I came upon this quote yesterday, and it landed as a massive god wink—one of those universe-pointing moments that says, Here, here… look… notice! It stopped me in my tracks because it named something I’ve been circling for a long time without quite being able to articulate it. I’m the gardener in this little clip from Thích Nhất Hạnh—at least, that’s how it landed in me—and suddenly a whole bunch of seemingly unrelated experiences snapped into focus.

“Flowers and garbage are both organic in nature. So looking deeply into the nature of a flower you can see the presence of the compost and the garbage. The flower is also going to turn into garbage, but don’t be afraid! You are a gardener, and you have in your hands the power to transform garbage into flowers, into fruit, into vegetables. You don’t throw anything away, because you are not afraid of garbage. Your hands are capable of transforming it into flowers or lettuce or cucumbers.
The same thing is true of your happiness and your sorrow. Sorrow, fear, and depression are all a kind of garbage. These bits of garbage are part of real life, and we must look deeply into their nature. You can practice in order to turn these bits of garbage into flowers. So you should not throw anything out. All you have to do is learn how to transform your garbage into flowers.”

The timing was uncanny. I live near a stunning, historic downtown—vibrant and healthy, with restaurants, shops, and good energy everywhere. You can buy olive oil, hiking boots, genuine leather coats, and ultra-fancy hats for horse-racing season all within a few blocks. Excellent restaurants of every variety. Northshire Bookstore is probably my favorite stop, with Starbucks nearby and Saratoga Candy Company right there tempting me at every turn. Valentine’s Day is coming, which is basically a socially acceptable excuse to walk in and come home loaded with fudge, chocolates, and other sugary goodness. I digress—but joy like this matters. It sets the tone.

A friend and I were wandering south on Broadway after stopping at the new Bear’s Cup Bakehouse—next to Forno Bistro and completely over-the-top delicious, by the way. I hadn’t been to Violet’s of Saratoga women’s apparel, and she hadn’t been to Northshire or the Jewish deli tucked behind it, so we meandered, shopped, laughed, and soaked up the easy Saturday-morning energy. It was light. Spacious. The kind of mood where everything feels friendly and possible.

On our way back to the car, heading north again, we passed the area near Church Street and Lake Avenue, by the police station and courthouse. Protesters had been gathering there in increasing numbers. As I wove my way through the bodies—oddly reminded of tourists packed into Times Square—I felt a sudden gut punch. The same lynch-mob energy I’d written about in an earlier essay, the day of the Skidmore event and that Encore presentation by the political science guy. That day, I had to duck and run from it—literally. The energy was overwhelming, claustrophobic, and sharp.

This time was different. We were outside. The space was open. Escape was easy. Instead of fear, curiosity took the lead. Still, the vibe was unmistakably the same. Words fail me again when it comes to describing things we’re not normally invited—or allowed—to talk about. It was sticky and angry and escalating at the core. Around the edges, there was curiosity and even sympathy, but threaded through it all was a very clear don’t-you-dare-disagree charge. I kept walking. Noticing. Wondering if there was a question I could ask--Are you from around here? I don’t recognize a soul—that might help me understand what this show was actually about, beyond noise and spectacle. I came up empty. Just noticing. Just moving on.

A few days later, an image popped into my mind: one of those industrial-strength carpet fans—the kind you see after a flood or a crisis, roaring away to dry out soaked floors. You know the ones. I sketched it out almost without thinking: garbage in, flowers out—but in an energetic sense. Suddenly I wasn’t the gardener anymore. I was the Maxx Air fan, sucking in the smelly junk and blasting out sweet-smelling kindness. Ridiculous? Maybe. But also… oddly compelling.

And then—because the universe clearly enjoys a good callback—I had another wink. I was upstairs flipping through an old notebook, looking for something entirely unrelated, when I landed on pages from my davidji meditation teacher training. I’d forgotten about these notes completely. There it was, plain as day: a conversation about energy management and what we leave behind when we interact with others. He was talking about ojas and ama—whether our presence nourishes or congests the field. Ojas is vitality, coherence, the good stuff that supports life. Ama is residue, toxicity, the energetic gunk left behind when things aren’t processed or metabolized. His question jumped off the page: when you walk away, what’s lingering—ojas or ama? He was speaking about personal relationships, which I get to practice with regularly at home, but suddenly I could feel the concept stretching outward into the collective spaces I move through every day.

That’s when the carpet-fan image really locked in. This wasn’t about saving anyone, fixing anything, or standing on a soapbox. It was about not adding to the mess. About becoming a piece of equipment instead of a pundit. A ridiculous, bright-yellow, industrial-strength presence whose only job is circulation. Intake on one side. Output on the other. No commentary. No opinion. Just airflow. I could imagine standing quietly at the perimeter of one of these charged situations and practicing—letting the fan run. Sucking in heat, rage, fear, and static. Blowing out steadiness, kindness, clarity. No promises. No vows. Just curiosity and intention.

​Mostly, this feels like massive progress. I wasn’t overwhelmed this time. I didn’t need to flee. I could stand still, keep my breath, and remain curious instead of reactive—inside and out. That feels new. That feels earned. Confidence is my word for 2026, after all—but I don’t think confidence looks like shouting or convincing or winning. I think it looks like good ventilation. Like knowing when to circulate instead of combust. So for now, I’m just saying. Just noticing. Just living a little more in the moment. Not throwing anything away. Letting the fan do its quiet, unglamorous, surprisingly powerful work—one breath, one pass, one small clearing at a time.

Choir was a required class where I went to school—a tiny, seriously tiny private Catholic school in Wheat Ridge, Colorado. My graduating class had eight students… or nine… that’s damn small. Colorado Catholic Academy (CCA) also had the gift of a parent, Mrs. Murray, who was a former opera singer with skills for dealing with rambunctious children and an ear for beautiful harmonies. I am so grateful to have had such intense, professional-level vocal training as a youngster. Yet another huge advantage of my private school education—and one I didn’t fully appreciate until much later.

I can still hear the echoing harmonies of “Hark How the Bells”—ding dong, ding dong indeed. Of course, we sang the Latin Mass frequently, and in my senior year we were gifted the training and ability to compete in statewide vocal competitions. Our duets, trios, and quartets—even my solo—won recognition and first-place medals. Our spring program in 1983 was a veritable treasure of vocal bliss (yes, I hear myself… very earnest, very choir-kid). After that concert, I received huge praise for my solo—apparently my voice blended so well in the harmony pieces that no one knew I had a lovely voice of my own. I was a soprano. Period. My ear is glued to the melody, and harmonizing? Nope. I lose my line every single time. Translation: I suck at ad-libbing harmony. And you know what? That’s fine. I’m a soloist. Always have been. Which tracks nicely with my introversion, honestly.

When I was driving all over the place for my senior move management business, I carried a mash-up book of lyrics to my favorite songs—typed, scribbled, printed, whatever worked. My eyes never left the road for texting, but glancing at lyrics and belting them out was another matter entirely. Distracted driving? Perhaps. Deeply therapeutic singing at full volume? Absolutely. And I loved every minute of it. My instrument has matured now… I’m more of a tenor? I have a wild range and a big breath (which also comes in handy for swimming underwater from one end of the pool to the other—useful life skill, highly underrated).

When we moved to our forever home, I was blown away by the acoustics in the great room and instantly discovered the Ultimate Guitar Tabs app, which allowed me to adjust the key of any song I like and pull up chords for whatever I felt like singing. Disclaimer: my barre chords still suck. My fingers get raw quickly, even with daily practice, and guitar playing was never the joy that singing is to me. Full disclosure: I took guitar as a kid and excelled—but didn’t stick with it. The story of my young life. I can add speech competitions, cycling, climbing (yes, onto the roof for a quick puff—wink), horses, tennis, swimming, and karate to the long and noble list of short-lived pastimes I explored with enthusiasm and then quietly abandoned.

Thank God for Mrs. Murray… she pretty much forced me over the hump from rote practice to appreciation to joyful play with my vocal instrument. Guitar and harmonizing never quite made it there. And here’s the thing I finally noticed: I’ve been treating guitar like a prerequisite. Like I’m not allowed to sing unless I can also play. Who made that rule? Not me. Apparently, people-pleasing perfectionism did. So I gave myself permission to sing without the guitar. Radical concept. I love a cappella singing. I can do that.

I was driving from somewhere to somewhere else the other day—because of course I was—enjoying the scenery, when it hit me: I can let go of the guitar and keep the singing. That’s the win. My word for 2026 is Confidence, and this time it isn’t aspirational or decorative—it’s directional. Confidence clarified my intention and crystallized a desire I’ve been circling for years: to express freely, to use the incredible instrument nature gave me, and to enjoy whatever unfolds from that honesty. With that clarity, I called my vocal teacher, Francesca, and set up weekly lessons, again. Francesca and I have gone on and off, in fits and starts, for years. I totally own this, BTW. This time I know exactly why I’m showing up—to build my confidence and wallow in the joy of singing balls out, with perfect pitch, of course! (NOT!)

The vibrations in the body achieved by singing are fabulous. Addictive? Possibly. Jury’s still out. Music has been missing from my repertoire of routines and practices, and letting go of guitar makes the vocal doable. Is that weird? Why yes, Laurie, you’re definitely a little crazy. And also: onto something.

So while people-pleasing perfectionism gets to sit this one out—and whatever vague expectation of being that woman who can play guitar, sing, and harmonize while entertaining coworkers, friends, or campground Field Guide travellers—I’m opting out. I can’t be Hope or Bob or Bob Hope (my once-upon-a-time SNAP coworkers will get that reference; the rest of you… consider it an Easter egg). I can, however, be me.

I can enjoy the acoustics in my own great room, my car, the shower, or the great outdoors. Funny how comparing followed me everywhere too—and just as funny how the freedom of not comparing does the same. Both are portable. Both show up wherever I do. The difference is which one I choose to acknowledge.

Let go to gain. Focus on the joy—and notice what I’ve installed to short-circuit or postpone it. Notice what feels good. Notice what gets in the way of more of that. That’s the work. Not fixing. Not proving. Just paying attention, and choosing accordingly.  My instrument wasn’t hiding. It was waiting for me to drop the clipboard. ​ Sing, silly girl, just sing!

Field Guide Rule #23: Awareness is where the thieves of joy come to die. 

Somewhere along the way, I noticed how hollow the well-intentioned words sounded. "Sorry for your loss." "Sending thoughts and prayers." Kind phrases, offered sincerely—and yet they landed with a thud. Not because people didn’t care, but because the language had been emptied of presence through overuse. I found myself craving something else. Not better words—truer ones. Words that paused. Words that listened. Words that didn’t rush grief toward resolution or wrap it in social acceptability. That’s when I realized this wasn’t just about grief at all. It was about maturity. About choosing intention over reflex, and words given by the space over scripts I never consciously agreed to in the first place.

Grief has been a long companion in my life, though not a consistent one. My grandmother died in 1995, when I was thirty, and I was absolutely crushed—flattened, inconsolable. She was my rock, my guide, my sanity, my support. Until then, no person close to me had passed, and the pain arrived unfiltered and unguarded. She was the one who consoled me when my bulldog puppy died unexpectedly. "It's OK to cry!" she permissioned. Childhood memories of love and play were suddenly paired with a grief so raw it felt like weather moving straight through my heart. I didn’t manage it. I didn’t make meaning of it. I survived it by letting it break me open.

In 2006, my father and my grandfather died in the same year. By then, life was full. I was working, busy, engaged. I showed up. I handled things like the oldest child does. I kept moving. What I didn’t do—what I know now I didn’t do—was actually process those losses. I didn’t pause. I didn’t notice the feelings. I didn't gather them gently and let them flow. I stayed functional and composed, and I quietly carried the weight forward, unexamined. It’s only in the last year that I’ve learned how different grief can feel when it’s gently examined and then allowed.

In 2025, within five months, my mother-in-law and father-in-law both died. This time, something in me had changed. I had learned how to pause. How to notice. How to observe without fixing or bypassing what was present. Instead of bracing against the waves, I let them come. I didn’t analyze my grief or rush it toward meaning. I didn't busy myself with running around taking care of others, "helping" or "fixing" the family units involved. I just observed and allowed my own feelings. And to my surprise, it didn’t overwhelm me. It passed—unevenly, unpredictably, honestly—and then it moved on. It still shows up occasionally, especially while I'm meditating, hovers, then moves through me, or around and over. 

Bob Weir, passed just recently, a beloved mentor and musical soul mate of Chris' (my DeadHead partner of 19 years). I noticed there were no expectations around how that grief should look—no family roles to perform, no scripts to follow. What emerged instead was intense, immediate and real. It reminded me that grief doesn’t follow hierarchy or logic. It responds to relationship. To meaning. To permission. Different losses move through us differently—not because we’re doing it wrong, but because grief has its own intelligence.

Yesterday I discovered my closest cousin’s father-in-law died. Steve told me via text. And without thinking—without pausing—I replied with the phrase I’d offered and received countless times in 2025: "Sorry for your loss." The moment I sent it, I felt the emptiness of it. Not unkind. Not uncaring. Just automatic. A culturally acceptable response that required no presence, no listening, pause or creativity. And I knew—I was done.

I’m done defaulting to language I never consciously chose. Done with polite scripts that sound kind but feel hollow. I don’t want to say the right thing anymore. I want to say the heart felt, true thing. Or nothing at all. What I’m choosing now is simpler—and braver.

So I paused and asked myself, "Self? What might you have found respectful and soothing? What might feel more authentic?" I came up with three rough paths that I can practice and choose from depending on the scenario. These aren't scripts so much as focus points, like the word welcome— they reframe my thinking and my response if I choose to say anything— at all. Below are just a few of my off the cuff ideas, (to make them sink in I'll get to refine and practice a bit). Remember the old lines are deeply ingrained and saying nothing at all is still brilliant.

• I could lead with listening: "Tell me something about them. I’m here. I’m listening."
• I may speak from belief: "Perhaps they didn’t go far.  I choose to believe they just changed dimensions. You can talk to them anytime—they’re front row in your fan club beyond the veil."
• Or perhaps, the most loving thing I can offer is permission: "Feel whatever you feel. No explaining. No apologizing. Grief is unique and private. It comes in waves, at least it does for me."

I’m learning to give myself—and others—the gift of pausing. Of letting the feelings rise, flood, and slowly retreat in their own time. Of trusting that vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s honesty. Each moment, whatever it brings, is a gift of its own.

I choose to no longer think of the people I’ve lost as gone. I think of them as having changed dimensions. Still here—just invisible. Free of the physical, present in a different way. I talk to them. I feel them more intensely than when they were here sometimes.  (No kidding!) They arrive as a breeze on the trail, cooling my face just when I need it. Sometimes as light through the trees, or a quiet nudge that says, this way. I bless them, thank them, and send them love—because love doesn’t end when a body does. It simply learns a new language.
​
Field Guide Rule #39: "Presence trumps platitudes every time."

Some days just basically suck. The weather is gloomy, the schedule is full—and not with fun or interesting things, just humdrum appointments and grocery shopping (although I do love a good prowl around any shop at all). Maybe there’s a party you dread or a dentist appointment lurking. You get the vibe. It’s a power-through kind of day, full of obligations or shit that simply has to get done, with the vague hope that something later will redeem the day.

I’ve had a few of those days lately. Being an introvert on steroids doesn’t help, especially around the holidays. As part of an odd family-gathering shake-up, I was genuinely thrilled to welcome close family into my home for a wee gnosh and a gift exchange. And yet—for no apparent reason—I was grumpier than hell all morning.

I hovered on the cusp of doing absolutely nothing, just to see what might happen. Still unwilling to entertain the idea of being the hostess with the mostest—whatever that even means. I’m sure there was some serious processing happening in the low-rent emotional warehouse of expectations, comparisons, obligations, and of course fixing and proving something for no good reason. Just stuck in a nasty little loop. Lost in the woods, walking in circles, despite my best efforts to pop up and be jolly. Progress report: at least I’m no longer sucking it all in and numbing out. That’s something. But even with that awareness, I couldn’t quite get enough clarity to clear the muck.

Enter my knight in shining armour. The angel on my shoulder. My faithful, never-absent companion: my DMGS (Divine Magical Guidance System). With the smallest of whispers it offered one word—"Welcome." You can at least authentically welcome family into your home. Focus on being welcoming. Not fixing the mood. Not forcing cheer. Not rearranging myself into something more palatable. Just welcome. Which, in that moment, felt doable. Grounded. Real. It quickly turned into a mantra a chant quietly under my breath, "Welcome, Welcoming. What feels welcoming?" All this to rescue myself from the odd and frequent returns to grumpy-ville.

Welcome is a loaded word for me after a few seasons of Courage and Renewal retreats in Vermont. Those retreats were held in Burlington, right on Lake Champlain, at a retreat center tucked against the water with woods and trails wrapping all the way around it. Nothing flashy. Nothing performative. The kind of environment that doesn’t ask you to be better, just to be real. Gentle and powerful at the same time. Nourishing and accountable. The people matched the place. Real. Grounded. Willing. No spiritual posturing. Just humans practicing how to show up with a little more courage and connect with something deeper inside. The idea that there are ways of being—simple, sturdy, repeatable—that help us navigate inner and outer terrain without turning ourselves into projects or problems to solve.

Those retreats offered a set of gathering guidelines—touchstones—that I still use today for book clubs, meetings, and trainings. Basically anytime adult humans are asked to behave like adults. It’s always shocking how surprising some people find these ideas—listening, respect, curiosity—as if they’re novel concepts instead of basic human social skills. The document itself is freely available online, but on the day of that family gathering, I didn’t consciously recall the list. I only heard the word welcome, over and over.

Had I taken another breath and stood still, I might have sought the rest of them out to refine my motives and clarify my intentions. (Look Mom! Still trying to enhance the past already perfect experience! No Hands!) Apparently, after enough retreats and years of practice, they had sunk in. Glory. Hallelujah. Something from a retreat actually popped up years later as genuinely useful.

Reviewing the touchstones now, I’m struck by how deeply I’ve internalised many of them— along with all the other stuff in my internal garden there. Not all of it helpful. Plenty of "shoulds" and "shouldn’ts" that aren’t mine. Old ideas about not being good enough, about needing to behave a certain way to earn approval, appreciation, or respect. Lies, really. Unhealthy. Unhelpful. Rooted in vanity and pride rather than wisdom. Those seeds are in me too, and they still sprout from time to time.

And honestly, I may never be fully done rooting them out. But here’s the thing that matters: the good seeds were planted too. The useful ones. The kind, steady, life-giving ones. And they’re sprouting right alongside the junk—often exactly when I need them most. Which brings me to the last touchstone, the one I didn’t fully appreciate until now.

"Know that it’s possible to leave the circle with whatever you needed when you arrived, and that the seeds planted there can keep growing in the days—and years—ahead."

This whole moment—the whisper, the remembering, the shift in my nervous system on an irritable, restless and discontent holiday morning—is proof of that. Proof that something real took root. Proof that my efforts weren’t wasted. Proof that my trust has been well placed. Hello! (Hey, Mom, it’s working!)

That single word from my DMGS--WELCOME—shifted my day from anxious, defensive, and braced for impact into a genuinely warm and memorable family experience. And writing this has re-minded me of something even bigger: the quiet confidence that the most loving, useful seeds I’ve gathered along the way are alive and well, doing exactly what they’re meant to do.