maybe choosing a word that unsettles me is exactly what I need to grow. After all, I’m still stuck in the grike of “more pain, more gain”! Ha.

But how do I decide? My Ask, Don’t Analyze mantra reminds me that I don’t need to overthink this. Instead, I’ll ask the question: What word feels true for me this year? And then, I’ll wait for the answer to come. Maybe it’ll arrive when I’m journaling, meditating, or halfway through some mundane task like washing the dishes. Maybe I already know the answer, and I just need to trust it.

So, what about you? What word would you choose for 2025? Would you stick with something safe and familiar, or take a leap into the unknown? Either way, the journey begins with just one word.

This little gem came to me a few days back: Ask, Don’t Analyze. I’ve found that brief, succinct statements like this often hold the most power. Like a mantra, they interrupt my standard patterns of thought and behavior. Years ago, I created signs with phrases like “Notice, Don’t Defend” and “Observe, Don’t Judge.” I hung them where I could see them often, printed and laminated copies to share, and repeated them aloud to myself—and to anyone within earshot. These simple messages carried so much peace and freedom once I started implementing them! I’m sure there are more, like “Laugh, Don’t Compare,” but that’s a topic for another day.

Right now, Ask, Don’t Analyze feels especially powerful because it speaks directly to my present awareness of a severe lack of trust. That’s a harsh but honest way to put it. I’m building trust now—intentionally, patiently—through focus and practice. I’m learning to ask and listen to my own DMGS (Divine Magical Guidance System). I know I’ve mentioned this before, but maybe it’s time to clarify.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the concept of God, shaped by my upbringing in a conservative Catholic household. I’ve come to see that it’s not about God per se, but about people. It’s a User Error—a human problem. I don’t trust most humans. No hard feelings; I just sense that, understandably, most people are ultimately looking out for themselves. Without realizing it, I began relying on my DMGS when I started journaling in 1976, inspired by The Diary of Anne Frank. That connection has stayed with me ever since. Through my BYOB meditation practice, I’m now learning how to listen more closely and hear more clearly. I’m discovering how to distinguish between illusion, delusion, and the quiet, steady voice of my DMGS.

This journey has also been shaped by practices like 2-Way prayer, publicized by The Oxford Group in the 1930s. It combines meditation and journaling—two of my favorite things! There’s also a step where you check in with another person, but I’ve found that part less helpful. Even the most caring advice I’ve received has often been wrong or fear-based. Instead, I’ve turned to tools like muscle testing, as described by David Hawkins, to develop a more objective way of checking in. Slowly but surely, I’m learning to trust my DMGS and consult it often.

Ask, Don’t Analyze. It’s such a simple mantra, but it challenges me to step out of my old habits. Thoughts, I’ve learned, are often unhelpful distractions from the core of truth. Asking, on the other hand, is about opening up and receiving guidance. I also have to learn to sit with the answers I don’t like—the ones that make me uncomfortable or push my boundaries. Discomfort tends to send me straight into avoidance, so I get to practice patience, trust, and moving forward anyway.

I’m amazed by how often the answer to my urgent, pressing question is simply, “It doesn’t matter.” Nothing puts me in my place quite like that! It’s humbling, for sure, but also freeing. It reminds me that much of what I agonize over isn’t as important as I think.

This is the beginning of my Ask, Don’t Analyze mantra practice. I’m excited to see where it takes me. This simple phrase puts me in both the driver’s seat and the passenger’s seat of my life. It’s a powerful reminder that I get to take full responsibility for my choices on every level—and that guidance is always there when I choose to ask for it.​

The drawing above I created just after meditation on December 29, 2024. I’ve waited to share it, imagining I’d discover a way to make it more self-explanatory or visually bold. I did darken the smaller corner drawings a bit, enlarging the wheels and ruts to make the connections clearer. I decided that’s enough. You can get the idea.

Below is an image I found online of The Burren in County Clare, Ireland. Burren comes from boíreann, meaning “a stony place” in Irish. When I visited this summer with Val, I was mesmerized by the grikes—the crevices in the limestone “pavement.” Despite their harsh, rocky appearance, flowers were growing in the grikes, adding bursts of unexpected color and life.

The image stayed with me. It came to mind as I considered how to reimagine the thought ruts in my drawing. If I were more practiced at drawing, I’d depict the brain and its thought patterns as something like the Burren, with hamster wheels popping up all over, connected by an intricate flow of grikes running in multiple directions. I even imagined myself jumping from wheel to wheel, avoiding the traverse of a single grike entirely.

This imagery captures my experience of repetitive, ineffective mental analysis—spinning endlessly on certain topics and people. The wheels turn, the ruts deepen, and the same grooves replay over and over. And yet, as I look at the drawing now, I don’t feel the need to change it or fix anything. There’s nothing wrong with the grikes, nothing to prove or explain or excuse. They simply are. What I seek isn’t repair, but perhaps a new perspective—a fresh way of navigating them.

It’s funny, isn’t it, how the grikes resemble the grooves of a human brain? Maybe that’s the point. The ruts aren’t obstacles; they’re terrain. They hold the potential for growth if I approach them with curiosity rather than frustration. What if I could fill them in? Not to erase them, but to plant something meaningful within them. Could those grooves support wildflowers, like the Burren? Could the wheels stop spinning long enough for me to notice the life growing in between?

I’ve often described my obsession with certain thoughts as “spinning” to friends, and they all seem to understand the concept instantly. We’ve all been there, stuck in a rut—or perhaps a grike, if you prefer. I love the word. The sections of limestone between the grikes are called clints. Isn’t that fantastic? Even the language of the Burren feels alive, inviting me to reimagine my mental terrain.

​For now, I’ll let the wheels spin and the grikes deepen while I wait for my inner wisdom to reveal the next step. Maybe I’ll fill in the grikes. Maybe I won’t. There’s no rush, nothing to fix—just the joy of observing the landscape and being curious about what might bloom.

After all, even in the Burren’s rocky crevices, flowers find their way to grow, adding life and color to what seems barren at first glance. Perhaps the same is true for my mind—those grooves and ruts aren’t just limitations. They’re spaces where compassion, creativity, and new perspectives might take root, given the chance. The second image is my own photo... the flowers were blooming in the grike when I was there... as witness.

The holidays have come and gone so quickly. This year felt different—odd, even. We didn’t decorate or get particularly nostalgic or sentimental. I found myself immersed in something far more transformative: my afternoon BYOB meditations. I’m noticing a distinct difference in how I experience everyday routine tasks and engage with people. This year, my new perspective seemed to wrap itself around the season, making even the simplest moments feel transformed—like my meditations or the quiet realization of what I’d been missing.

It’s a paradox, isn’t it? Since I’ve gone totally selfish in my pursuits and goals, my experience is actually less selfish and self serving. Now that I recognize when I’m being SELF-manipulative, controlling, worried about being right, defending, looking good, or fixing everything—and practice letting go of all that—I see my environment and the people in it so differently. I see them with love and compassion. Now that kindness and compassion are becoming more normal inside of me, they’re leaking to the outside. Did someone tell me this might happen? Ha, turns out they were right!

Seeing family this year, it struck me, for the first time in 17 years, how much I’ve been blocking intimacy and missing the chance to create real connections. Without the usual pity party or the expectation that someone should hang on my every word of wisdom, I see it so clearly: I am not a victim at all. Good grief, Laurie Anne! I am responsible. And I can proceed with clear, kind, and loving intentions. When I saw my niece smile as we talked, I realized how much I’d been missing these simple moments of connection. The warmth I felt wasn’t from their validation—it was from finally being present. No need to beat myself up for what’s past. There’s also nothing urgent to fix—just options, a sense of space, and openness for what I may choose to create in the future.

Holy shit... the gifts just keep revealing themselves.

Yesterday, I went shopping for our New Year’s Eve dinner. (We also met on New Year’s Eve 2007, so it’s our 18th anniversary.) Typically, we enjoy crab legs, white rice, freshly cooked artichokes with loads of butter, and something sweet and decadent to finish. This year, we decided on lobster instead of crab for a change. My shopping trip was outstanding. These days, I bundle errands to limit trips to town, going once every couple of weeks. It makes each trip feel like a treat, an adventure—a fabulous opportunity to move slowly and take in every magical moment. During this trip, I finally used my training to pause and intentionally check in with inner wisdom about certain purchases—food, supplements, etc. I was surprised to notice how aware I felt. Often, I was singing quietly or just giddy with joy. Such a fucking awesome way to move through the world! I'm so grateful and finally actually tuned into my very own DMGS—Divine, Magical, Guiding System. It’s more than just a concept—it’s become a constant guide, a way to move through life with intention, ease, and a sense of wonder. 
​
It took me a while this morning to land on that particular acronym, but it perfectly expresses my experience. It’s also internal, intuitive, and so many other things. "Divine"—for sure. "Magical"—no doubt. Sweetly "Guiding"—absolutely. “System” nods to the fact that it’s always been there, part of my DNA, waiting for me to notice. Whether I was resistant, distracted, or just forgot doesn’t matter now. I’ve got the number, the position on the radio dial to tune in anytime, every time. Once again, I am exceedingly grateful, overwhelmingly relieved, and blissed out! Happy Holidays to me!
​
As the year draws to a close, I’m reveling in the simplest magic—awareness, gratitude, and the sheer joy of being. This holiday season didn’t need decorations or fanfare. The gifts were already here, hidden in plain sight, waiting for me to notice. Happy Holidays, indeed.
​

The holiday season has a way of amplifying life’s magic. Twinkling lights, the warmth of togetherness, and quiet moments of reflection invite us to notice the extraordinary in the ordinary. But magic isn’t just in the grand gestures of this time of year; it’s in the smallest details—a steaming cup of tea, a ray of sunlight, or even a misplaced phone. As the year winds down, I find myself reflecting on how every moment can be magical, depending on my perspective.

​There could be magic everywhere
up close and from a distance
Outside the “normal” distance.
If you hold still, breathe softly,
Wait – Pause, Anticipate,
really look.

Life IS magic
each moment
insanely brilliant,
perfectly aligned
from every which way
at once.

The morning sun
illuminates the billows
of moisture and
bits of spice blossoming
from my cup of tea
They swirl, wrap,
twirl and twist about
Moved by breath
and furnace-forced air.
Like smoke, it rises.
I feel the heat
of an alternate
reality right here.

There is magic,
even if I knew
the science, the physics,
the thought-FULL
explanation,
it is still magic.
In the end,
the ultimate Mover is
unseen - unknown.
The Mover has
humor and skill,
light and fun,
pain and purpose.

I left my phone at my Mom's yesterday.
Magic? Fluke? Accident?
Oddly timed character flaw?
Or sweet lesson from the Mover?
I experienced visceral fear,
delusional flights of negative
imagination –
worst-case scenarios,
angst, loss, emptiness.
I got to experience it all:
powerlessness, worry,
and finally acceptance,
reality, trust, humor.
Oh, and opportunity... to practice
settling down with grace
and patience,
curiosity, and faith.

What if I were to allow
each experience to be full of wonder?
MAGICAL?
No potions or incantations,
no frog’s moss or sweet grass with bat’s eye.
Those witchy tools, like meditation,
are just techniques to foster awareness – seeing.

What if we are inherently magical,
born to see the extraordinary,
but somewhere along the way,
forgotten how?
A world like Harry Potter’s--
alive, vibrant, pulsing with unseen wonder--
exists all around us. Indeed!
Curiosity, creativity, and compassion
with an open mind are all we need
to thoroughly enjoy each moment
on this Earth bound journey.

Indeed!
Simple and not easy
if you’ve never been taught.
If I fall – it’s magical.
If I forget my phone – magic!
If I choose every moment to trust – THAT’S magic.
It’s all magical, depending on my perspective.
I’ll keep eyes “peeled,”
senses on alert,
and report back directly.
Later, I’ll drive to pick up my phone…
Who knows what may come of it!?

As we step into the magic of the holiday season, I’m reminded that life offers us countless gifts—gifts of perspective, patience, and possibility. Whether it’s a forgotten phone or a shared moment with a loved one, each experience is an opportunity to embrace wonder and trust in the unknown. This holiday season, may we all carry curiosity, creativity, and compassion, seeing the magic that surrounds us not just today, but every day. After all, who knows what beauty might unfold when we simply choose to believe?

Note: I wrote this piece December 22nd and edited and posted it today. As I searched for an image, I realized I had this piece hanging upstairs; "Creative Process" by one of my favorite artists Vorja Sanchez. Check out his website and Instagram!

​Just yet another mini miracle and moment of wonder, Happy Holidays!

Hello there!
Hey! Hello!
Are you watching me?
Hey—hello?
What do you see
There, behind me?
To my side?
Behind my knee?
Hey, what do you see
And why are you watching me?
I’ve seen you here.
You’ve been around.
I’ve seen you here before.
Not sure why, it’s just dawned on me
To ask you why –
Say – why are you watching me?

I know I’m not alone
In here –
I’ve met some of
your comrades.
In dreams
In meditations
In emergencies
and in quiet moments.
But we have not been
Introduced. What’s your name, watcher?

I know you’re not my witness,
My oneness or my physical frame.
I sense that you are other--
What’s your name?
Keeper? Minder?

Are you the subtle, instant
Judger? The one that’s
Looking out – alert – wary –
Vigilant? Keen? Cautious?
Hello there! Welcome!!
It’s a pleasure
To meet you finally!

Why are you here now?
Is there something I can do?
Might I add, you’re amazing?
Your talent, your skill--
Remarkable, astounding,
Many thanks for being here!

A makeover? A refresh?
An upgrade? Indeed!
We can manage that,
So happy that you know
You’re out of date for me.
How shall we proceed?
What is there to do?
A brand-new education
And a new perspective too!?

Excellent timing BTW,
the game has shifted,
I see it too,
and the old way no longer works.
How shall we go about it?
Do you have a clue?
“Honest, open, willing—the same, just as before.”

“I’m stepping up and
standing out so that you
will know – it’s working,
the introspection –
another layer
going – going – gone.”

Are you a poet too?
Because we’ve missed you.

“The poet is not me
but I can set the poet
free.”

You’ve been on autopilot
for as long as I’ve been here.
Watching – scouting –
recording all there is
to FEAR.

My escort, my defender--
I’m here – NOW – because
of you.

I hear your whispered worries and
suggestions
Even now I apprehend.
Don’t fret—the paper won’t run out, the pen won’t run dry.
And there’s time for stickers later.
I value this conversation.
It’s priceless, so helpful.
Please, don’t be shy.

“Acknowledgment. Attention. Listening.
Consideration. Compassion.
Surrender. Let go!
Invite Love to observe.
Just allow release and freedom!”

Watchdog? Okay then 😉.
(And yes, you totally remind me of that guy from The Sketch Artist.)
I’m beyond thrilled, so excited--
you have no idea!
A huge missing section
of my puzzle has appeared!

I know this is drastic—frightening, even—uncomfortable.
You’re so amazing and
so lightning fast.
But how can we work together
to turn the tide?
“Patience and awareness,
Effort and creative skill.
We blow away the old
like dandelion fluff.
Invite kindness, recall safety, remember TRUST.”

​There’s so much to let go of,
but I’m ready to begin anew.
Today, and every day.
“Me too!”

"Urban Dictionary: "It's all gravy."
Gravy is a sauce made from the juices of meat or vegetables and enhances the flavour of a meal. In poorer times, to have gravy on your meal is a sign that you have sufficient meat and vegetables to make such a nice meal. Hence the phrase "on the gravy train" meaning that ones life was well supplied with good things, usually money. "It's all gravy" therefore means that there is an abundance of good things in the given circumstance.
It should not be taken to mean that there is no problem or that a situation is liked, specifically. Those things may follow but are not necessarily connected.
A: We just secured a lucrative contract with the supplier with an open ended term.
B: It's all gravy from here on, boys."

My life is well supplied, and I have an abundance of good things. It’s all gravy from here on!
Today is day 348 of 2024. Only 18 days left in this wild, transformative year. It’s been quite the ride—unexpected twists, challenges, and breakthroughs. My watchword, my guiding principle this year, has been FREEDOM.

Yesterday, during meditation, I experienced a delightfully liberating set of messages. They weren’t entirely new—I’ve heard them before—but repetition seems to be the secret sauce of real change. Like so many other insights, it takes time for these epiphanies to sink in, settle, and become something more than fleeting thoughts. For real change to happen, they need time to weave into my habits, lifestyle, and truth. It’s a gradual process, stripping away old ways and cracking open new ones. And, as always, there’s no rushing this. Time will tell in each case.

Earlier this week, I stumbled across a Michael Singer podcast titled “Doing the REAL WORK to Free Yourself.” I didn’t plan to listen to it; it just appeared in my path. I pulled the transcript from YouTube, printed it, and sat with it. His message—simple yet profound—landed with a clarity I wasn’t expecting. His examples and analogies triggered something in me: a shift or internal change I can’t quite name. Is it fair to say that everything and nothing changed? Everything and nothing matters? Everything and nothing needs to be done?

Maybe. For now, the proof is in how I feel—more clear, more confident. For the moment, I understand that I am perfectly perfect, just as I am. Everything I’ve ever done or will do is also perfectly perfect. There’s no need to judge, compare, prove, or explain myself. This is freedom. Trust is freedom. Love is freedom.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been navigating a freak injury—one of those out-of-nowhere things that stops everything. I took it as an opportunity to pause and just be present with my body, soul, and mind. I didn’t abandon my BYOB meditation practice, though, and I feel rewarded for the consistency. Those daily sessions helped me uncover—or maybe reintroduce—my inner voices: the voice of my heart, the voice of my soul, and the voice of my body.

Singer’s podcast didn’t offer anything groundbreaking or new, but it hit differently this time. My openness and willingness to truly hear it, process it, and integrate it made all the difference. It fit perfectly with the patience and wisdom I’ve been practicing through the BYOB meditation. Together, these practices have helped me let go of the need to "finish" anything. There is no finish line. Instead, I’ve been focusing on moments that feel significant—moments like yesterday, 12-12-24.

I requested a benchmark for this date, though I don’t know how to label it. And honestly, I don’t need to. I just know it matters because I say so. It reminds me of another date: 4-14-14, the day I got sober. I see the patterns in these numbers and take comfort in their symmetry, though the true significance lies in the journey itself, not the calendar.
​
Looking back, I realize how close I’ve come to death—twice, at least, by all rights. I “should” be dead, but here I am. I was spared. I survived. And I’m endlessly grateful.
​
It’s all gravy from here on!

Friendship is one thing, but partnership? That’s a whole new level. This journey of self-discovery has surprised me with insights I didn’t even know I needed—like the realization that my relationship with my body isn’t just about making nice and being friendly. It’s about collaboration, teamwork, and even a little trial and error.

When I started this journey, I believed I had no self-love and zero idea how to take care of my body. I saw myself as judgmental and mean, a negligent caretaker at best. My efforts were emergency-only responses—foxhole prayers to get me through a crisis. Sure, I’d hit up a detox spa or squeeze in an annual physical, but mostly, I manipulated my body with food, alcohol, nicotine, and the occasional massage or acupuncture session. I assumed my track record was awful.

But surprise! Turns out I wasn’t as terrible as I thought. According to my inner voice, I’ve done an excellent job navigating the trials and tribulations of being in a human body. Who knew? Sure, I was judgmental and mean at times—no delusion there—but I wasn’t the hopeless case I imagined.

Initially, my goal was simple: to befriend my body. I figured friendship would mean showing up consistently and listening. That’s about as far as I’d gotten. But now, the door is open, trust is blossoming, and the experience with coffee is proof. Slowly, I’m learning to step back from dictator mode and let my body have a say.

And then came the curveball: this isn’t just about friendship—it’s a partnership. The words in this piece of art came floating by clear as a bell in my meditation a couple of days ago. We, the body, mind, spirit and emotions are not just friends, we're partners!

This is my jam! Partnership feels professional, organized. It’s about cooperation, collaboration, and clear communication. The images that came to me during meditation were all about teamwork—a team where my body, mind, and soul are all active players. For whatever odd reason, I feel more at home in a partnership than a friendship. It feels solid and dependable, like something I can count on. Each part brings something unique to the table. The body shows up with its signals and needs, the mind processes and plans, the spirit offers perspective, and emotions give everything a little color. Together, we’re figuring it out, one step at a time.

But let’s be real: the partnership is a work in progress. I keep noticing tidbits of resistance and attachment—polarities that create discord. My attachment to being thin fuels my resistance to accepting how I look now. These two forces are locked in a battle that keeps me spinning my wheels. If I wasn’t searching for a long term unique solution through meditation, I’d probably be on another yo-yo diet and cycling through detailed exercise plans that I’d abandon after a few days.

And then there’s coffee—my old pal. Coffee used to be my ride-or-die buddy. But now? It’s that friend who overstays their welcome, leaving you with a sour stomach and the realization that maybe you’ve outgrown them. The fact that I’ve been quietly weaning myself off without any grand declarations or rebellious backlash? Honestly, that feels like a miracle.

So what does partnership look like in practice? For starters, it means listening. When I’m stuck in judgmental, comparing, self-hating thoughts, I’m learning to collaborate with my feelings—both mentally and physically. Like today, when I was spiraling, I did a quick five-minute indoor walk. That tiny shift got me out of my head and back into my body.

And that’s what partnership looks like—collaborating with your feelings and your body, moving through the hard stuff one step (or quick indoor walk) at a time. It’s not perfect, and it doesn’t have to be. But this too shall pass. And when it does, I’ll still be here, showing up for the team.

Each afternoon the meditations I experience appear to be all the same. Life is a funny thing, isn’t it? Even when it seems like nothing’s new—bam! Heraclitus said it most clearly with his saying: "You can’t step into the same river twice." Or in my case, you can't have the same meditation twice!

This idea of ever-newness hit me again during a recent meditation practice. The guided session (from an OSHO app—BYOB: Be Your Own Bestie, or as I’ve now renamed it, BMOB: Be My Own Bestie) is rooted in a course I recently completed: OSHO Reminding Yourself of the Forgotten Language of Talking to Your BodyMind. It’s a 45-minute guided journey of listening to your body, inviting alignment, and waiting for messages about new behaviors to emerge. On November 14th, one message came through loud and clear: Water is Love.

The image of the water drop filled with hearts was as vivid as if someone had painted it on the inside of my eyelids. It spilled effortlessly onto paper later that day, the font for the words even appearing by “mistake.” The message that came with it was equally vivid: It's OK to drink more water. Morning, evening, before meals, in between meals—water is LOVE!

Oh joy! A behavior I can get behind 1000%. I already love water. No disguises, no flavor additives—just pure, clean goodness. And here at Providence Lodge, our well water is practically liquid gold. Aside from coffee, water and iced tea are my go-to beverages. But now, with this added encouragement, I’ve been stepping up my water game, pouring a little more with each passing day.

Now let’s talk about coffee for a second. Coffee and I? We’ve had a good run. I couldn't do without my Starbucks fix on the train ride to work in New York City, no way! But lately, it’s like a clingy acquaintance who’s overstayed their welcome. Sure, it was warm and exciting at first, but now it’s all acidic vibes and nausea. I mean, I powered through for old times’ sake—what’s one more cup, right?—but even my body’s over it.

Over the past week, I’ve noticed this shift. After 1.5 cups, I’d get that sour, acidic tummy feeling, sometimes a wave of nausea so strong it made me question my life choices. But did I stop? Of course not. Coffee is my guilty pleasure, my reward, my safety net. And let’s not forget the epic caffeine withdrawal headaches waiting in the wings.

Then, something miraculous happened. I didn’t finish my second cup. It sat there, abandoned, waiting to be emptied later in the day. Yesterday, I planned for one glorious cup, no more. And today? I couldn’t even finish that. Somewhere in the blur of nausea and mindfulness, I realized my body had been gently weaning me off coffee without any declarations, control tactics, or rebellious backlash.

Healthy, natural behaviors are rising to the surface in their own time, with their own priorities, without me needing to force or dictate. This, my friends, is the dream. No guilt, no struggle—just ease and grace. My attachment to coffee feels unnecessary now, even a little silly.

And that’s the beauty of listening to your body. It’s not about micromanaging every little thing; it’s about trusting that, given the space and attention, your body knows what it needs. For me, it started with water—a simple, loving shift—and its growing into something bigger: alignment.

So here I am, on day 9 of this BMOB (Be My Own Bestie) 30 day meditation journey, embracing more water and less coffee. The transition feels surprisingly natural. My body’s wisdom, it seems, has been there all along.

And you know what? It’s fucking awesome.

Here’s to more water, less coffee, and the joy of discovering that change doesn’t have to be forced—it can flow, just like a river.

This diagram was surprisingly challenging to create. You know that feeling when something makes perfect sense in your head? It’s clear, intuitive, almost like a dance. Then, you try to capture it on paper, and suddenly it’s boxes and arrows and scribbles. That was my experience with this meditation insight. I started with a big swooshy arrow, feeling like an artist in flow, and ended up with… a visual puzzle that looks more like a science project.

During meditation, I pictured a big swooshy arrow—blue and curling—representing a simple shift from one set of thoughts and behaviors to a radically different experience of the same things. The swooshy arrow was the perfect representation of this shift I felt—something light, effortless, that just swoops in and transforms everything in its path. It’s the kind of arrow that says, “Hey, no need to overthink this.” It was more about the feeling of letting go than about any specific outcome.

So why, you might ask, did it turn into a diagram with boxes, labels, and lots of arrows? There’s something about human nature that loves making simple things complicated. We have an epiphany and immediately start dissecting it. Can we just let the swooshy arrow be? Apparently not. We want diagrams, explanations, and flowcharts. The meditation experience said, “Just shift your focus.” But of course, I had to go and create a map for it.

And that map? It’s all about flip-flopping behaviors. The concept sounds elegant: instead of obsessing over food, I could obsess over movement. Instead of resisting movement, I could try resisting certain foods. It’s like rearranging furniture in your mind—familiar elements, just with a new layout. There’s something oddly freeing in realizing you don’t have to “get rid of” anything; you just move things around. For once, I don’t have to “fix” anything; I just need to try placing it somewhere else.

So, how do we actually make this work? I started small. When I noticed myself obsessing over food—what I ate, what I planned to eat—I paused and asked, “What would it look like to use this energy on movement?” It’s like rewiring a circuit in my brain. I remind myself that I can simply shift my focus, that I can experiment with where I put my mental energy. The more I practice, the more natural it becomes.

Meditation creates this space of non-judgment—a place where all these “undesirable” behaviors suddenly feel neutral, even kind of interesting. From that space, it’s easier to look at them objectively and say, “What if I just moved things around?” Instead of trying to exile certain habits, I can simply shift their energy. The openness I felt during meditation allowed me to see that I don’t need to judge myself for having these tendencies. They’re just part of the puzzle.

And sometimes, the simplest insights turn out to be the hardest to capture on paper. It's funny, isn’t it? We use every ounce of brain power to expect, search, judge, and compare, only to discover that a single swooshy arrow might hold the key. Whether or not I get this “flip-flop” idea working in real life, I get to keep exploring, moving things around until it feels right. That’s progress in itself.
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So here’s to the swooshy arrow—a symbol of simplicity, ease, and trust. I may have turned it into boxes and arrows, but the insight remains. Sometimes, the solution doesn’t need to be complex. Sometimes, a little swoosh is all we need to rewire our experience.

The meditation experience yesterday has been more challenging than usual to articulate—like trying to catch a whisper in the wind. There was no image or word that came immediately to mind. The sensations started a couple of weeks ago during the BYOB course.* At that point, the words I heard were, “I’ll teach you to love.” It was almost too extravagant to believe—that I could access love, much less that some internal part of me was ready to be my teacher. It felt overwhelming, like a door opening, and I didn’t even attempt to put it into words. Now, though, the theme is repeating, and the sensations are becoming more believable and trustworthy… if that makes any sense. This image of otters from an Oracle card deck I have nailed the feeling. It was a lovely adventure to "accidentally" come across this image this morning and a perfect match. (image source: Colette Baron Reid Animal Spirit Oracle Cards.)

I realize I’ve built such an amazing protective system—my own emotional Fort Knox—that I barely knew it was there. My behaviors were and are so ingrained that only now am I learning to decipher what is kind and what is, well, not so much. On some level, admitting this feels vulnerable, maybe even a tad embarrassing. I know that “love,” like “God,” triggers my defenses. I’ve sidestepped both words, trading them in for something more palatable, less fraught. I wrote them off as too generic, overused, or packed with associations I wasn’t ready to unpack. They came loaded with guilt and sadness, worthiness and lack. The other day, I was watching movie trailers and realized just how much Hollywood has tried to define love for us—sunsets, slow-motion kisses, tragic misunderstandings. They make you feel as though they’ve cornered the market on defining love. But expectations are a funny thing; they lead to judgment, comparison, manipulation, and control. And, of course, once those enter the picture, love (and God) quietly slips out the back door.

Looking back, I’m amazed and astounded at how far I’ve come. I didn’t set out to redefine love with this journey. My goal was to bring my soul and personality into alignment, to quiet the nasty inner critic that’s made a home in my head. Along the way, it felt right to become a friend to my body, to actually try befriending my physical self. It’s funny, but that’s something I hadn’t tried before. I’ve negotiated with my “inner rebel” at times, even made some headway, but befriending myself? That was new territory.

And here I am now, with this unexpected invitation—an opening I hadn’t anticipated. I’m only 29 days into this practice, and I’m looking forward to seeing where this journey of self-compassion leads. Befriending my body is like learning a new language—awkward at first, but with a little practice, surprisingly rewarding. It’s little things, like listening to what I need or taking a few minutes to just breathe. And I’m grateful for the mantras I’ve adopted lately. Simple words, maybe, but they feel like shelter and direction when I need them most: There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong, and there is nothing missing.

​Each mantra brings its own kind of sanity. “Nothing to fear” invites courage, a reminder that life is safe to explore and that fear is 90% delusional. “Nothing to prove” tells me to let go of perfectionism, to stop comparing and judging my worth based on others’ expectations I’ve unknowingly taken on. “Nothing to fix” is a potent reminder that, most likely, “it’s not my circus and not my monkeys.” The chances are high that I am not responsible for fixing anything because, with a slight shift in perspective, everything is perfectly perfect as it is. And “nothing is missing” is my favorite of all—a deep reassurance that everything I need is already here within me.

Each phrase whispers a different invitation: release worry, drop expectations, step back from control, recognize completeness. These words are like a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me away from the need to do and toward the ability to simply be. With each reminder, I feel a bit closer to the friend I want to be to myself, someone who offers gentleness instead of judgment, who listens rather than insists.
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So, here’s to 29 more days of not tripping over my own self-discovery—and a big shout-out to my Guardian for the patience of a saint. Many thanks to whomever is tuning in to assist with this transmission. All is well.

The image of a book was clear during meditation recently. The body is a book of stories waiting to be held, waiting to be explored and recreated, expunged, and reimagined. It holds the histories of lifetimes within its cells, chapters of laughter and grief, memories stored in muscle and bone, and sensations woven through veins like trails and pathways to adventures long ago. For the body, change just is—it is constant and flowing, unending. There is no need to be static; it is not possible to be static on this plane. The pages shift, always in motion, and I am here, reading them. I am listening. I am taking responsibility, practicing patience and kindness, learning to let go.

This new routine is like watching water boil—my mind can’t resist checking the clock, adjusting the flame, shifting the pan, waiting for those first bubbles to form. I hover, overthinking every sensation, trying to make it happen faster. But of course, the more I try to control it, the longer it seems to take. Sometimes the body’s stories need slow simmering, and maybe all I’m supposed to do is sit back, breathe, and let them unfold in their own time.

I do feel the progress; it ripples through me, gentle but undeniable. I can sense the difference intuitively, in my heart of hearts. A guided meditation suggests I listen to my own heartbeat. I struggle to find the pulse at my wrist, but it is still there, reassuring and human. I can't begin to comprehend it, but at least I know the forgotten language exists. My pulse is felt and fathomed more deeply, each beat more meaningful, more puzzling, like a language spoken only in quiet moments. My heart has become my storyteller, guiding me toward a kind of foreign, distant wisdom that has no need for words.

Can you imagine that you are created with one machine, designed solely to experience all this physical plane has to offer? This one mechanism, this one precious unit, is our sole instrument for touching the world. It is guided and linked to something beyond the physical, hovering here yet locked in time, willing and resistant all at once, both knowing and forgetting, remembering and learning. And we are to hold this instrument, this vehicle, with reverence. For any explanation or story we create to describe it feels inadequate, period.

​As I meditated, I began with a bit of grumpiness—accusatory thoughts, doubts, negativity. They’re familiar visitors. I am, since my last set of meditation classes, moving forward on my own with a blush of an idea on how to rewrite my own body’s stories. Yet impatience remains a close friend of mine… we’re tight! I’m making new friends with love, patience, responsibility, and power. It’s uncomfortable and strangely magnetic. That old saying, “Make new friends but keep the old” does not apply here! I am looking forward to letting go of my very good, very old friends: fear, avoidance, resistance, blame, and impatience.

I imagine these old companions slowly receding, but not like a wave on the sand—that’s much too quick. No, perhaps more like a season passing, but even that moves too fast for this process. We move from summer to fall to winter in only weeks, and this change feels far slower. So what analogy can I use? Perhaps it’s like moving from childhood to puberty or fertility to barrenness; the shifts in the human body take years, lifetimes even. I’m beginning to appreciate the depth of these changes, realizing that generations of genetics and evolution bear upon this body in my lifetime. This journey, my body’s story, is shaped by the ages. I recall a passage from Eckhart Tolle in Oneness with All Life: battling and fighting aren’t effective since there is no enemy. It’s not about “doing” anything, only remaining alert and aware. Notice the thoughts and consider the source.

For now, in this moment, I get to exercise my creativity and keep my mind engaged as I journey toward alignment with my body-mind. I so enjoyed my recent trip north, when the original plans fell through, the sudden freedom from a time commitment was invigorating, like the spontaneous rush of clear air. I got to jump into the flow of life without a project, destination, or appointment! I remembered Julia Cameron’s advice about scheduling a weekly “Artist’s Date,” "The Artist Date is a once-weekly, festive, solo expedition to explore something that interests you. The Artist Date need not be overtly “artistic”– think mischief more than mastery. Artist Dates fire up the imagination. They spark whimsy. They encourage play."  I checked the movies playing at the local theater. I watched a few trailers, curious if something might feel entertaining, enlightening, or informative. I considered adding a trip to the cinema as one adventure on a weekly date. Movies, however, won’t be making my solo adventure list—at least not the ones on the marquee right now. It was instantly apparent, just watching the trailers, that this is precisely where a lot of my delusional expectations about relationships came from! Instead, I want to keep my mind and emotions open to my own creative endeavors rather than immersing myself in someone else’s story. As moving or poignant as their tales of love, fulfillment, loss, or drama may be, thanks to meditation, clarity, and a better relationship with the present moment, I choose, for now, to listen with patience and kindness to my own heart’s song. I’ll tune into my own radio station, catching up on my own reactions, preferences, loves, dislikes, and curiosities.
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Over and out.

How did I not see this sooner? Today’s message was a wake-up call, bold and unmistakable, one that cut through the noise of years of “trying.” I’ve been focused on my thoughts, behaviors, and now, I realize, even more critically, my motives—the hidden drivers behind each choice I make for my body.

If I choose to lose weight, that’s fine. But what I choose to do to accomplish that is only a small piece of the puzzle. The real question has been: why? Today, the answer hit me, both frightening and enlightening. My motive has been vanity, approval, fitting in, and avoiding judgment. Turns out, it’s not about health—it’s been about looking good or being right. Somewhere along the way, I became the world’s most intense undercover agent, camouflaging myself to avoid judgment.

I went on a cleanse once as a desperate solution to a severe health challenge. It was driven by fear that I’d never feel healthy again. The motive wasn’t wellness; it was pain relief. I quit drinking because I was tired of morning tremors and wanted my partner’s approval. I quit smoking because of my constant coughing. Each time, it was my body crying out, and I was scrambling to silence it—not heal it. Not one of these changes was rooted in loving care; each one came from a place of desperation or control.

I’ve been using vice grips—harsh rules, intense self-discipline, and relentless control tactics—to force this body into shape. But let’s face it: this job requires kid gloves and the kind of patience reserved for first-time gardeners and careful sculptors. Holy shit, Sherlock! That’s all my body has known of “me,” its so-called caretaker—a drill sergeant rather than a friend. It’s downright embarrassing, honestly.

In the images that came during meditation, the message was clear… a vice grip dripping blood and tears. And I saw the truth in it. My body has endured because it’s resilient, and it’s willing, eager even, for a new kind of care. I’m re-doubling my efforts to be the kind and sweet friend, the gentle caretaker this body has deserved all along. 

After seeing the vice grip for what it was—a relentless attempt to control my body rather than nurture it—I realize I need to continue what I'm currently doing AND be open to a new foundational practice. I’m grateful for the mantras I’ve adopted lately. Simple words, perhaps, but they feel like shelter and direction when I need them most: There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong, and there is nothing missing.

Each one brings me a different kind of sanity. “Nothing to fear” invites courage, a reminder that life is safe to explore and that fear is 90% delusional. “Nothing to prove” gently tells me to let go of perfectionism, to stop comparing and judging my worth based on others’ expectations I’ve unknowingly taken on. “Nothing to fix” is a potent reminder that, most likely, “it’s not my circus and not my monkeys.” The chances are extremely high that I am not responsible for fixing anything, because a slight shift in perspective reveals things as perfectly perfect as they are. And “nothing is missing” is my favorite of all—a deep reassurance that everything I need is already here within me.

Each phrase whispers a different invitation: release worry, drop expectations, step back from control, recognize completeness. These words are like a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me away from the need to do and toward the ability to simply be. With each reminder, I feel a bit closer to the friend I want to be to myself, one who offers gentleness instead of judgment, who listens rather than insists.
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Can I forgive myself and move on? Can I release all the anger, pain, and fear that I’ve stuffed down, the emotions I numbed for so long? Can I allow the LOVE I've resisted? The power I've shyed away from? The responsibility I've avoided? Releasing anger and pain isn’t an easy one-step fix, I’m learning. For now, I know there’s nothing to do… just to be present and be kind, from this moment forward. My intention is internal alignment, to birth a new way of being and thinking and behaving. My body’s resilient—it’s seen me through more than a few questionable choices and hasn’t given up yet. I’m counting on it to forgive me, as bodies often do, with grace and a quiet readiness to move forward. All is well, and I’m feeling strangely confident that, this time, I’ll actually be listening.

The next day, I found I had no words to share with you, no images that could capture what I felt. Perhaps this is a time for all parts of my being to process quietly, away from words. So I offer this piece of art instead—a reflection, a fragment, a take-away from the third day. It speaks where I cannot, and maybe, that’s enough.

that's me
the tiny bird
in the hole
in the dark
in the middle
of the mound
covered by thorns
protected
thick and strong
hidden
pretending
I am safe
hidden
pretending
hidden, 
I sense a radiance,
I shiver to touch it,
a brilliance like the sun
is that me too?

Next to me in this hole was a huge energy source. A power beyond limits. Right there on the ground beside me inside the mound piled high was authentic power, vibrant and pulsing with a frequency off the charts. Holy crap, it scares the hell out of me. All that power. What on earth would I ever do with that? I mean, am I supposed to just pick it up and go with it?
The energy source hummed like something alive, as if it held a language of its own, practically vibrating with potential I didn’t yet trust myself to touch. It was beautiful and terrifying—a force both nurturing and consuming. What would I even become if I reached for it? And what if it decided it didn’t want to stick around, leaving me with a one-way ticket to Imposter Syndrome Central?

During the BYOB OSHO meditation, they introduced the concept of a Guardian. It sounds kind of serious, but honestly, it’s like having a bouncer for my soul—someone to keep an eye on the physical habits and behaviors that either keep me grounded or send me spiraling. The meditation invites you to ask this Guardian to toss out old patterns and bring in fresh new ones, as if we’re in the life-habit equivalent of spring cleaning. But, of course, nothing’s ever that easy. The Guardian might not reveal any grand wisdom right away because, apparently, decades-old behaviors don’t just pack up and leave. Who knew, right?

As I sat in meditation, I could practically feel the Guardian giving me that look—the one that says, “You’re finally ready, huh? Well, this is going to take some practice and courage.” This figure, part gentle intermediary, partdrill sergeant, part overprotective parent, was maintaining all the patterns I’ve perfected over the years. Comparing, judging, dodging responsibilities and hard conversations, doing mental gymnastics and numbing behaviors to avoid acknowledging my feelings—you name it, I had it down. I asked the Guardian to help me drop these like outdated fashion choices and maybe pick up something that actually fits who I am today.

Then I got this vision of a mound, a little like the one in my art piece, where the Guardian had wrapped me in this protective bubble. And sure, I was managing, feeling safe, maybe a little too cozy. But after this meditation, I know I’m ready for more. Here’s the kicker, though: that insane power sitting next to me? I realized didn't even know that part of me existed. I sit in awe of the expansive freedom and joy available. The link between love, responsibility, and power is shown but not explained. I am still intent upon allowing Love to enter where there hasn't been any, possibly ever. I have no clue how this authentic power fits into the overall execution, practice, or picture I have for myself. I do get that consistency and stretch are required to continue the journey to expansion and serenity.
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Patience and practice—two mantras that seem to love showing up on this path. I’ve realized that if the bird is ever going to fly, it’s going to be one slow, cautious flap at a time. This power? I’m not here to bulldoze into it. I’ll work with it every day, get to know it. Maybe with enough patience, I’ll figure out what it’s trying to teach me. But for now, I’m okay taking it one clumsy step at a time, letting the Guardian roll its eyes and sigh while I do my best not to get in my own way.

The OSHO International course I joined on 10/23/2024, titled Reminding Yourself of the Forgotten Language of Talking to Your BodyMind, The complete description is in the link.... if the link still works. Curious that this November course includes optional facilitator training. I am always first thinking how to give away everything that I learn. I have come to notice these are frequently the first thoughts I observe when sitting... "how could I facilitate a course to give away this wonderful experience to others?" I get to let that go and consider how I may absorb the experience myself and not be so easily distracted! I digress... 

The course is structured, entirely online through Zoom, and involves minimal verbal interaction. There's a warm welcome and clear guidance, but unlike the more interactive No Mind class, this one encourages a quiet, inward focus. A "mild" trance state is recommended, with no need for conscious thought, analysis, or note-taking—just a connection with the inner realms. The feeling is mysteriously serene, urging stillness and a reawakening to this "forgotten language." My main takeaway from the first session was unmistakably clear: "LISTEN." When I later created art, I added the wry reminder, "JUST shut up and LISTEN."

What does it mean to truly listen? For me, it requires suspending distracting, often unhelpful thoughts—judgment, expectations, and especially the reflex to analyze or defend my perspective. True listening invites honesty, openness, and a willingness to stay present despite these distractions. It’s challenging, as both internal voices and physical, environmental aspects conspire to derail the focus. Still, each return to the subject of the listening deepens the practice, making this practice a transformative process.

The command to "listen" may seem simple but not easy. Yet it’s anything but simple. It encapsulates complex layers of spiritual, mental, and physical insight, shaping an intention that could serve as a core principle throughout life. Much like Love, Power, or Responsibility, it’s fundamental to balance of genuine compassion and self-expression. Do you hear the creative muse? The guiding parent? The subtle messages from your own body?

Our facilitator reads from a script during the 50-minute sessions, rich in language that prompts breakthrough perspectives. Each body part seems to have its own way of communicating—through images, feelings, memories, and even words. To interpret these subtle cues requires discernment and a gentle patience. I get the impression that the body is shy, like a meek animal hidden in the woods. You must sit in the clearing for hours just to catch a glimpse. I hope this is not the case. I have patience, but not that much patience. 
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As I settle into each session, I feel the boundaries of my awareness shifting, growing more sensitive to the body’s signals. It’s like tuning into a low-frequency radio station that becomes clearer as I let go of distractions. I am, for the first time, learning to “hear” my body speak in a language uniquely its own. What it offers in terms of insight is astounding and humbling.

Reflecting on the course so far, I feel this practice could go well beyond the meditation sessions. This understanding of deep listening could influence my life in subtle but powerful ways. I find myself more attuned to my body in daily moments, like a quiet undercurrent of awareness. This awareness touches my relationships, too, encouraging me to listen without immediately thinking of my response or opinion.

Already, I’m sensing shifts in how I approach daily interactions. By simply listening—without jumping to conclusions, judgments, or responses—I find a new ease in connecting with others. Conversations feel less pressured, more fluid, as I allow my own silence to create space for what truly needs to be expressed. This shift in focus is affecting how I handle challenges as well; by first tuning into the body’s response to a stressful moment or difficult news, I feel more grounded and centered, better equipped to respond rather than react.

I also sense this approach deepening my creativity. There’s a curious interplay between listening and creating: by silencing the mind, I’m better able to hear intuitive nudges and ideas that seem to emerge from within. Rather than “trying” to create, I feel as though I’m receiving insights from a quieter, more authentic place. This practice is beginning to feel like an essential ingredient in accessing a deeper layer of creativity, one that feels effortless and profoundly connected.

I’m eager to continue this journey, to discover the language of my own body, and perhaps even cultivate a new way of being—a kind of openness that transcends traditional listening. This is listening as an act of reverence, a way to honor my body, emotions, and inner self. The urge to “teach” or facilitate remains, but it now feels less like an obligation and more like an inevitable outcome of living this new awareness. I can’t yet say what the full impact of this practice will be, but I’m excited to find out.
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Stay tuned—I’m listening.

As the days fly by and the seasons shift from summer to winter, I find myself suspended in the beauty of autumn—wrapped in its light, colors, and warm, wispy breezes. Yesterday was a particularly perfect fall day. Autumn, with its fleeting nature, feels like a mirror to the shifts within me—vibrant and beautiful, yet temporary, a reminder that change is inevitable. The golden hues, the crisp morning air, and the falling leaves seem to whisper the importance of release, of letting go.

In this transition, I’m working to be graceful and patient with my own underlying transformation. Milestones approach and pass, and I observe them ahead, adjust and watch them gently pass into my rearview mirror. I am simply along for the ride. Lately, I’ve been in a holding pattern, implementing a major change in how I move through the world. During a recent meditation session, I received a clear, dispassionate message. Its simplicity and insight were unexpected, even miraculous. When the message arrived, it was as though a curtain had been pulled back. The audacity stunned me—I would never have thought of it it on my own in a million years, and yet it resonated in a way that felt undeniable. It’s strange how the simplest twists on perception or the awareness of a plucky  fearless objective has the power to upend everything you thought you knew. 

Communicating these changes to the people in my life has been a challenge—remaining mindful, honest, and present through it all. I'm learning to let go of my fears and expectations, navigating the delicate balance of sharing just enough with some, while pouring my heart out to others. By observing these conversations—my motives, feelings, and the eventual outcomes—I’ve grown a deeper appreciation for myself. My inner strength, my relationships, and, above all, my sense of love and responsibility toward myself and those closest to me have come into sharper focus. (When the coast is clear and all parties are informed with kindness and integrity I will share the details of this particular taboo evolution.)

Recently, the image of a lock and key surfaced during meditation, symbolizing my habits and aversions. I’ve avoided responsibility, and I’ve shied away from love, especially when it comes to myself. Responsibility and love—two concepts that I’ve long kept separate in my mind. I’ve treated responsibility like a burden, a task to be completed, while love was something elusive, often conditional. But now, I see how they intertwine. If love is the key to unlocking responsibility, then perhaps responsibility is the lock that safeguards true, deep self-love. One cannot exist without the other. There’s a profound, until now unexplored, relationship between them. These concepts are the opposites of my current habits—hatred and avoidance.

David Hawkins, in his book Letting Go, suggests that we open ourselves to the opposite of those lower frequency emotions. It’s a slow, steady process: noticing the fear, avoidance, or discomfort. Name it and it's opposite then allowing ourselves to release the resistance. There is no specific action—just letting go of the resistance to the OPPOSITE.  I feel hatred and avoidance, the opposite is love and responsibility. The intention is to release my resistance to love and responsibility! It’s so simple, so easy! It all lies in observing, in noticing, and detaching. Letting go is not a one-time decision, but an ongoing practice. At first, it felt odd and too easy.  But over time, I’m noticing that it is growing slowly, steadily like a good seed planted in ready soil. I just get to be patient and willing. No surprise there!

It’s incredible what the mind can stir up, isn’t it? Avoidance has shown up in subtle ways throughout my life—putting off important conversations, neglecting my own needs, pretending certain emotions don’t exist or numbing them completely. I’ve often convinced myself that by avoiding something, I was maintaining peace, but now I see how it only creates inner turmoil. Slowly, I’m learning to sit with discomfort instead of running from it. And then there's responsibility. Of course, I’ve avoided taking care of my physical body. It was never taught to me as a priority, something one must do. I imagine that other children were taught how to exercise and maintain that body-mind-spirit balance. Right? I missed out. Poor me! Too late now... right?
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No, it’s not too late. And no, not "poor me." I’ve learned so many valuable things that brought me to where I am now, and I’m grateful for every last bit. Now, I get the chance to hone in on areas of my behavior, thoughts, and judgments that might cause greater problems down the line. It’s never too late. The timing is, as always, precisely perfect. I have the time, the means, and the motivation, and I’ve realized it’s something I must do for myself. In the past, partners may have "inspired" me to exercise, but that was vanity or people-pleasing. The source of the behavior matters—the motivation and intention mean everything. Now, my motive is love, and my timeframe is open, flexible, in tune with the Universe.

Coincidentally (or not), I’m starting another OSHO course today, also for 7 days. Can you guess the topic of this one? This new OSHO course feels like the perfect next step in my journey. I’m approaching it with a sense of curiosity and openness, eager to see what new insights will emerge. The topic, though I haven’t fully revealed it yet, aligns perfectly with the questions I’ve been sitting with—themes of love, responsibility, and self-awareness. Stay tuned!

I recently completed a 7-day meditation course called OSHO No Mind. It involved one hour of Gibberish followed by one hour of sitting in silence each day. You can find more detailed explanations of these practices online, but after some initial resistance on the first day, I gradually settled into the process. By day three, I was having profound insights and uncovering deep, elemental forces within my consciousness.

The image I've created is my first attempt at expressing what I experienced during this journey. One day, just before the silent sitting, an OSHO quote was played. What I remember most was the comparison of thoughts to a river—specifically, a muddy river full of debris and churning currents. My only task, OSHO said, was to observe the river as it flowed. While there’s a temptation to "help" by settling the silt or pushing aside floating debris, OSHO’s laughter echoed in my mind: The more you try to fix it, the more you stir it up. Just watch! Meditation is just watching.

It was both lovely and unsettling. After all, what do you do when the river you're watching feels more like a lava flow—bubbling, angry, and hot? I began to imagine all of that ugliness flowing out from the depths of my subconscious, revealing something darker beneath the surface. The black, sticky source of it all? My judgement. There is no hatred without judgement.
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Am I hateful? I don’t see myself that way. Yet, as uncomfortable as it was to admit, I discovered I am both judgemental and harboring hidden hatred—far beyond the layers of delusion I had wrapped around myself. I rarely allow myself to even speak about hatred, let alone claim it. I frequently talk about expectations and judgements, but I had always aimed those critiques outward. Now, I realize the first place I direct them is inward.
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And yet, with all of this swirling within me, there is nothing to fix. My only job is to watch, observe, witness, and let go. I find gratitude in being where I am now, in this position of stillness and awareness, with the ability to let go of control. Many thanks to the disturbing, taboo, and clear insights that have emerged.