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.
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![]() Is it true that "what goes around, comes around"? Maybe—if you believe it. Is karma for real? I’m curious—if it is, how does it really work? Are there hidden laws of nature at play beneath the surface? Absolutely! These invisible forces—the ebb and flow of life, the tides of energy, and the subtle threads that connect us—remind me that there’s always more than meets the eye. What I do know is this: seasons happen. People, thoughts, and emotions appear and disappear in waves. The ebb and flow of motivation and inspiration is undeniable in my personal experience. In the past, whenever I encountered an ebb, my knee-jerk reaction was always to resist, push through, and never give up. But isn’t that the opposite of “going with the flow”? Living one block from the ocean on Venice Beach, California, taught me a lot about the rhythm of the tides. I’d watch waves advance and retreat, each one flowing farther up the shore or pulling back, depending on the tide. I witnessed ferocious storms and times of total calm. I remember a specific ebb during my career when I tried to push through a project that simply wasn’t ready. I poured my energy into every detail, ignoring the growing resistance I felt inside. The result? Burnout and frustration. Later, when I paused and gave myself space, the clarity I’d been searching for arrived effortlessly. The lesson was clear: sometimes, flow comes only when we stop forcing it. Patience—and awareness—are the only salves for this particular force of nature. I’ve witnessed my own ebbs and flows of emotion and inspiration. In these moments, I sometimes sense the faint pull of a thread beneath it all, connecting the waves of life and guiding me forward. Sometimes pushing through yields fruit; other times, it doesn’t. Learning when to push and when to stand still feels like a hallmark of an ever-expanding maturity. There are milestones, landmarks, and defining moments along the way, certainly. But the fall back and regroup often feels like an automatic, wild response to moving forward. “Two steps forward, one step back...” The pause—whether caution, contemplation, or simply waiting—is what allows me to be unattached. Given my intention and my actions, I can watch the outcome unfold and reflect: Was it even close to what I intended? The “step back” becomes a space to learn and grow with ease, little by slowly. Though I don’t have children, I often imagine what a curriculum in Life Skills might look like. What lessons would I teach my younger self? Lessons that allow the confident spirit to shine, creativity to flow, and life to be free of suffering (if not pain). After a 30-year corporate career training adults, I wonder how I could package my experiences to be touching, moving, and inspiring for peers—or for anyone seeking a little more ease in navigating life’s ebbs and flows. One of the first lessons I’d teach would be patience. It’s a skill that doesn’t come easily, especially in a culture of “hustle” and “never give up.” But patience is what allows me to ride the waves of life with grace. Another would be awareness—the ability to set aside beliefs, expectations, and defensiveness, to stop blaming or criticizing, and instead to fully experience the moment as it is. Awareness invites me to notice life’s tides as they shift and pivot gracefully, rather than reactively. Both skills have carried me through countless moments of uncertainty, showing me how to trust the process rather than fight it. And at the heart of it all, I’d include a lesson about connection—about learning to recognize and follow the subtle threads that guide me. There’s an emerald thread of the soul that runs through my life, quiet but persistent, and noticing it is what allows me to navigate even the stormiest tides. This awareness creates space for trust, curiosity, and growth. For some time now, I’ve shared my journey and reflections here, inspired by images and ideas from my daily meditation practice. Recently, though, that hasn’t felt adequate—or entirely authentic. But in writing this, I’ve noticed a thread running through my tapestry, one that might just resonate with others. This thread—the emerald thread of the soul—has always been there, even if I wasn’t looking for it. It’s a thread that’s shown up in moments of inspiration, in quiet pauses, and even in the middle of life’s storms. Following it has taught me to see the beauty in small, subtle moments and to trust that even the “setbacks” are a critical and necessary part of a larger picture. Each individual experience may or may not resonate or inspire you, but the bright emerald thread of the soul is beginning to emerge. This is what I’ll pay attention to—watching for it out of the corner of my eye. It might not be visible immediately, but like the rising tide, it will eventually and inevitably raise all vessels. The tide doesn’t rush or resist—it simply rises, carrying everything with it. This is the kind of trust I aim to embody in my own life: a quiet, steady faith that even when I can’t see the full picture, the tide is lifting me toward clarity, growth, and alignment. Every year, I choose a word—a compass for growth and intention. This year, my journey led me to Trust.
As I considered my five finalist words for 2025--Accept, Accountable, Commitment, Responsible, and Trust—it became clear that Trust was the foundation. Accept and Accountable felt too similar to Trust and Commitment, leaving me with a trio: Trust, Responsible, and Commitment. Without Trust, responsibility feels heavy, and commitment feels hollow. Trust had to come first. And isn’t that fitting? When I created the image above for this article, I noticed that definitions from multiple sources included responsibility and commitment. Trust doesn’t stand alone; it naturally gives rise to these other principles. Choosing Trust feels like choosing a trio, with Trust as the guiding star. Trust what? Trust my DMGS (Divine Magical Guidance System)—that quiet, intuitive voice that guides me toward alignment. Trust my soul, my highest truth, my natural, relaxed knowingness. It’s about trusting that even when I don’t fully understand the “how,” my inner guidance will lead me to what’s right, in its own time. Trust is the foundation for listening, aligning, and acting with confidence, clarity and kindness. While I was trolling about town a week or so ago, I wandered into a Barnes & Noble. I had done a quick Amazon search for a book that would assist with identifying trapped emotions. David Hawkins, in his book Letting Go, has a method for releasing emotions, and I wanted more options or ideas. (He uses muscle testing—there are plenty of videos on YouTube.) I was, as always, curious and open to additional techniques that could release this pent-up negative energy. I discovered a book called The Emotion Code by Dr. Bradley Nelson. Miracle of miracles, the physical bookstore had the book in stock, and I was able to satisfy my lust for information immediately. God wink? Synchronicity? Of course, why not! A foreword by Tony Robbins didn't hurt either! The book builds on Hawkins’ work, more details on muscle testing a chart of 60 emotions, yes/no flowcharts for subconscious communication, and actionable techniques to release the pent up emotions. It’s designed to help identify whatever emotions are ready to be released and send them packing. (Where do they go, I wonder?) I devoured the book in an afternoon and immediately began reviewing the website (discoverhealing.com). I could see that there are classes and certifications and I decided to search for certified practitioners online. This way I could ask questions directly and get a better feel for how the techniques worked in real life. My first session was with a novice practitioner, and while her energy and enthusiasm were wonderful, the timing wasn’t ideal. Tango, our beloved patriarch guinea pig, passed away in my arms shortly afterward, and I was too immersed in real-time grief to fully process the release. It was a deeply emotional moment—such a beautiful, innocent little life. OUCH! Several days later, once my emotions had settled, I reached out to a different practitioner from the Emotion Code website. This woman had years of experience, and it showed in her confidence, speed, and methodical approach. The session felt transformative. She guided me through releasing multiple trapped emotions from early in my life—emotions I always knew were there but had no idea how to let go of. I left feeling lighter and freer, and she even assigned me homework to help me practice identifying and releasing emotions on my own. This work, grounded in trust, felt like a massive success. I’m looking forward to continuing sessions and deepening my ability to clear out the “clouds” that block the light of Spirit. With Trust, I am able to move forward intuitively to remove those clouds. Trust allows me to release old emotions, align with my DMGS, and act from a place of confidence and love. This year, I’m stepping out of survival mode. I’m choosing to thrive—in awareness, in alignment, and in the freedom to fully participate in life. I’m not sure exactly when I began the practice of choosing one word as a focus point for the year. Above is a page from my journal of possible candidates for 2025. I use an app called Word Hippo to suss out the definitions and synonyms that add depth and dimension to the words and what they may render throughout a year of focused intention for growth. I thought I had selected one—a scary one for me—but now, as I review the page again, I’m uncertain. I suppose I’ll have to put my Ask, Don’t Analyze mantra into practice.
Scary or inspiring, I know that a consistent focus and intention is helpful for me, Miss easily distracted by just about anything. I know from experience that this practice can be fruitful. Last year, I chose Freedom as my word, and it turned out to be incredibly rich. I found freedom in unexpected places—in my relationships, in my schedule, and even in my thoughts. I became more aware of what I have freedom around and what I don’t. It wasn’t just a concept; it became a way of seeing the world. I was tempted to continue with Freedom into 2025. There’s still so much to explore in that space. But Freedom feels safe now, and for my 60th year on the planet, I want to choose something a little more edgy and terrifying, quite frankly. On my list of words for 2025, Trust feels like a challenge to lean into that inner knowing without the need to fix or control and still feel safe in the knowledge that things will unfold perfectly no matter what I my analytical fearful inclinations may point out. Trust invites me to release my white knuckle grip on certainty, embrace faith, and honor the unfolding unknown with ease and grace. Responsibility calls for clarity in owning my physical body, each word I speak, all my actions reactions and choices, asking me to step up with accountability instead of avoidance. Responsibility isn't a burden; it's a form of love, authentic empowerment and self-respect. Acceptance nudges me toward peace with what is, asking me to release looking good, being right, defending and resistance instead to surrender to the present moment. Acceptance whispers that beauty lies in letting life be—messy, raw, and untouched by my need to fix or control. Accountable brings up a kind of stern self-discipline I’ve been avoiding for years. It feels like a mirror, reflecting back what I need to own and inviting me to hold myself to a higher standard with compassion rather than judgment. Accountable invites me to align and make friends with my natural rhythms and choose curiosity and creativity to guide me forward. And finally, Commitment dares me to focus with consistent purpose, to follow through on what I set out to do without distraction. It feels like a promise to myself—a chance to show up fully and prove that I can sustain my efforts over time. Many of the synonyms are overlapping and similar once I see them together on one page. Each of them challenges me to face deep-seated fears and long-ingrained behaviors of avoidance and resistance. Each one stirs discomfort, yet that discomfort feels like a key to transformation. Each word feels meaningful, and yet none of them feel easy. I’m drawn to the discomfort they stir in me, even as I want to turn away. I know I’ve spent a lot of my life avoiding certain truths—about myself, my choices, and the ways I show up in the world. Maybe choosing a word that unsettles me is exactly what I need to grow. After all, I’m still stuck in the grike of “more pain, more gain”! Ha. But how do I decide? My Ask, Don’t Analyze mantra reminds me that I don’t need to overthink this. Instead, I’ll ask the question: What word feels true for me this year? And then, I’ll wait for the answer to come. Maybe it’ll arrive when I’m journaling, meditating, or halfway through some mundane task like washing the dishes. Maybe I already know the answer, and I just need to trust it. So, what about you? What word would you choose for 2025? Would you stick with something safe and familiar, or take a leap into the unknown? Either way, the journey begins with just one word. This little gem came to me a few days back: Ask, Don’t Analyze. I’ve found that brief, succinct statements like this often hold the most power. Like a mantra, they interrupt my standard patterns of thought and behavior. Years ago, I created signs with phrases like “Notice, Don’t Defend” and “Observe, Don’t Judge.” I hung them where I could see them often, printed and laminated copies to share, and repeated them aloud to myself—and to anyone within earshot. These simple messages carried so much peace and freedom once I started implementing them! I’m sure there are more, like “Laugh, Don’t Compare,” but that’s a topic for another day.
Right now, Ask, Don’t Analyze feels especially powerful because it speaks directly to my present awareness of a severe lack of trust. That’s a harsh but honest way to put it. I’m building trust now—intentionally, patiently—through focus and practice. I’m learning to ask and listen to my own DMGS (Divine Magical Guidance System). I know I’ve mentioned this before, but maybe it’s time to clarify. I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the concept of God, shaped by my upbringing in a conservative Catholic household. I’ve come to see that it’s not about God per se, but about people. It’s a User Error—a human problem. I don’t trust most humans. No hard feelings; I just sense that, understandably, most people are ultimately looking out for themselves. Without realizing it, I began relying on my DMGS when I started journaling in 1976, inspired by The Diary of Anne Frank. That connection has stayed with me ever since. Through my BYOB meditation practice, I’m now learning how to listen more closely and hear more clearly. I’m discovering how to distinguish between illusion, delusion, and the quiet, steady voice of my DMGS. This journey has also been shaped by practices like 2-Way prayer, publicized by The Oxford Group in the 1930s. It combines meditation and journaling—two of my favorite things! There’s also a step where you check in with another person, but I’ve found that part less helpful. Even the most caring advice I’ve received has often been wrong or fear-based. Instead, I’ve turned to tools like muscle testing, as described by David Hawkins, to develop a more objective way of checking in. Slowly but surely, I’m learning to trust my DMGS and consult it often. Ask, Don’t Analyze. It’s such a simple mantra, but it challenges me to step out of my old habits. Thoughts, I’ve learned, are often unhelpful distractions from the core of truth. Asking, on the other hand, is about opening up and receiving guidance. I also have to learn to sit with the answers I don’t like—the ones that make me uncomfortable or push my boundaries. Discomfort tends to send me straight into avoidance, so I get to practice patience, trust, and moving forward anyway. I’m amazed by how often the answer to my urgent, pressing question is simply, “It doesn’t matter.” Nothing puts me in my place quite like that! It’s humbling, for sure, but also freeing. It reminds me that much of what I agonize over isn’t as important as I think. This is the beginning of my Ask, Don’t Analyze mantra practice. I’m excited to see where it takes me. This simple phrase puts me in both the driver’s seat and the passenger’s seat of my life. It’s a powerful reminder that I get to take full responsibility for my choices on every level—and that guidance is always there when I choose to ask for it. The drawing above I created just after meditation on December 29, 2024. I’ve waited to share it, imagining I’d discover a way to make it more self-explanatory or visually bold. I did darken the smaller corner drawings a bit, enlarging the wheels and ruts to make the connections clearer. I decided that’s enough. You can get the idea.
Below is an image I found online of The Burren in County Clare, Ireland. Burren comes from boíreann, meaning “a stony place” in Irish. When I visited this summer with Val, I was mesmerized by the grikes—the crevices in the limestone “pavement.” Despite their harsh, rocky appearance, flowers were growing in the grikes, adding bursts of unexpected color and life. The image stayed with me. It came to mind as I considered how to reimagine the thought ruts in my drawing. If I were more practiced at drawing, I’d depict the brain and its thought patterns as something like the Burren, with hamster wheels popping up all over, connected by an intricate flow of grikes running in multiple directions. I even imagined myself jumping from wheel to wheel, avoiding the traverse of a single grike entirely. This imagery captures my experience of repetitive, ineffective mental analysis—spinning endlessly on certain topics and people. The wheels turn, the ruts deepen, and the same grooves replay over and over. And yet, as I look at the drawing now, I don’t feel the need to change it or fix anything. There’s nothing wrong with the grikes, nothing to prove or explain or excuse. They simply are. What I seek isn’t repair, but perhaps a new perspective—a fresh way of navigating them. It’s funny, isn’t it, how the grikes resemble the grooves of a human brain? Maybe that’s the point. The ruts aren’t obstacles; they’re terrain. They hold the potential for growth if I approach them with curiosity rather than frustration. What if I could fill them in? Not to erase them, but to plant something meaningful within them. Could those grooves support wildflowers, like the Burren? Could the wheels stop spinning long enough for me to notice the life growing in between? I’ve often described my obsession with certain thoughts as “spinning” to friends, and they all seem to understand the concept instantly. We’ve all been there, stuck in a rut—or perhaps a grike, if you prefer. I love the word. The sections of limestone between the grikes are called clints. Isn’t that fantastic? Even the language of the Burren feels alive, inviting me to reimagine my mental terrain. For now, I’ll let the wheels spin and the grikes deepen while I wait for my inner wisdom to reveal the next step. Maybe I’ll fill in the grikes. Maybe I won’t. There’s no rush, nothing to fix—just the joy of observing the landscape and being curious about what might bloom. After all, even in the Burren’s rocky crevices, flowers find their way to grow, adding life and color to what seems barren at first glance. Perhaps the same is true for my mind—those grooves and ruts aren’t just limitations. They’re spaces where compassion, creativity, and new perspectives might take root, given the chance. The second image is my own photo... the flowers were blooming in the grike when I was there... as witness. |
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