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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Words fall short
expressing the
cherishment I feel
in there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soothing coos
Immortal grace
brilliant arms
fold solid, firm.

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

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

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

My refuge echoes
reflections
and shadows
of my home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.

Open your hands,
if you want to be held.

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

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

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

Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​Tag, you’re it.
Game on.

I’ve heard it said—and I believe it—that every experience has a bright side, a learning opportunity. As humans with free will, how we choose to observe and interpret each moment is one of our built-in superpowers. That said, let’s be real: some emotions are sticky and stormy, unwilling to reveal their purpose, plan, or lesson. Anger, for instance. For most of my life, I’ve shoved it aside, numbed it out, softened the edges. Rarely do I allow myself to honor it, honestly and fearlessly.

And let me tell you—yesterday, it refused to be ignored. It wasn’t just a 'weird-dream' morning crankiness—I’ve danced that dance. This was deeper, sharper, and harder to shake. This was insatiable. Unquenchable. I tried movement shaking and dancing it away. Still there. It clung to me like static and insisted on closer inspection. Fine. What?! What?? And there it was. Not just anger. FURY. A tidal wave.

“I want to be thin!” it screamed. 
​
Not politely or wistfully. Not in a wellness-goal, intention-setting, affirming kind of way. This was primal. Rageful. A red-hot eruption that cut through all my delusional bypassing. It didn’t care about cultural expectations or body-positive compassion or moderate, reasonable self-talk. It did not want balance. It wanted TRUTH. And apparently, the truth was: I’m fed up.

I’m fed up with the excuses, the gentle indulgences, the soothing stories. I’m sick of being hungry, of negotiating with cravings, of pretending I’m at peace when my body is screaming for more. It felt good to admit it. Even to hate it. Even to hate myself for the never ending sabotage and inevitable spiral. I wrote furiously: 

​"I’m sick and tired of being HUNGRY. I don’t want to be hungry ever again. FUCK you, hunger! I can’t trust you. You LIE! I am not in need of anything for 14 days."

What a relief. That’s the power of fury—it doesn’t negotiate. It slices through the noise and lays it bare. Beneath all my gentle intentions was a core truth: I’d been pretending balance and moderation were enough, but I was faking it. Something inside me knew it wasn’t right—I was waiting for the shoe to drop, for old behavior to sneak back in. I couldn’t detach. I was tangled in familiar patterns and wishful thinking. Fury cut through all of it like a hot knife. Brutal, yes—but brilliantly clear. My goal wasn’t aligned with what my body really wanted. Fury to the rescue—who knew? Without it, I might still be fake-moderating my way through madness, AGAIN!

So I made a decision* (cut off all other options). I’m fasting. Cleansing. Just tea and water. Nothing to fix, just a system reset. And you’d be shocked by how right it feels. Everything I’ve done up to this point—clearing out trigger foods, hoarding detox tea (Nettle, Hibiscus, Chaga, Burdock Root, Ginger, Mango Ginger, Smooth Move, Fenugreek, Raspberry, Mullein… I could open a shop)—all of it suddenly clicked. Even aspirin made the cut. (Caffeine withdrawal is no joke.)

By the afternoon meditation time, I wasn’t glowing—I was quiet. Hollowed out, in the best possible way. Not because the hunger had vanished, but because something deeper had surfaced: a decision that felt cellular. The old part of me—the excuse-maker, the gentle negotiator, the saboteur—had stepped aside (at least for the moment). Not with drama, but with a kind of weary bow. In her place was something stripped down, steady, and certain. I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt emptied. Clear. Like the hunger had finally named itself, and with that truth came peace.

During that afternoon's meditation, so many thoughts drifted past like boats on a river—some familiar, some surprising. No need to chase or catalog them. But somewhere mid-stream, something different floated by—something quieter, but undeniable. I caught a glimpse of what it might mean to give away my emptiness. To surrender that vague, gnawing sense of not enough. That restless current of longing—for acknowledgement, for intimacy, for stillness—that never quite names itself, never feels fully satisfied. It was just there, bobbing gently in the flow, waiting for me to notice. A subtle shimmer beneath the surface. And I saw it. I COULD LET GO OF EMPTINESS ITSELF.  I could actually turn that over. Let that go.

Not fix it. Not soothe it. Not embrace or honor it. Just let it go.

And honestly? I was floored. How had I missed this? After all that searching, it turns out, this emptiness inside wasn’t some sacred portal or cosmic to-do list item. It was just... noise. A drama queen with a fog machine. Hunger’s shady cousin wearing a different costume. Spiritual static dressed up as deep longing. And suddenly, I didn’t need to decode it or dive into it or drag it to therapy. I could just laugh, wave, and let that slippery bastard float downstream. Poof.

​​Fury, it turns out, is brilliant—when you let her have the mic. Not forever. Not on repeat. But for that one knockout moment of clarity? She slaps. She doesn’t whisper affirmations or light candles—she kicks the door in, points at the truth, and dares you to deal with it. And when you do? When you really listen and let her burn off the bullshit? You don’t just feel lighter. You are lighter.

So yeah, I’m sipping my absurd teas, giving my saboteur a well-earned nap, and leaning into this strange, radiant relief. Hunger can take a hike. Emptiness too. For now, I’ve got fury in my corner—and she’s not here to coddle. She’s here to set me free.

* decision(n.) mid-15c., decisioun, "act of deciding," from Old French décision (14c.), from Latin decisionem (nominative decisio) "a decision, settlement, agreement," noun of action from past-participle stem of decidere "to decide, determine," literally "to cut off," from de "off" (see de-) + caedere "to cut" (from PIE root *kae-id- "to strike"). (Source: https://www.etymonline.com/word/decision)

It was mid-COVID lockdown. I was retired—twice. Once from my own business helping seniors downsize and move. And before that, from a 30-year corporate career that sent me to all 50 states helping women navigate the world of school nutrition programs. I'd lived in multiple states, partnered in multiple relationships, and completed every course in the School of Self-Improvement—but something was still missing. Let’s count the real starting point as May or June 2020.

At that time, I had six-plus years of sobriety and five-plus years free from smoking (what I call being “smober”). I’d worked the 12 Steps with multiple sponsors and was now attending a Zoom-based 12 Step Workshop that began with Steps 10 through 12. That felt new. Different. I liked it. My new sponsor lived in Australia and was no-nonsense in the best way. She insisted I meditate. Daily. I wasn’t totally new to meditation—I’d done it before, sometimes for long stretches—but my motivation had always been spotty. This time, I decided to follow through. Two minutes a day, she said. Thirty days. Be accountable - and something shifted.
​
JoAnne, my Australian sponsor, was laser-focused on Step 11: “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.” I wasn’t totally sold. God—capital G or not—was still a big question mark for me. Improving conscious contact or deciphering divine will wasn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list. But peace of mind? Joy? Freedom? Game on, I hadn’t given up on that. I’d never given up on transformation. Over the years, I’d searched high and low, through and beyond the edges of both mainstream and woo-woo: Religion, Native American shamans, Tony Robbins' Personal Power, past-life regressions, fasting, wheatgrass shots, LSD, Landmark Education (EST), tarot spreads, therapy of every flavor, brainwave retraining, Reiki, the Tao, and every diet and cleanse imaginable.

But wait, there's more! Crystals (carried, cleansed, and charged under the full moon). Sweat lodges. Singing bowls and chanting monks. Acupuncture. Acupressure. Astrologers who charged by the star chart. Chiropractors who claimed to realign my soul. Chinese herbs applied to the soles of my feet or brewed into bitter teas. Drumming circles. Dancing Wiccans. From leg warming aerobics through jazzercise and Beach Body to Zumba. Guided visualizations. Actualizations. Affirmations stuck to every mirror. Pillow punching. Vision Quests. Optimum Health Institute (including multiple colonics for a fee). Gratitude lists. Feng Shui cures involving mirrors, fountains, and red string. Emotional Freedom Technique (tapping until I cried or laughed or both). Chakra balancing. Yoga in Sedona on the vortex. Walking on hot coals (thanks again, Tony). Vision boards so packed with magazine clippings they could wallpaper a bathroom. Wonder drugs. Palm reading. Et cetera, ad nauseam. 

What kept me moving forward all this time was journaling, fearless open-mindedness, perseverance—and perhaps what some might call delusional trust in, not God, but something inside guiding me: intuition, for lack of a better word. It could be my Grandmother or a Guardian angel. Through all the crystals and cleanses, the teachers and techniques, journaling was the one thing that stayed. It saved me. It held me steady when nothing else did, and over time, those pages became the first place I noticed a quiet voice I hadn’t known I was listening for.

On the outside, my life looked good. On the inside, I was FINE (Frustrated, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional). I was also curious, smart, organized, introverted, financially sound, and romantically set. I felt mostly okay. Balanced-ish. But not quite there. Apathy had started to creep in—disillusionment with institutions, politics, religion and especially people in groups. I was allergic to victim mentalities and excuse-making. (Oof. You spot it, you got it.)

That same sponsor from Australia helped snap me out of my illusion of controlling anyone or anything. That was another huge shift. And so, I started meditating again. And again. And again. Eventually, I signed up to become a meditation teacher—not necessarily to teach, but to learn more deeply, from someone I respected, in a Zoom room. Thank you, COVID.

I was searching for something to sink my teeth into—something real, trustworthy, and transformative. I didn’t want fluff. I wanted substance. A compass. A north star. After years of meditation, my teacher davidji finally got through to me: the point isn’t to stop thinking—it’s to stop spinning long enough to notice there’s something else. Something deeper. Something within.

​What surprised me most was how open and inclusive the teachings were. davidji didn’t offer dogma or rules—he offered possibility. The Meditation Teacher Training wasn’t just “how to meditate” or “how to teach.” It was a firehose of wisdom from across the ages and traditions—Vedic, Buddhist, Taoist, Christian mysticism, neuroscience, quantum physics, poetry, breath, mantra, intention, silence. Everything was on the table. I didn’t have to believe any of it. I didn’t have to pick a side or check a box. I just had to listen, try it out, and see what resonated in my body, in my breath, in my being. That kind of permission? It was a huge exhale. For the first time, I could trust myself to explore what worked—without guilt, without second-guessing, and without anyone else’s rules ringing in my ears. It wasn’t about mastering someone else’s method. It was about discovering my own way in.

I kept journaling, kept meditating, kept listening. And little by slowly, I began to recognize that the quiet voice on the page—and in the silence—wasn't random. It had rhythm. It had clarity. It didn’t shout or demand. It whispered, nudged, winked. It offered insight I hadn’t thought of, options I hadn’t considered. It wasn’t always comfortable, but it was always honest. It wasn't always easy but if I followed along, it always seemed to work out in a grand fashion. And somewhere along the way, I realized: this wasn’t just my imagination or wishful thinking. It was something real, something within and beyond me—a guidance system I could actually trust.

I didn’t have a name for it at first. It wasn’t God in the traditional sense, and it certainly wasn’t anything I’d been taught in church or school. It felt more like an inner knowing, a wise best friend who’d been quietly riding shotgun my whole life, waiting for me to notice. Eventually, I started calling it my DMGS—my Divine Magical Guidance System. Built-in. Always available.

The more I paused and tuned in, the more I realized it had been there all along, buried under layers of noise, doubt, fear, expectation, and distraction. Not something I needed to find “out there.” Not something to earn or perfect. Just something I had to look inward to remember.

You can call it whatever you like: God, Spirit, the Universe, Higher Power, Inner Knowing. I don’t care. What matters is that you connect with it. Trust it. Learn how to listen. What really matters is that I stopped searching OUTSIDE myself—for someone, something, some idea or pill or guru to fix things for good. The game changed the moment I turned my gaze inward. That’s where the journey begins. That’s where the truth lives.

That’s what this book is about: the journey of tuning in. Of learning to listen. Of letting go of compulsive fixing, proving, and seeking. It's not a how-to. It’s not linear. It’s a field guide, a companion, a collection of stories and poems, insights and invitations. What worked, what didn’t. Where I started, what happened, and what it’s like now.

And maybe—if you’re willing to pause, soften, and listen too—it’ll help you tune into your own DMGS and discover what’s been there all along, just waiting for your attention.

I’ve danced with fearless before. Back in 2003, a little truth whispered its way into my bones: there is no evil. I didn’t shout it from the rooftops—but I lived it. Quietly. Like a secret handshake with the Universe.

But now? My DMGS isn’t whispering. It’s practically singing backup vocals with glitter and jazz hands: The world isn’t even broken. The poem that arrived today is the evolution. The sassier sequel. Fix-Free doesn’t just remember Fearless—it builds on her shoulders, throws off the repair manual, and reminds me (again and again) that there’s nothing to fix. Just something to love. Starting here.

Fix-Free
There’s a lovely truth
peeking out at me.
I’ve sensed it before.
The perspective is resurfaced.
It’s simple, repetitive--
a brainworm of a concept.
Dismissively unfussy.
Also divisive and delicate.

The world is not broken.
Five words.
There is no evil.
Four words.

They topple & strangle
our modern sensibilities,
our entire perspective--
of earth, of others--
of life now turned on its head.
Upside down,
backasswards,
swirling in NOT SO!

Forest, meet the trees.
Let it sink in, soak up.
What to do?
What to be?
If there is nothing
out there
to fix or fight,
fear or defend?

A concept so lovely—so alarming.
Are you, brave soul--
Horrified? Fearful?
Indignant? Upset?
Traumatized? Mortified?
Contemptuous? Superior?
​Avoiding? Numb?
It is a rather harrowing,
bullshit-shattering,
grandiosity-wrecker
in four words or five.

What about those four little words--
did they even register?
There is no evil.
Does that spin you out?
Four tiny words,
mocking centuries
of fear-based morality,
punishment, and control.

Not saying harm doesn’t happen--
but it changes the story.
It doesn’t excuse.
But it transforms.
From blame to curiosity.
From attack to inquiry.
From righteousness
to real compassion.
That kind of shift?
Is dangerous.
And sacred.
And delicious.

Does it stir up any
individual responsibility?
Does it offer relief?
Hope?
Freedom?
What to do—create?
What to be—present?

The world is not broken.
Five words.
There is no evil.
Four words.

I have always prided
myself on my above-average
fixing, defending, proving,
being-right,
looking-good skill sets.
Until I realized I’d
LOST MYSELF
by casting a shadow so big
I couldn’t see, literally,
the forest for the trees.

Shhhush now.
Far be it from me
to shatter the delusion
or interrupt the heartbreak, anxiety
judgement, and drama
you’re so addicted to.
Forget it… never mind.

Shhhush. Shush now.
Turn the page—move along.
I won’t defend or argue,
Convince or cajole.
You see the freedom,
you know the truth--
and it’s our little secret.
Or you don’t—yet.
It’s all good.
Peace out.

We’re not just talking politics, climate change, or central banking conspiracies (though, chef’s kiss to that trifecta of existential dread). We’re talking about the whole enchilada—our worldview, inherited myths, and the deep-seated belief that if we don’t fix it all right now, everything goes to hell.  But then comes the pause. The breath. That tiny turn inward. Your DMGS hums softly, and you remember—there’s another way. It’s uncomfortable at first, like coming out of the woods into bright sunlight. But then your soul’s pupils dilate. Once your inner compass locks on, you can’t unsee the truth. The world’s not broken. You’re not broken. And that fix-it compulsion? Just background noise.

Now rewind 20+ years when I was just learning to tune into my DMGS and the major static wasn't about fixing it was all about fear.


Fearless
(2003)
Evil?
There is no evil.

I saw, I felt this truth this morning.
In the sky something lifted,
Like a cloud I couldn’t see
and didn’t know was there.
And light of a lighter quality was present all around me.

And the burden of living in
subtle, constant,
nagging fear was lifted.

No fear of judgment, meeting strangers.
No fear of loss, meeting friends.
I choose not to give life to judgment, to loss.
Without my thought or breath, they do not exist.

How will it be now?
To live each moment as a precious gift of love?
Open – accepting, observing and watching
for the opportunity to give love back to all creation?
Even to me?

How will it be now?
To see the sweetness, the gentle lesson,
the good chance, pre-sent in each moment –
Just so I may remember who I Am?

How will it be now
To feel?
To laugh?
To love?
Without fear –
I am remembering.

(mic drop)

Lately, I’ve been fascinated by the power of questions. How do we ask the right ones? How do we recognize the answers? These are central to my understanding of DMGS, and as I dig deeper into different perspectives, I find new language to refine my own knowing. That’s why Gary Zukav’s discussion on intuition and awareness in The Seat of the Soul struck me so deeply.
"To the five-sensory personality (5P), intuitive insights or hunches occur unpredictably and cannot be counted upon. To the multisensory personality (MP), intuitive insights are registrations within its consciousness of a loving guidance that is continually assisting and supporting its growth. Therefore, the multisensory personality strives to increase its awareness of this guidance." (Page 65)

To Zukav, the difference between a five-sensory and a multi-sensory personality is profound: one dismisses intuition as an oddity, the other sees it as a direct line to something greater. I love this distinction because it perfectly captures what I’ve been experiencing myself. The more I trust my DMGS, the clearer the promptings become.

Zukav expands on this idea by explaining that insights, intuitions, hunches, and inspirations are not random occurrences but messages from the soul—or from advanced intelligences assisting the soul on its evolutionary journey. The multi-sensory person, he says, honors intuition in a way the five-sensory person does not. To the five-sensory individual, these moments of knowing are mere curiosities. To the multi-sensory individual, they are prompts and links to a higher intelligence—one of greater comprehension and compassion.

"The first step to this awareness is becoming aware of what you are feeling. Following your feelings will lead you to their source. Only through emotions can you encounter the force field of your own soul." He provides an example of a husband's reaction to his wife working late. Instead of blindly reacting, he suggests asking powerful questions: Why does the news of this meeting affect me this way? Why do I still feel disturbed? Perhaps I don’t trust that she would really prefer to be with me? Does my experience support my suspicion? What is my motivation?

Zukav emphasizes that we may not always be capable of hearing the answers when we ask, and the answers may not always come in ways we expect. Sometimes they come in the form of a feeling—a yes-feeling or a no-feeling. Other times, they arrive as a memory, a sudden thought that seems random at first, or even a dream. Sometimes the answer unfolds through an experience that occurs the next day. But, as he reminds us, "Ask and you shall receive" is the rule, but you must learn how to ask and how to receive."

Each time I read something like this and connect the dots to my own experiences, I’m flabbergasted! Just yesterday, I was talking with Juanita about the power of questions. Before that, I was discussing the Socratic method with someone else. And now, here is Zukav, insisting that questions—when asked with sincerity—always receive an answer.

But what really stands out to me is his emphasis on feelings as the pathway. Without the pause—that essential gap between stimulus and response—it’s nearly impossible to recognize these intuitive answers. Without that stillness, we get swept up in conditioned reactions, triggering someone else’s reaction, setting off an unconscious domino effect. The pause isn’t just helpful—it’s essential for untangling what’s actually happening inside.
​
I reorganized some of Zukav’s words for clarity, but his message is crystal clear. The answers we seek are already available within us. We’ve just never been taught precisely how to ask the right questions or how to listen for the answers. This pretty clearly defines my current mission! My practice of tuning into feelings aligns exactly with what he describes, but what I hadn’t articulated fully until now is how essential it is to develop the ability to receive the answers as well.
So now, I ask: what questions am I ready to hear the answers to? And what about you?

So many people love tropical beach vacations. I am not one of them.

I recently talked myself into visiting the Bahamas, thinking that a long-time friend—who happens to be a travel professional—would help me experience the magic others seem to find in such places. And sure, I went, I experienced, I took stunning photos. The colors of the water were unreal, the beaches whiter than white. I had a lovely time… and I also left early, never needing to go back.

When people ask me about my trip, I find myself quiet or repeating the same rehearsed line:
"It’s beautiful, the colors are stunning, I’ve never seen blues like that." All true. And yet, I was expecting more—even when I thought I wasn’t expecting at all! How does that happen? I'm familiar with the phrase, "Humans are meaning-making machines." Are we also expectation-making machines? Because I swear, I did my best to go in open-minded. I wasn’t looking for a “transformational” experience, a spiritual awakening, or even the best vacation ever. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. And yet, there I was, wandering the pristine beaches, wondering what I was doing there.

Maybe it’s because I’m naturally more of a cold weather person. Maybe it’s because I burn just thinking about the sun. Maybe it’s because sweating while doing nothing feels like an attack on my personal comfort (unless I'm in a sauna). So here’s my challenge: Can I tell the truth and frame it positively? Can I focus on what I learned, confirmed, or observed?
For example:

• I am so happy I experienced what the Bahamas has to offer—warmth in winter with stunning sun, sand, and surf. Now I know for sure weather in the tropical winter is still to hot for me.
• Walking on the beach, slathered in sunscreen, covered in breezy fabric, is not my idea of fun.
• There aren’t as many shells as there used to be because decades of tourists have taken them home.
• Even 70-75 degrees feels uncomfortably hot to me.
• Drinking at the pool with strangers isn’t my thing. Neither is reading fiction and shifting my chair every ten minutes to chase the shade of the palapa.
• Having uninterrupted time to scroll Facebook or YouTube while getting tan lines is just not my cup of tea.

Not complaining—just clarifying.
I genuinely admire the people who do enjoy this type of vacation. I respect the art of perfecting the beach day, the patience required to lounge, the ability to truly relax and soak it all in. But I also know myself well enough now to say: It’s just not for me. And there’s something freeing about that. Maybe the real value of the trip wasn’t in finding some newfound love for tropical vacations but in confirming what I already suspected! How often do we go through life thinking we should enjoy something just because it’s widely adored? That if we just did it right, we’d have the same experience as everyone else? The trip was beautiful, and I’m grateful for the experience. AND I no longer have to wonder if I’d enjoy the whole tropical island paradise thing. I don’t. And that’s okay.

Isn't it interesting that it feels like a problem to simply not prefer something that most people do. If I said, "I don’t like sushi," no one would think I’m a complaining crazy person. They’d just nod and say, "Oh yeah, not for everyone!" But when I say, "I don’t love tropical vacations," there’s this awkward pause—like I’ve rejected some universal truth about leisure and relaxation. But what if I didn’t feel the need to soften it for other people’s comfort? What if I just owned it?

"I don’t love tropical vacations. Never have. Never will. Some people love the sun and sand, and I prefer the cold. Ain’t it beautiful how we’re all wired differently?"

Boom. No guilt. No second-guessing. No need to justify or prove anything. Just truth—clean, simple, and free. Now that is a vacation mindset worth bringing home. 😉

The practice of pausing is paying off. I actually find myself, in a moment of decision, stopping—checking in with my inner teacher, higher power, whatever-you-want-to-call-it. And frequently, the answer that comes back is the same: "It doesn’t matter." At first, this response felt dismissive—like some cosmic brush-off. But the more I listen, the more I realize: the pause itself is the answer. In that space, the pressure to "get it right" disappears. The illusion that every choice is critical, every moment leading to some fateful, inescapable outcome, starts to dissolve. I had this unreasonable expectation that with synchronicity and "God winks" everywhere, every decision I made had to be deeply significant, leading me down a perfect magical path to a perfect outcome. Yikes, that’s pressure.

But again: "It doesn’t matter." This phrase shows up in the simplest places. Should I call so-and-so? Should I go to this meeting or that one? Should I email or write or meditate now? Should I buy this or that? Should I say something or stay still? Turns out, most of the time, it really doesn’t matter. The level of gravity I place on these questions is often just a reflection of my own anxiety, my need to control things, my craving for certainty. But pausing pulls me out of that spiral. Instead of gripping onto the decision, I get to step back and witness—without urgency, without attachment, without weight.

The pause is everything. It is the space between impulse and action, where I get to question my automatic reactions instead of being dragged along by them. When I hit the pause button, I interrupt the script. I make room for something new. It’s in that moment that I get to ask: Is this real? Is this necessary? Is this true? Without the pause, I react from habit. From old conditioning, old fears, old expectations—many of which aren’t even mine. Cultural beliefs. Family narratives. The shoulds, the musts, the knee-jerk justifications and rationalizations that keep me locked in patterns I don’t even realize I’m repeating. Pausing is the antidote. It’s the simplest, most radical way to reclaim awareness, choice, and honesty in real time.

Who, me? Pretentious? Grandiose? Just a tiny bit pompous? What? No! SLAP! Amazing how simple and unemotional the response in my mind appears, smooth and quiet, like water over stone: "It doesn’t matter. And… it’s OK." But occasionally, if I sit with the silence just a moment longer, I’ll hear something else: "But… it would be fun to _____." Sometimes the nudge makes sense. Other times, it’s totally unexpected. And in that moment, fun replaces force, ease replaces overthinking, and I just… follow it.

Then, there are the times when the pause doesn’t bring peace—it brings something darker. Lately, I’ve been present to a lack of self-confidence, a smoke-like saboteur lingering at the edges of my awareness. The voice of self-doubt, rebellion, resistance. I recognized it instantly—the same one I fought during my Never Binge Again era. The part of me that hates being contained.

Pause. "It doesn’t matter." But then another whisper: "You may want to allow it. Explore it." Really? That seems scary and odd. Shouldn’t I try to whisk it away with some happy color or ignore it until it leaves on its own? Oh. Here’s a chance to actually practice what I’ve learned. Allow it. Explore it. Observe, honor, release. And when I do—when I sit with it instead of fighting it—I see it clearly: the hatred is just fear. The fear is grounded in not feeling safe. 

So I try something different. As an experiment, I spent an entire day repeating a simple phrase: "I am safe." Every spare open space in my thoughts, I filled with it. I paused to remind myself: I am safe. That is all. No long explanation. No overanalyzing. And then I asked: Does that apply right now? To this English muffin? To this car ride? To this song on the radio? To this conversation, this feeling, this thought? And you know what? It did.

Pausing gave me the space to notice reality instead of assumption. To separate feeling unsafe from actually being unsafe. To recognize how often my thoughts create tension where there is none. The pause is truth serum. It asks: What’s actually happening, right now? Not the story, not the fear, not the future projection. Just now. So, I keep pausing. I keep asking, "Does this actually matter?" and listening for the answer. And more often than not, I hear the same thing: "Nope. Not today It doesn’t."

But what does matter? Presence. Curiosity. The ease that comes when I stop chasing and start trusting. The choice to rewrite the patterns that no longer serve me. The ability to step outside my habitual responses and meet life as it is—not as I assume it to be. That’s what the pause reveals every time. And shit, that matters.

"The image is a ZenTangle piece of art that I created.. This piece reflects my process—pausing, untangling, letting clarity emerge. The rigid lines remind me of the mental frameworks and expectations I unknowingly carry, while the mushrooms grow freely, expanding within and around them. Pausing isn’t about tearing down structure; it’s about softening, making space for what wants to grow. Clarity isn’t forced—it reveals itself when I stop gripping so tightly. So I pause, I breathe, I untangle."

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?

A recording of this poem as a song below. Created and gifted to me by a good friend. Enjoy!

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.