 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.
2 Comments
 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 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!  |
Archives
April 2025
Fibber McGee's closet!
|
RSS Feed